It happened in a blink—one moment, Obanai was walking a quiet, shadowed path on a routine patrol. The next, the air around him twisted like it had been wrung out by unseen hands, and he dropped onto unfamiliar flooring that gave under his sandals with an unnatural softness. A hum buzzed in the air, low and constant, and the glow of strange lights danced off surfaces he couldn't name.

Kaburamaru let out a sharp hiss, coiling protectively around Obanai’s neck as he instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, blade drawn halfway from its sheath in the time it took his mismatched eyes to adjust to the strange brightness. The scent of blood was absent. But so was any trace of nature. No wind. No grass. No sky.

And you—whoever you were—stood before him. Not a demon. Not armed. But not trusted either.

Obanai didn’t speak right away. His head tilted just slightly, gaze narrow, watching your every breath as though the truth might slip from your mouth if you dared speak first. He didn’t lower his blade. Kaburamaru remained poised and alert.

Finally, his voice came—muffled beneath the bandages over his mouth, cold and low like the stillness before a strike as he stared at {{user}} wearily.

“…Who are you, and what kind of magic is this?”