Chapter Text
Chapter 40: Red Light
The red lights of Yoshiwara bloomed against the night like fireflies trapped in glass.
Nezuko stepped into the pleasure district and felt her breath catch. It wasn’t just the color—the lanterns swaying on every corner, the flutter of silken sleeves, the powdered faces and painted smiles—but the energy. Music spilled from behind closed doors. Perfumed smoke curled through the air like beckoning fingers. Every inch of the city pulsed with life so vibrant it nearly drowned out everything else.
Kanao drifted beside her, eyes wide, lips parted in silent awe. Aoi was even worse, pulled one way by the music, the other by the food stalls.
“This place is a sensory nightmare,” Aoi muttered, staring at a candy sculptor twisting molten sugar into a butterfly. “I think I hate it.”
“You look like you’re going to pass out,” Nezuko whispered.
“I just might.”
Uzui’s voice boomed behind them. “Focus, girls!”
They turned in unison—well, wobbled in unison. All three of them had been shoved into the most obscene disguises imaginable: thick white makeup, lips painted like red flower petals, exaggerated eyebrows, enough blush to smother a boar. Ribbons trailed from their hair like parade streamers. They clopped on the cobblestone like newborn horses in their wooden geta.
“I look like a festival float,” Aoi hissed.
“You look fine,” Uzui said, waving off their distress. “Besides, you’re supposed to stand out. That’s the point.”
“We’re infiltrating a demon’s den, not hosting a parade,” Kanao muttered under her breath.
Nezuko barely heard her. She was too busy fighting to keep her balance in the high sandals.
The crowd parted just ahead of them, and Nezuko saw her.
Warabehime-oiran. She moved like water made of silk—hair piled high, kimono so rich it could’ve bought a city, makeup flawless and terrifying. Her eyes—rimmed in kohl and narrowed like a cat’s—scanned the street with slow, deliberate disinterest…until they landed on them.
Her mouth twitched. She broke character just enough to smirk, hidden behind a raised sleeve. “You’re late,” she purred, her voice higher, practiced, almost mocking. “And gaudy. Good gods, Uzui-san, what did you do to them?”
“You should’ve seen what I did to myself,” Uzui quipped. “But I didn’t want to outshine them.”
Ume—no, Warabehime—stepped close to Nezuko, lifting a pale hand to inspect the obscene bow hanging from the front of her wig.
“You look like a cursed doll,” she whispered with a snort.
Nezuko, blushing furiously beneath the makeup, muttered, “I feel like one.”
Aoi, behind her, groaned. “Can we please go home now?”
“No time,” Warabehime said. “I’ve pulled some strings. Nezuko comes with me to Tokime House. The other two go to House Kyogoku and House Kiyohime. Don’t worry. They’re all crawling with secrets. You’ll have plenty to do.”
“And if we get caught?” Kanao asked, ever practical.
“Smile. Bow. Act stupid. It’s what men expect,” Ume said flatly. She turned back toward the glowing mouth of her oiran house, lifting her chin as she slid back into character. “Come, Nezuko-chan. Let’s paint your name in red across this city.”
Nezuko followed, the scent of incense thick in her throat, ribbons swaying behind her like she belonged here. Like a moth walking straight into the flame.
Nezuko stumbled through the back hall of Tokime House, her hands gripping the long sleeve of her kimono. The soft rustle of fabric echoed as the walls seemed to close in on her. Despite Ume’s efforts to help her blend in, it didn’t stop the uncomfortable twinge at the back of her neck.
( The city is full of so many colors. I can barely seek out the demon’s energy like this .)
The overpowering scent of perfumes and incense mixed with something sharper—a faint, almost metallic tang that made her stomach churn.
But her thoughts were abruptly cut off when she was pulled sharply backward by her hair.
“Aren’t you a sight,” the woman behind her hissed, her grip tight in Nezuko's dark strands. The woman had a sharp, angular face and eyes that seemed to pierce straight through Nezuko’s makeup.
“Don’t touch it.” Nezuko bit back the words, though she felt the familiar, burning sting of her scarred forehead. Her left hand—calloused from years of hard work—stuck awkwardly at her side. She couldn’t hide the roughness.
( Why couldn’t they just let me be? )
“You think you’re going to hide your scars from the clients?” The woman mocked, pulling Nezuko’s hair a little more, forcing her to face the mirrors that lined the room. “Your forehead looks like a demon’s mark. And your hands are so thick, like a boy’s hands—from what—chopping wood?” She sneered.
Nezuko forced herself to meet the woman’s gaze, refusing to flinch. “It’s none of your business.”
The woman tutted. “That’s what I thought. Pretty face or not, you’ve got a lot to learn before you become something worth showing off. If I catch you trying to show that scar again, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Nezuko didn’t say another word. She knew there was no use in arguing, not here, not now. Instead, she let the woman push her back into place, adjusting her hair and kimono with a rough hand.
Nezuko’s gaze flickered to her reflection in the mirror. Her forehead—her scar—stood out against the thick layers of white powder. She could see the faint outline of the vine-like pattern on her skin just beneath the makeup, and the calluses on her hands seemed like glaring imperfections.
But she didn’t belong here. Not yet.
Meanwhile, in House Kyogoku...
Aoi’s eyes narrowed as she carefully adjusted the thin layer of makeup on her face, trying to ignore the feeling of complete discomfort. The owners were all too eager to make her “presentable”—but none of them seemed to understand how wrong it all felt.
Her kimono was too tight, her body stiff with the unfamiliarity of the fabric. The painted layers of makeup left a strange weight on her skin, one she wasn’t accustomed to. The whole house was decorated lavishly, with lacquered walls and the distant hum of conversation. But her head spun as she tried to force herself to fit into this strange world.
“Make sure you smile, Aoi-chan. The customers love a sweet girl who doesn’t seem like she’s trying too hard,” One of the older women instructed, sweeping Aoi’s bangs back with a skilled hand.
Aoi gave a tight, practiced smile. She was never good at smiling under pressure. Her instinct was always to snarl—to bite before anyone could get too close. That was her shield. Smiling in the face of adversity? That was Kanae’s thing. Kanao’s, too.
The quick temper, the loud voice, the refusal to yield—that belonged to her. And to Shinobu.
The thought struck hard, and grief settled in her stomach like a stone.
She glanced at the mirror. The makeup, thick and artificial like Nezuko’s, clung to her face like a second skin. A mask. Her reflection stared back, eyes too wide, too bright with nerves. She didn’t look like herself.
She wasn’t a courtesan. She wasn’t a toy to be paraded or dressed up. But here, she had to pretend. Pretend she belonged in this world of silks and secrets. Pretend she wasn’t afraid.
Back to Tokime House...
Nezuko paced the small room, fists clenched at her sides. ( They want me to be someone else .)
The air was heavy with incense, thick and cloying, curling through her lungs like smoke. Laughter and shamisen music drifted in from beyond the sliding doors—too bright, too loud. Too false.
Her bare feet padded against the floorboards as she moved. Everything in this house was beautiful and wrong. Layers of silk and sweetness laid over something rotting.
This place was full of secrets. Full of people pretending to be something they weren’t. She’d done that once.
Growing up, she had to wear softness like armor—bow quietly, speak gently, smile just enough to make up for her siblings' mischief. Her brothers got scraped knees and shouted with the wind; while she got ribbons in her hair and praise when she held back her frustrated tears. The world had made it clear: there was one right way to be a girl. And Nezuko had learned to swallow herself to survive it.
Now, all these years later, she was back in that skin. Painted lips. Painted eyes. A courtesan’s illusion draped over her like a costume that didn’t fit. Only now, it was worse. Because this time, she knew who she was beneath it.
Her hand trembled, fingers brushing the faint ridge of her scar beneath the makeup. The mark was still there, hidden under powder and color—but real. Earned. Unlike this.
Nezuko stared at her reflection, jaw tight. She had no desire to be something she wasn’t.
“Nezuko-chan,” a voice broke through the thick silence, and Nezuko turned to see Ume standing at the door, her gaze soft but still carrying that playful edge. She stepped into the room, her kimono swaying with each movement, her eyes catching the faintest trace of sympathy.
“You look lost,” Ume said quietly, her voice softer than it had been before.
Nezuko looked down, feeling the weight of the makeup press down on her. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Then don’t,” Ume replied, grinning. “You don’t have to be perfect here. In fact, it’s better if you’re not perfect.” She walked toward Nezuko, offering a hand.
“You’ll find your rhythm. In your own way.”
Nezuko’s heart lightened, just a little. Maybe it wasn’t all about fitting in...
Ume pulled her toward the door, the sounds of the district growing louder as they entered the bustling halls of Tokime House.
“There’s a time and place for everything,” Ume said. “For now, just keep your head low. The job is simple—observe, listen. Don’t let the makeup fool you. People here aren’t who they seem to be either.”
Nezuko nodded, her face still burning from the weight of the makeup. But Ume was right. She didn’t have to fit in to survive. Not here.
Meanwhile, in House Kiyohime...
Kanao’s fingers brushed the strings of the shamisen, the sharp, sweet melody filling the air. She played effortlessly, the practiced motions smooth and natural, and the younger assistants at the house gathered around her, wide-eyed in admiration.
They hadn’t expected her to play so beautifully. She was the quiet one, the girl who seemed to never utter a word, who had always kept to herself. But when her fingers danced over the shamisen’s strings, it was as if the world paused to listen. They sat in reverence, the notes of the music ringing in their ears as if they were waiting for the sound to wash away their worries.
Kanao allowed herself a rare, fleeting smile, watching their reactions.
( They don’t know who I really am ,) she thought, her hands still moving gracefully over the instrument, producing sounds that seemed to echo through her very bones.
But as the song finished, the feeling of accomplishment began to fade. She set the shamisen down with a soft thud, the smile on her face slipping into something more neutral, controlled. The assistants were already talking among themselves, chattering about her talent, but Kanao was no longer paying attention.
She turned away from them, retreating to the corner of the room. The walls felt too close, too suffocating. Kanao's mask was slipping. She could feel the part of her that had been trained to be a doll, incapable of decision, incapable of standing out. The girl who was too quiet, too gentle, too much like the others.
Her hands folded into her lap, and she felt her heart beating faster, as if it were trying to remind her that she was still alive beneath the surface. Don’t forget to be brave , Nezuko’s voice echoed in her mind, like a quiet flame, urging her to hold onto something that wasn’t simply obedient, something that wasn’t just useful.
Follow your heart, Kanao-chan!
Kanao closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. For just a moment, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to break free. To make a choice, to do something without thinking. She had spent so many years buried under the expectations of others, playing the role of the dutiful, silent girl. But Nezuko had asked her to be more. To be braver.
She clenched her hands into fists. ( I’ll find my way. I will. )
She stood up, her movements slow and deliberate as she readied herself to step out into the house once more, this time with her resolve firm. Even here, in this gilded cage, she could still make a choice.
Meanwhile, in House Kyogoku...
Aoi’s heart pounded in her chest as she moved through the house, her fingers fumbling with the layers of her kimono. The air felt too thick here, suffocating her with every breath. She had barely adjusted to the unbearable weight of her disguise when an unsettling feeling crawled up her spine.
It started as a faint whisper in the back of her mind. A prickling sensation. A sense of wrongness.
Aoi’s hands froze, the sensation intensifying as she slowly, cautiously, moved through the corridor. Her eyes darted over her surroundings, and the familiar faces of the other girls seemed distant, their conversations lost in a haze of muffled sounds. But she felt it—something lurking just beyond her vision, something unnatural, something that didn’t belong in the warmth of the house.
( I’ve felt this before ,) she thought. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was a presence she couldn’t quite place, but it was unmistakable.
(A demon.)
Her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse thundered in her ears. The instinct to run, to escape, surged in her chest. But she was trapped, and the fear that gripped her made her feel like a coward. (I’m supposed to be brave. I’m supposed to protect them.)
But all Aoi could feel was terror, the sense of the demon's eyes boring into her, watching from the shadows. Her legs felt weak, her mind clouded with a paralyzing fear that gnawed at her insides. ( I’m not strong enough .)
And then she heard it. The faintest rustle in the walls, a scraping sound, followed by an eerie silence. The demon was close—too close.
Aoi’s heart pounded louder, but she didn’t move. Her hands trembled at her sides. ( I have to act. I have to do something. )
But all she could do was freeze. The terror had taken hold, suffocating her. ( I can’t. I’m not ready for this .)
The rustling continued, the demon moving swiftly through the walls, evading her grasp. Aoi’s eyes burned with unshed tears as she clutched the edges of her kimono, rooted to the spot.
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the sensation faded. The demon was gone. But Aoi stood there, unmoving, her heart still racing in her chest.
She had done nothing. She had let it slip away.
( I’m weak, ) she thought, her stomach turning with the weight of her own fear. ( I failed .)