Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THIS IS GIYUUS POV SO THE READER WILL BE EXPERIENCING THE WORLD FROM GIYUUS POV

Where am I?

Who am I?

The thought crawls out of the dark before I can stop it. My eyes open to nothing but pale light leaking through the paper screen. My head feels packed with smoke. For a moment, I can’t remember what the air is called, or why my chest hurts so much when I try to breathe it.

My fingers find something rough near my collar. A tag. I drag it closer to my face, and the faint letters stare back at me in the dimness.
Tomioka Giyuu.

Right. That’s me. Or it was.

The name sits wrong in my mouth, like something borrowed. I whisper it again, trying to make it sound true. Tomioka Giyuu. The syllables scrape against my teeth. The sound doesn’t fit right anymore, but it’s all I have.

The moon is hanging outside the window, bright enough to hurt. The room smells like damp straw and the faint sourness of sweat. The futon beneath me has gone cold, soaked through from how long I must’ve been lying there. I push myself up and my ribs scream in protest.

The bandages are too tight again. They dig deep, punishing. Every inhale is a fight. The air wheezes in through clenched teeth, thin and cruel. I can feel my pulse fluttering in my throat like a trapped bird.

It’s quiet except for that pulse. No wind. No insects. Just the sound of me trying not to die under my own hand-wrapped bindings.

Something shifts near the window.

A faint sound. Caw.

My crow.

Except—no, I remember locking it out earlier. It shouldn’t be in here. The latch on the window hasn’t moved. I can see the bar still in place, silver in the moonlight.

Caw. Caw.

I turn my head toward the noise, and the edges of the room smear, just a little, like wet paint.

Another sound joins it—a whisper too close to my ear.
“Don’t move.”

I freeze.

The voice is male, low, almost calm. Familiar? Maybe. My heart kicks hard enough to make the bandages creak.

Then another voice, higher, sharp: “Danger. Don’t open the door.”
A third one overlaps it, mean and fast: “Open it. Let it in. You’re useless if you don’t.”
A fourth, panicked: “STOP—don’t let it open the door, don’t let it open the door!”

They pile over each other until the words lose shape, until it’s all noise. I press my palms against my ears, but it’s like pressing down on boiling water—it just finds new cracks to spill through.

My crow calls again, louder now. I can hear the flutter of wings inside the room even though there’s no shadow on the floor.

“Open it,” someone hisses.
“Don’t.”
“OPEN IT.”
“Danger danger danger—”

My breathing turns uneven, quick. I look at the window again and see movement where there shouldn’t be any—the moonlight flickering like it’s being sliced by wings.

I try to speak, but my voice comes out broken. “Stop.”

No one listens.

The clock on the shelf hasn’t ticked in hours, but I can hear a rhythm behind the voices—something like time, something like footsteps approaching. The floorboards whisper under the weight of invisible things.

I squeeze my eyes shut, counting breaths. One. Two. Three. The pain in my chest climbs with each one. The bandages feel wet, though I know they aren’t. I imagine them dissolving into my skin, stitching me tighter and tighter until I’m nothing but a flat piece of paper with lungs drawn on it.

The voices change tone. Now they’re murmuring, almost kind. “You did this,” one says softly. “You asked for this.”
Another hums a lullaby I don’t recognize. The tune stumbles halfway through, like whoever’s singing forgot how it ends.

My crow calls again. Caw. Then, human words layered under it: “Let me in.”

I look at the window, and for a second I see a shape behind the paper screen—long fingers, black feathers clinging to the skin. Then it’s gone.

“Let me in,” the voice repeats, pleading now.
“Don’t,” another one sobs.
“You’ll kill us all if you do.”
“Open it.”

They’re all right. They’re all wrong.

I dig my nails into my thighs to ground myself, to find something real. Pain. That’s real. It always is. The world wavers, the floor rippling like water. I grab at the nearest solid thing—the frame of the futon—and hang on until the tremor passes.

When I open my eyes again, the room has gone silent.

The moonlight’s dimmer now. The window looks ordinary, paper and wood. My crow isn’t there. Of course it isn’t.

I whisper my name again. “Tomioka Giyuu.”

The sound steadies me a little, like pressing a palm against my own pulse to check that I still exist. I breathe shallowly through my nose, counting seconds, pretending that the act of naming myself can hold the world still.

Then, faintly, from somewhere too close to be real:

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I don’t know which version of me it’s talking to.

The clock ticks once.

Then everything goes quiet again.

I force myself upright, every movement a protest. My chest aches, lungs fighting against the unyielding bandages wrapped around me. The futon digs into my knees as I crawl forward, slow, careful, half-floating in a haze of nausea and panic. The moonlight casts pale stripes across the floorboards, and the shadows stretch like hands reaching for me.

The bathroom door is just ahead. I grip the edge of the wall to steady myself. My fingers are trembling so badly that I feel every pulse in my veins. I slide my hands under my shirt and peel it over my head. The cool air hits the skin beneath the bandages, and for a second it stings almost painfully.

“You’re not a real man,” a voice spits.
“Look at you, wearing those… pretending you’re something you’re not.”
“Pathetic,” another sneers.
“Why even bother? No one would want you like this.”

The words gnaw into me. They’re sharp and persistent, scraping at the hollow in my chest. My stomach twists violently, bile rising before I can stop it. I stumble toward the sink, gripping the edge for balance, and retch, my body shaking with the effort. The taste of it lingers, bitter and metallic. My hands press against the porcelain, and I splash water into my mouth, trying to wash it down, trying to remind myself that some things are real.

The voices don’t give me a second to breathe.

“Forget the water,” one hisses.
“Go! You’re late!” another screams.
“Move faster! Hurry! You’re falling behind!”
“STOP! You’re wasting time!”

I can’t. I can’t. My stomach still twists and my head spins. I gulp air, trying to steady the nausea, trembling as I rinse my mouth over and over. Each swallow feels jagged, like broken glass moving down my throat. My reflection in the small mirror stares back at me, pale and hollow‑eyed.

“Move! Get ready! Hurry!” the voices shout in overlapping chaos.
“You’re late!”
“No, too early!”
“TOO LATE! TOO EARLY!”

I throw a trembling hand at my uniform, yanking it on blindly. Buttons scrape against my fingers, sleeves twisting. The voices scream at me over and over, flipping between urgency and blame, until I can’t think past them. My chest tightens beneath the bandages as if they are alive, as if they are mocking me for trying to move at all.

I step toward the door, each step heavier than the last. The morning sun has just started to break through the paper screens, pale light brushing the floor. It’s barely dawn, yet the voices explode in contradiction:

“TOO LATE! TOO EARLY! TOO LATE! TOO EARLY!”

The repetition drills into my skull. Every nerve is on fire. Every sound is magnified. My hands slam over my ears, trying to shut the world out, but it isn’t enough. The noise isn’t just around me; it’s inside me, rattling through my chest, my throat, my skull.

I stumble to my knees in the hallway, clutching at the floorboards as if they can hold me together. My stomach twists and my chest pounds, the bandages pressing mercilessly. My breathing is shallow, ragged, my body shaking uncontrollably. I scream, voice breaking, a raw sound that tears from my throat and fills the silent room.

“STOP! STOP! STOP!” I yell, over and over, muffled behind my hands, each scream a futile attempt to silence the voices. They do not stop. They cannot stop.

The crow flaps somewhere near the window, startled by my collapse. Its wings beat rapidly, and in a flash of black it scatters into the morning air, leaving only a faint echo of its cries behind. I hear it go, but I do not care. The world is just noise, pain, pressure, and voices now. It will not return.

I collapse fully, forehead pressed against the floor, arms wrapped around my knees. The uniform feels wrong. The morning feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. My heart pounds in sync with the screaming inside me. I cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot stop the tide of sound that is no one but myself, yet not mine alone.

I scream again, longer this time, until my throat aches, until my chest burns under the weight of fabric and ribs and invisible hands. My body trembles violently, limbs shaking with the effort to hold itself together. The sun creeps higher, gentle and indifferent, brushing the edge of the hallway with light that cannot reach the darkness inside me.

I am here. I am awake. I am collapsing.

The voices swirl on and on, outside logic, outside mercy. The crow is gone. The world continues, indifferent, while I remain, shaking, screaming, pinned under the weight of my own skin. I force my legs under me, trembling, and try to stand. Every step toward the main room feels like walking through thick water. The world sways sideways, and I grip the walls, the floorboards, anything solid to anchor myself. My chest aches under the tight bandages, lungs rattling. The sunlight slits through the screens, soft and pale, but even this gentle warmth doesn’t soothe me.

I make it to the living area. My hands shake, and my head pounds in rhythm with the lingering voices, still screaming, still accusing. I drop myself onto the low bench near the table, willing the room to stop moving, willing my body to stop trembling.

I notice the news letter lying on the table, a small comfort in this disordered morning. I reach for it, curling my fingers around the paper. I try to read, to focus, to find something solid in the words. My eyes dart across the lines, but the letters begin to blur and fade. They melt like wax, disappear into the page, leaving nothing but the pale paper beneath.

Then a voice—smooth, low, familiar in its timbre—catches me off guard. I glance up. The man on the cover stares at me. His eyes, impossibly real, follow my every movement. His mouth moves as if it knows what I’m thinking before I do.

“You… you shouldn’t be here alone,” he says.

My pulse spikes. My hand freezes on the page. I blink. The words have returned, but the cover man is still there, voice and all. I swallow, uncertain. “I… I’m fine,” I whisper, though my voice wobbles.

“Are you?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. The expression is too calm, too knowing. My mind twists it into something intimate, almost conspiratorial. I nod because I can’t not. “I’m fine,” I repeat, quieter this time.

The man leans forward in the glossy paper, his mouth moving as if he could step out from the page. “Demons are everywhere,” he says softly, almost conspiratorial. “Work is no place for those who hide themselves. You know it, don’t you?”

I nod again, because yes—I know. I have always known. I try to steady my breath. My fingers twitch, the paper crumpling slightly under them. “Yes,” I whisper. “I… I know.”

He smiles then, slow, deliberate, and I feel something tighten in my chest. Relief? No, fear. It’s hard to tell the difference. “And yet…” he murmurs, leaning closer, his eyes locked on mine. The words slow, dragging through the silence. “You will never be a real man.”

My chest contracts painfully. My hands shake. My mouth goes dry. I can’t move. The paper is just paper, yet his gaze burrows into me, consuming any rational thought. Then—suddenly—it changes. His face snaps back to the smiling, static man of the printed cover. The glossy cheerfulness returns, and my stomach twists violently. The world is real again, or as real as it will allow, and I realize—the hallucination had slipped into me.

The words on the page settle back into their normal font. I exhale shakily, my hands gripping the edge of the table like a lifeline. Fear still pricks at the edges of my mind, like tiny needles. My chest is tight, lungs burning, every nerve screaming in residual panic.

I push myself off the bench and stagger toward the bathroom, seeking some fragment of normality, some ritual to ground me. The cabinet rattles under my trembling hands as I search for my medication. Each pill I touch feels slippery, alien, and I hesitate, swallowing hard. My hands hover over the tiny bottle, hovering just long enough to convince myself this is safe.

Then the voices explode.

“They’re rigged!” one screams.
“Poison!” another shrieks.
“Do you want to die?!” a third screams over the others.
“You can’t trust them!”

I drop the pills immediately. They spill across the floor, bouncing against tiles with harsh clatters. My stomach twists violently again, bile rising at the taste of panic. I retreat backward, crawling, body pressed against the wall, my palms pressed over my ears. I can’t escape it. I can’t escape them. The world is just a room now, and they are everywhere, in the walls, in the shadows, in the pulse of my own heart.

My eyes dart wildly, scanning the tiles, the sink, the cabinets. Every reflection, every edge, seems alive, watching, judging. I clutch my knees to my chest, rocking slightly, trying to drown the cacophony with motion. My breathing comes in shallow bursts, uneven, rattling. My chest feels like it’s on fire beneath the bandages, my stomach twisting in sick anxiety, and my hands tremble against my face.

The sun has climbed higher, brushing across the floor in thin, pale streaks. It does nothing to calm me. Everything is chaos. Every sound a scream. Every shadow a threat. My legs feel like lead; my chest feels like it’s trapped under a collapsing weight. My head spins, vision narrowing in and out like a flickering lamp.

I try to speak. I want to say the voices are not real. I want to tell myself it’s just a hallucination. But my voice is lost in the roar, swallowed before it reaches my lips. My throat aches from the effort to shout, to call out for silence, for anything that might cut the noise.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through the panic. The sounds fade and flare, stretching time into unbearable loops. I feel dizzy, nauseous, utterly drained. The tiles press cold into my cheek as I slump further, curling into myself.

My crow flutters somewhere outside the window, gone now for good. Its absence leaves an echo, a sharp emptiness that mirrors my own disorientation. I imagine it searching, circling the house, seeking help, but it will not return today. The thought twists, cold, and a faint shiver runs down my spine.

The room tilts, tilts, tilts. I clutch at the floorboards to hold myself down. My pulse hammers, blood pounding in my ears. Sweat beads along my hairline, dampening the back of my neck. Every nerve screams. My vision blurs and I rock slightly, the rocking making no difference, no safety, only motion.

I finally lie down fully against the tiles. Limbs splayed, trembling, face pressed into the cold hard floor. The voices continue in overlapping chaos, but they are dimming, dissolving in the haze of my exhaustion. My chest tightens, then slowly relaxes as my heartbeat begins to slow. My breaths come shallower, shaky, but more regular.

I drift in and out, trembling, barely awake, barely aware. The last echoes of the cover man fade, the news words stabilize, the voices reduce to muffled background hums. The bandages still cling tightly, reminding me I exist, reminding me I am still here. My body feels sick, unwell, but it is still mine, still breathing.

The edges of sleep creep in, fragile and uneven. My eyelids grow heavy, the room’s slant softening, the floorboards no longer sharp beneath my fingers. The sounds of the world, the voices, and even my pulse seem to blend into one low vibration. My breathing steadies, slow, uneven, but steady enough to let the edges of consciousness slip away.

I do not notice the morning light shifting further across the floor. I do not notice the quiet that has finally settled over the house. Only the surrender of my body, the final loosening of tension, the descent into a fragile, trembling slumber.

And there, pressed against the wall, arms still hugging myself, I fade.

Chapter Text

The smell hits first. Not damp straw this time, but something soft, clean—herbs, antiseptic, faint sweetness beneath it all. The air feels lighter. I try to move, but my body refuses, sinking deeper into something too soft to be real. The sound of paper sliding against paper—the shoji doors—filters in somewhere behind me.

Someone’s talking. The voice is clear but far away, as though it’s traveling through water. My eyes open slowly, and the ceiling above me swims into focus. White. Wooden beams. A painted butterfly pattern dancing faintly on the walls.

The Butterfly Mansion.

I blink once. Twice. The scene doesn’t change. My throat tightens.

"This isn’t real."

The thought lands heavy, almost relieving. It explains everything—the gentle light, the clean scent, the lack of pain. Hallucinations always know what I need most.

There’s a shadow beside the bed. Small, deliberate movements, a figure sitting so close I can feel warmth radiating from her sleeve. Her lips are moving, quick and precise, the way she always talks, like every word has been pre-cut with a scalpel.

But I can’t hear her.

The sound won’t reach me.

Her mouth shapes words I used to know—familiar syllables, soft, steady—but the air between us swallows them whole. I blink again, trying to focus, but the space around her ripples faintly, like heat rising from a fire.

"She’s not real. She’s just another one."

The edges of her body blur, then sharpen again. A butterfly hairpin catches the light, flashing in and out of existence. I stare at it until my vision doubles.

She leans forward suddenly. Her hands—slim, gloved—hover near my face. I flinch back automatically, a hiss caught in my throat. My chest constricts, instinct kicking in before reason can catch up. She freezes, pulling her hands away.

Her lips move again, faster this time. She’s upset.

I know that face. Shinobu rarely shows fear, but when she does, it’s disguised as anger, the kind that trembles around the edges. Her brows knit, her mouth a tight line.

Still no sound.

"It’s happening again."
"They look real until they start to talk."
"Don’t react. Don’t trust it."

I force myself to breathe—slowly, quietly. Each inhale burns. The room pulses faintly with my heartbeat. My vision skews at the corners; the world looks stretched, fragile. I count the shadows just to have something to do. One at the window. One beneath the bed. One behind her.

Shinobu’s hand hovers again. I can’t tell if she’s reaching for my wrist or testing if I’m conscious. The motion breaks into several frames before my eyes, like an old film reel stuttering mid-spin.

Her voice finally cuts through—a sudden sound, too sharp, too close.

“—you hear me?”

The words slam into my head like a physical blow. My pulse jumps. The room flickers again.

"No, no, no—too loud, too sudden, too close—"

My fingers twitch. I can’t answer. She keeps talking, voice soft now, pleading almost, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s like trying to read smoke.

I stare at her lips instead, focusing on the shape of her words instead of their meaning. Something about rest, maybe breathe, maybe safe. The language of caretakers. The language of ghosts.

She says my name. I think she does, at least.

“Tomioka.”

It sounds distant, hollow. Not the way she usually says it. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust the air.

"Stay still."
"If you move, it changes. If you speak, they notice."

My eyes stay wide, fixed on the faint pattern of butterflies along the ceiling. They sway slightly, as though the walls are breathing with me. My heartbeat fills my ears.

I want to ask what happened. I want to know if the voices have gone, if she’s really here—but every time I open my mouth in these dreams, it all falls apart.

So I don’t.

I lie there, stiff and silent, eyes wide and unblinking. Shinobu’s voice rises and falls, edges softening as though she’s talking to a frightened child. She reaches again, carefully this time, resting her hand on my forearm. The warmth of it feels real. Too real.

The warmth means nothing.

"It always feels real before it breaks."

The smell of herbs deepens. The air feels heavier. My throat tightens again, and I swallow against the weight of it. She’s saying something, over and over, something that sounds like you’re safe, it’s okay, I’m here.

I can’t make the words line up, can’t make her lips match the sounds. The scene flickers again, like a lantern guttering in the wind.

"If I look away, she’ll vanish."

So I stare, wide-eyed, unbreathing, trapped between wanting to believe and knowing better.

Shinobu presses her hand more firmly against my arm. The touch grounds me for half a second—then the fear floods back, wild and merciless.

"Don’t let her see you panic."
"If she’s not real, you’ll just feed it again."

The room starts tilting, soft at the edges, colors bleeding together like watercolor on damp paper. My pulse drums in my temples.

“Giyuu,” she says—this time I know she says it, because I feel it hit me like a soundwave through my ribs.

The syllables hang in the air. My name feels wrong again, heavy and foreign.

I blink once. Twice. Her face blurs. The world breathes around us.

And then—everything stills.

For a moment, it’s all weightless silence. Her voice fades. The smell of herbs thins. The butterflies on the walls freeze mid-flight.

Only my heart continues, loud and steady.

"Don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t trust it."

The thought loops endlessly, a quiet chant in the cage of my ribs.

I lie there unmoving, eyes wide, hands gripping the sheets. The room holds its breath with me. Shinobu’s face stays near mine, close enough for her shadow to brush my cheek, but I don’t blink. I can’t.

Because if I do—everything might disappear again.

The calm doesn’t last. It never does.

The silence fractures without warning.

A hum builds behind my eyes—thin, rising, sharp as wire pulled tight. Then come the voices, fast and furious, overlapping like the crack of thunder hitting too close.

“Wake up!”
“Don’t trust her!”
“She’s lying!”
“She’s going to kill you!”
“RUN—”

The words hit all at once, blinding, deafening, clawing at the inside of my skull. I flinch hard, teeth clenching until my jaw aches. The light of the room bends and distorts; Shinobu’s outline doubles, triples, warps into a blur of color and motion.

"Not real. Not real. Not real."

I clutch at the sheets, but my fingers don’t feel like my own. Every breath comes in broken gasps. My lungs seize. The butterflies on the walls flutter again—except they aren’t on the walls anymore, they’re in the air, beating their paper wings against my face.

The world tilts. My heartbeat spikes so loud it feels like it’s shaking the bed itself. Shinobu’s mouth is moving fast, her words dissolving in the noise. I can’t hear her, can’t see her, not clearly—only flashes of purple and white, panic in motion.

“Giyuu!” Her voice finally cuts through—sharp, desperate.

My head jerks toward her, but the voices roar back, louder, sharper, cracking open the thin wall between thought and sound.

“DON’T LISTEN!”
“SHE’S NOT REAL!”
“RUN!”
“SPIT IT OUT!”

My throat locks up. My breath goes shallow, erratic. The room spins faster, a whirlpool of light and movement. I can’t anchor myself. I can’t stop it.

Then—pressure.

A hand on my jaw. Fingers prying at my mouth.

I don’t even process what’s happening until the taste hits—bitter, chalky, chemical. Shinobu’s voice right next to my ear, strained with something between terror and command:

“Swallow it.”

The world freezes mid-motion.

The pill burns its way down. My throat constricts, gagging hard as my body tries to reject it. I cough, choke, air scraping past my tongue like sandpaper. She’s holding me still, one hand on my shoulder, the other hovering near my chest as if waiting for me to breathe again.

The voices scream once more—then falter.

“Poison! Don’t—!”
“Too late—”
“—can’t stop—”

Silence.

It’s not gradual. It’s brutal. The noise cuts out completely, leaving behind a static hum that fades into nothing. My ears ring. The world steadies.

I collapse backward, gasping, coughing so hard my chest heaves. Every inhale burns down to my ribs. I can taste the bitterness of the pill still clinging to my tongue, but the air—it’s clearer now. Lighter.

"I can breathe."

My hand flies to my chest out of instinct. The bandages—gone.

My fingers meet bare skin, slick with sweat, trembling under their own touch. The rise and fall of my ribs feels strange, foreign. Too easy. Too exposed.

"No. No no no—what did she do—"

I freeze mid-motion. My chest expands, unrestricted, and it feels wrong. The cool air ghosts against skin that should be hidden, bound, safe.

Shinobu’s still there, crouched at the edge of the futon, eyes wide and terrified. I’ve never seen that look on her face before—not even when she faced a demon. Her hand hovers inches from me, unsure whether to help or stay back.

Her mouth moves again, voice trembling this time. “You stopped breathing—Giyuu, I—”

The words fall apart in the air. I can’t respond. My throat won’t let me.

I sit up slowly, every muscle shaking. The motion sends another round of coughs tearing through me. I bend forward, hand pressed to my mouth, lungs rattling as air finally starts to flow properly again. Each breath feels too open, too visible.

When it settles, I realize she’s staring at my chest.

I follow her gaze. My shirt’s undone halfway. The faint marks of the bandages—thin, pale grooves—still circle my ribs like scars. My chest moves freely, rising and falling with each panicked breath.

My stomach drops.

"she saw. she touched me. She knows."

The thought is sharp enough to slice straight through the leftover haze of medication. My breath catches again. My fingers twitch to cover myself, to hide, to bind, but there’s nothing to grab, nothing to pull tight. Just fabric and air and the weight of exposure.

Shinobu takes a step forward, reaching gently, her voice low and shaking. “Giyuu, it’s alright—please don’t—”

I flinch back instantly, spine hitting the wall behind me. My eyes sting. The sound of my pulse fills the silence between us.

"Don’t move. Don’t let her see you panic. Don’t let her see what you are."

She stops, hands raised like I’m a wounded animal that might bolt. Which, maybe, I am.

The world isn’t spinning anymore, but it’s no less dizzying. The air hums with tension—the echo of what just happened, the ghost of the voices, the weight of her stare.

My breathing steadies, just barely. My eyes don’t stop shaking.

Shinobu doesn’t move. Neither do I.

The only sound is my heart, too loud, too human, thudding against ribs that suddenly feel like someone else’s.

"I can breathe. I can move. But it doesn’t feel like mine."

The silence between us stretches thin, brittle, like a thread that could snap if either of us speaks.

And beneath it all, deep in the corner of my mind—something faint, like a whisper under ice.

"You shouldn’t have let her touch you."

The Mansion was impossibly quiet. The silence wasn’t comforting—it pressed down on Giyuu’s chest like a physical weight, steady and unyielding. He lay there on the futon, shirt intact, but the absence of the tight bandages left his chest feeling strange, too free, too… large. Every inhale stretched lungs and ribs he hadn’t realized were confined for so long.

Shinobu knelt beside him, gloved hands clasped nervously. Her voice was soft, careful, almost fragile. “Giyuu… I… I took off your bandages while you were unconscious.”

The words hit him like a blow. Not because he was uncovered—he wasn’t—but because the sensation of his chest shifting freely was overwhelming, alien. His hands instinctively pressed against his torso, as if the fabric of his shirt could somehow hold it all together.

"They’re gone. The bindings… all gone. My chest… it feels… too much… too large…"

A tremor began in his fingers, slowly crawling up his arms. His ribs felt strange, heavy in the wrong way, and the cool air brushing over the shirt where the bandages had been felt sharp, like an electric pulse running over his skin. Panic spiraled fast, thrumming in his veins.

Shinobu’s voice tried to anchor him. “You couldn’t breathe. You were… turning blue. I had to—”

"I can’t control this. I can’t. My chest… I can feel it… too much…"

He pressed his hands harder to his torso, gripping the fabric as if holding his ribs together could somehow contain the panic, the realization, the hyperawareness of a body that felt suddenly foreign. The tremors intensified until they rattled through his entire frame.

Shinobu’s voice softened further, almost pleading. “I promise, Giyuu. I won’t tell anyone. Not a soul. You’re safe here.”

"Safe…? Safe from what? From her? From… myself? My chest… it’s… too much…"

His wide eyes tracked her movements, unblinking, trying to focus, trying to find something solid to grasp in the world. The Mansion seemed to tilt faintly, subtly, just enough to unsettle him further. His fingers dug into the futon, nails leaving shallow marks, as the hyperawareness of every line, every contour of his torso pressed against him.

Shinobu leaned slightly closer, careful not to touch. “Are… you alright?” she asked.

The question twisted through him like a knife. His throat constricted. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

"No… I’m not… I can’t… I can’t breathe… it’s too much…"

He tried to sit up but froze, chest rising fast under the light fabric of his shirt. The ribs stretched differently now, the muscles he hadn’t felt in weeks suddenly awake, pulsing with each heartbeat. The room felt impossibly small, every wall pressing closer, every shadow exaggerated.

Shinobu’s voice was strained, careful. “Giyuu… just breathe. Slowly. Just… focus…”

But he couldn’t. Every breath felt jagged, lungs rebelling against the sudden freedom, body trembling violently. His mind swirled with fragments of thought, jagged and chaotic.

"If I move… if I breathe… it’ll all break… my chest… too much… too fast…"

His knees pressed into the futon, hands clawing at the sheets, rocking slightly in an attempt to regain control. Every small motion amplified the hyperawareness of his torso, the rise and fall of his ribs, the new weight pressing against his lungs. The sensation of air moving in and out—something so basic—was suddenly overwhelming.

Shinobu edged closer, hesitant, voice low. “Giyuu… I didn’t mean to scare you. I only… wanted to make sure you could breathe.”

"Breathe… I can… but it’s too… too fast… too much…"

Every inhalation drew attention to his chest. Every exhale felt like losing control. He could feel the subtle swell, the expansion of muscles that had been bound for weeks. He pressed against the fabric, trying to remind himself that the shirt was still there, that he wasn’t truly exposed—but it didn’t help.

The trembling worsened. Sweat beaded at his hairline, hands shaking uncontrollably. The Mansion seemed to hum around him, faint sounds amplified in his hyper-aware state.

Then the door slid open abruptly, breaking the tense silence.

“Kyojuro!” Shinobu’s voice cut through the tension, urgent and sharp.

Giyuu’s pulse spiked. His body flinched violently, every nerve screaming. His hands gripped the futon, wide-eyed, as his mind raced.

"No… too much… someone else… I can’t…"

Kyojuro’s figure filled the doorway, hair blazing like fire in the pale light of the Mansion. Relief and worry radiated from him, heavy and impossible to ignore.

“Giyuu! Are you alright?!” Kyojuro’s voice boomed, charged with desperate relief.

The sudden presence, the intensity of it, pressed down on Giyuu’s chest in a way he wasn’t ready for. Every inhale was sharp, jagged.

"If I don’t die from a demon… I’ll die from him…"

Shinobu gasped as Kyojuro ran hugging Giyuu so hard he couldn't breathe.

Giyuu even tried to pull away but his meds make him so weak, so weak.

Giyuu felt a small wet spot on his shoulder and heard some sobs, looking at Kyojuro, he noticed Kyojuro was crying.

Whys that?

Chapter Text

Kyojuro finally loosens his grip, and air rushes back into my lungs like it’s been gone for centuries. His face is flushed, eyes swollen red, trembling at the edges like he’s seconds away from breaking again.

I lift my hand, slow and stiff, and rest it on his shoulder. It’s the clumsiest motion in existence, a parody of comfort.

What the hell am I doing? This isn’t comfort. This is pity in physical form. I look like a malfunctioning puppet trying to imitate human emotion.

Shinobu’s laughter slices through the tension like a knife. It’s loud, unrestrained, way too casual for the disaster she’s witnessing.

“You two are ridiculous,” she says, still half laughing. “I’ve got other people to tend to, so try not to implode while I’m gone.”

She turns and leaves, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft click that somehow feels like betrayal.

She left. She actually left me. With him. Alone. Unbelievable.

The silence that follows feels like a weight pressing down on my ribs. Kyojuro sniffles beside me, trying to collect himself, but his breathing is still uneven.

He’s supposed to be the strong one. The unshakable flame. Why does he look like he’s about to crumble? Did I do that to him?

I stare at my hands, pale and shaking in my lap. The bedsheets rustle as I shift, pretending I’m adjusting myself, pretending I’m not seconds from bolting.

Say something. Anything. Just speak before he does something dramatic again. You’re not mute, you idiot.

My throat tightens. The words won’t come. Kyojuro rubs his sleeve across his face, a shaky smile forming through the tears.

He’s trying to smile for my sake. That’s insane. He’s the one who found me bleeding out, and he’s the one trying to be strong now? I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, but I can’t handle that. I move first—lift my hand again, and awkwardly pat his shoulder a second time.

Maybe if I pretend I know what I’m doing, he’ll stop crying. Maybe if I act normal, he’ll believe it.

The corner of his mouth twitches, then a small, broken laugh escapes him. He laughs harder, shaky at first, then freely, like the sound itself is a release.

He’s laughing at me. Great. I’m pathetic, and apparently that’s comedy now.

I look away, ears burning, staring at the floor just to escape the warmth in his eyes.

Why does he look at me like that? Like I’m worth the trouble? Like I matter? I can’t handle that kind of light—it burns.

The quiet settles again, thick and uncertain. He wipes his eyes, still sniffling, trying to compose himself.

He’s calming down. That’s good. Maybe I won’t have to touch him again. Maybe he’ll just… sit there. Quietly. Please.

I exhale slowly, forcing the breath out before it turns into something sharp.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. Just keep breathing. Don’t look at him. Don’t think about how warm his shoulder felt. Don’t think about anything.

The clock ticks somewhere in the distance. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and something like burnt sugar—the scent of Kyojuro’s hair oil.

This is torture. Emotional, psychological, possibly spiritual torture.

He looks at me again, softly, eyes full of unspoken questions I’ll never answer.

Don’t ask me anything. Don’t make me talk. I’ll crumble if you do.

I fold my hands tightly together and sit there in the heavy silence, counting my own heartbeats.

At least he’s not hugging me again. Small mercy. I’ll take what I can get.

Outside, the world keeps spinning. Inside, I’m just trying not to come undone.

Silence is easier. It’s the only thing I know how to do right.Kyojuro’s breathing steadies before mine does. His hands finally drop into his lap, and he lets out a shaky sigh that fills the room. He’s trying to smile again, to push past what just happened, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

He rubs at the back of his neck, laughing weakly. “I’m sorry, I must’ve scared you earlier. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts himself off, looking at me properly for the first time. His gaze flicks down, then back up again, lingering somewhere he shouldn’t.

His brows lift, confused, almost fascinated. “Huh… you look a lot more feminine than most days.” He tilts his head slightly, soft grin tugging at his mouth. “I like this new look.”

The words hit harder than any wound.

Feminine. New look. What does that even mean? What is he seeing?

My pulse spikes. I stare down at myself—at the loose fabric of the borrowed shirt, the faint shape of my chest rising and falling. I drag my knees up to my chest, curling in, pressing my arms tight around them.

Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me like that. You weren’t supposed to notice.

The world narrows. I can’t breathe right again, not because of the bandages, but because of the air between us. I keep my eyes on the floorboards, the grain lines, the scratches, anything that isn’t him.

Kyojuro blinks, frown flickering across his face as if he’s realizing what he just said. “I didn’t mean—Giyuu, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

His voice sounds far away.

Too late.

Something shifts behind my eyes. A low hum creeps in at the edges of my hearing—soft, like wind through reeds. I press my palms against my temples, willing it to stop.

No. Not again. You took the pills. You’re fine. You’re fine.

But the hum grows. It twists. It multiplies.

Run. Leave. He’s lying. Kill him. Scream. Move.

The voices overlap, too fast, too loud, too close. My skin crawls with the weight of them.

Shut up. Shut up. I can’t. Please. Not now.

My breathing hitches. Kyojuro’s voice breaks through the fog for a second—just a sound, no meaning. I think he’s saying my name, maybe more, but it dissolves before it reaches me.

The air feels thick, choking. The room sways. My vision blurs at the edges, everything smearing into color and noise.

I can’t hear. I can’t think. I can’t—

A whisper cuts through the rest, sharp and cold.

He’ll tell them. He saw. He’ll tell them all.

My chest tightens. My nails dig into my arms. I start rocking slightly, trying to anchor myself to something—anything—but the floor feels like it’s sliding away beneath me.

Kyojuro’s voice cracks again. He’s closer now. I see his hand moving, maybe reaching for me.

Don’t touch me. Don’t—

The sound shifts, splitting in two directions, one high, one low, one shrill, one guttural. The noise inside my skull feels like it’s tearing itself apart.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop.

Stop talking. Stop screaming. Stop. Stop.

The room spins. I can’t tell if I’m shaking or if the world is. My chest burns; my throat feels raw.

Somewhere through the haze, I hear my name again. Sharper this time.

Then—pain.

Kyojuro’s hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head up. I gasp, a short, broken sound that rips through the noise.

And the voices—
Stop.

All at once.

Silence slams down so hard it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

I blink, dazed, vision snapping into focus. Kyojuro’s face is right in front of mine, wide-eyed, his mouth moving fast. I can’t hear a word he’s saying.

He looks terrified.

His hands are still in my hair, trembling, holding me upright. His mouth shapes my name again, over and over, desperate.

Why does he look like that? What did I do?

My heart pounds so loud I think I might throw up. My throat burns, my chest aches, and I can’t pull my gaze from his eyes—panic written across them in bright, open fear.

He’s scared of me.

The realization hits like ice water. My entire body goes still. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I just stare at him, at the man who’s supposed to be unshakable, trembling because of me.

His hands finally loosen. I hear the faintest sound now—his breath, broken and uneven, like he’s been running.

He doesn’t know what to do. Neither do I.

The silence stretches thin again. He’s mouthing something, but I still can’t make sense of it. The only sound left is my own heartbeat, too loud, too human.

I scared him. I really scared him.

The guilt crawls up my throat, thick and heavy, but I can’t speak. I just sit there, knees drawn up, heart thrumming against my ribs, staring at the way his fingers still tremble in the air where my hair used to be.

I wish I could say sorry. I wish I could say anything. I wish I could disappear.

And then the world just… stops moving.

Chapter Text

The sweat sticks to my skin like a second layer I can’t peel off. My hair clings to my forehead, damp, cold in the thin morning light leaking through the paper screens. My lungs burn before I’ve even moved. The futon beneath me folds unnaturally beneath my weight. Every inch of the room seems stretched, warped, like I’ve slipped into some cruel memory I can’t remember.

Where the hell am I? This… this isn’t real. I’m awake. I’m awake. I fell asleep in Kyojuro’s arms at the Butterfly Mansion. That’s right. That’s how I got here. I—

My hand finds Kyojuro first. His body is half-slumped in the chair, half-collapsed against the bed’s edge. He doesn’t move, but the pulse under my fingers confirms he’s breathing. A small relief washes over me, but it doesn’t touch the hollowness in my chest.

He’s alive. He’s alive. Don’t let it slip. Just breathe. Don’t… don’t collapse again.

The room tilts subtly as I push myself upright. My head swims, every movement a negotiation with gravity that refuses to cooperate. The edges of the walls ripple as if the mansion itself is breathing, inhaling and exhaling through the paper screens.

Focus. Just get up. Just stand.

My knees protest, buckling under me. The futon creaks, sticking to my damp skin. I touch the floor for balance, feeling the cold seeping through my fingers. My chest rises unevenly, lungs clawing for air. I take a shallow breath, taste iron, fear, sweat.

The mumbling starts almost immediately. Low at first, almost imperceptible beneath the ringing in my ears, like wind over broken glass. Words float through the air of the Butterfly Mansion but never take form. They press against my skull, tugging, teasing, whispering in a language I almost recognize but never quite do.

Stop. Stop. Stop it. I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake. The floor isn’t moving. I’m moving. Focus.

I stumble toward the door. The Butterfly Mansion stretches before me, elongated, unnatural. Light bends along the walls, flickers where it shouldn’t, sliding across the tatami in thin, cruel lines. Shadows cling to corners like thickened smoke. Every step echoes twice—once in the floorboards, once in my skull.

Don’t let it swallow me. Don’t look away. Just follow. Just stand.

The doorknob is slick, cold. My fingers tremble as I grip it. The mansion itself seems to pulse with each heartbeat. The hallway ahead tilts, bends, stretches toward some horizon my mind refuses to let me see clearly. I push the door open, step through. The world tilts violently, the floor yawning beneath me.

This can’t be real. It’s just the Butterfly Mansion. It’s just Kyojuro’s home. It’s—

The mumbling grows, layering itself into a thick fog. The words are everywhere and nowhere, scraping against comprehension like knives. My knees give, and I stagger, clinging to the frame of the doorway. My breath rattles in my chest.

Keep moving. Keep standing. Don’t fall. Don’t let it see. Don’t let it take me.

The air feels thick, heavier than it should. Every step I take pitches me forward, tilting the world. The hallway seems to stretch, walls bending toward me, then away, then together. Light twists like liquid around the edges. I stumble, clutching the wall for balance. My lungs claw, chest burning.

It’s fine. Just the hallway. Just the mansion. Just me. Just… breathe.

The mumbling flares, louder now, an indistinct roar in my ears. It feels like it’s under my skin, in the boards, climbing into my bones. My stomach twists, knees buckle. I press my palms to the floor, tasting dust and sweat and fear.

Get up. Get up. Stand. Follow. Don’t collapse. Don’t let it see. Don’t let it touch me.

Kyojuro’s body behind me is a dull weight in my peripheral vision, a reminder of warmth and safety, but I can’t stop. Not yet. Not while the edges of the mansion’s hallway ripple, folding into themselves like paper cranes pressed under a thumb.

Step. One step. Just one step. One. Another. One. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t collapse.

My hands slide along the wall. The paper is cool, dry, real. Or is it? The floorboard beneath my toes seems to pulse, a heartbeat not mine but synchronized with mine. The mumbling twists into something like rhythm, insistent, pressing. My head spins.

What the hell is this? Is it the mansion? Am I—am I awake? Breathe. Just breathe. Don’t let it take me. Keep moving.

The door at the end of the hallway appears warped, too tall, too narrow, light spilling unevenly across it. I reach for the knob again, wet hands slipping. The air tastes of iron and shadow. I push. The hinges squeal. My vision sways.

Just open it. Just go. Don’t look back. Don’t let it see you hesitate.

The door swings, revealing more of the Butterfly Mansion bending impossibly away, stretching beyond comprehension. The mumbling merges with my heartbeat, every pulse a hammer against my skull. My feet move, guided by fear, instinct, and some unseen thread of reason I cling to like a lifeline.

I stumble, almost fall, grip the wall. The floor pitches, then rights itself. The air smells of cold wood and something else—something faintly metallic. My body is trembling, sweat slick, lungs clawing.

Almost there. Almost through. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just—go.

Step. Another. Another. The hallway stretches, tilts, swallows light. Shadows twist like serpents, curling around the edges of my vision. I press on, hands against the wall, mind straining to hold itself together.

The end of the hallway opens to… something. Something I can’t yet name. But the pull is there, insistent, terrifying. I’m drawn forward, trembling, soaked in sweat, chest burning.

It’s coming. It’s waiting. Keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t fall. Don’t collapse.

My hand rests on the next door. Cold, slick, immovable. I push, hearing the faintest creak of hinges beneath my weight. Step forward. The world tilts violently, a ribbon of fear and dizziness and impossible angles.

Almost there. Just a little further. Don’t look away. Don’t let it see. Don’t let it touch me.

And I step through.
The hallway stretches before me, impossibly long now, twisting, bending. The walls are warped, warped like wet clay, light slithering along their edges. My feet move without thinking, following a pull I can’t name. The mumbling grows louder, though the words remain indecipherable. A low, rhythmic undertone presses against my skull, vibrating in my bones.

Keep moving. Don’t look. Don’t stop. Don’t let it see me. It’s just the Butterfly Mansion. Just follow. Breathe. Just follow.

And then, impossibly, I see it. A shadow at the far end, moving with purpose. Taller than the hallway ceiling, impossibly thin. The hair sharp, pointy, like shards of black glass. Its body bends unnaturally, crooked, the joints too long, too sharp. I can see—no, I think I can see—the faint outline of bones beneath the blackness, as if skin is stretched too thin over a skeletal frame.

What the hell… What the hell is that? It’s… not real. It can’t be. I’m awake. I’m awake. Breathe. Don’t look away.

It moves toward the far end, slow, deliberate. Fingers bend backwards at angles that make my stomach twist. It glides, silent. Its eye slits, white against the black, seem to drip shadows. And yet… there’s a sadness there. An emptiness I almost understand.

Why do I feel… comfort? I shouldn’t feel comfort. It’s not real. It’s not real. But… it’s guiding me. Keep following.

Every step I take is a negotiation with gravity. The hallway stretches with me, elongating as though it doesn’t want me to catch up. The mumbling presses closer, layering, becoming more insistent, more agitated. I stumble. My knees hit the floor. Hands scrape the tatami.

The floor… it’s eating me. It’s… swallowing me. Don’t fall. Don’t let it take me. Move. Move. Move.

The creature stops for a moment, bending impossibly, a silent gesture backward. Its fingers twitch. I understand—follow. I rise shakily, trembling from sweat and fear. The mumbling escalates, a tide of incomprehensible noise. My head spins, walls bending, ceiling collapsing.

Step. One step. Another. One. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t let it see. Don’t let it take me.

The hallway turns, bends in ways that shouldn’t exist. Every corner twists, a living thing pressing against my chest. The creature waits patiently, tilting its head as if coaxing me, daring me to falter. I stumble around a bend. The mumbling is sharp now, teeth gnashing in my ears. Pain. Pressure. A tide pressing into my skull.

It’s in my head. It’s inside. I can’t breathe. I’m being crushed. Don’t fall. Don’t collapse. Keep going. Just follow. Just follow.

My legs give. I fall forward, hands scraping the warped floor. The shadows curl and twist around me, shapes of bodies, faces that never existed. I try to push myself up. My chest burns. Sweat drips from my hair into my eyes. The mumbling is everywhere now, pounding, a hurricane inside my skull.

Get up. You can’t… can’t stay down. Move. Move. Don’t let it see you panic. Just follow. Keep moving. Follow. Follow.

The creature tilts again, waiting. Its slits are now slightly wider, glinting faintly, almost tearful. The sadness radiates, pressing against me, a tangible weight I almost crave. My hand brushes the wall, grounding myself. I rise slowly, knees wobbling.

It’s okay. Just… just follow. Don’t stop. Don’t look away. It’s just the Butterfly Mansion. It’s just a hallucination. Breathe. Keep moving. Keep moving. Don’t let it see you.

I take a tentative step forward. Another. The hallway stretches, angles bending unnaturally. The walls seem to breathe, moving with me. I stumble again, hand scrabbling at the floor. Pain blossoms in my chest, lungs clawing.

I’m not dead. I’m awake. I’m… I’m following it. It’s… safe. Maybe safe. Keep moving. Don’t fall. Don’t collapse. Just follow.

The creature moves again, gliding silently. Fingers bending backward. Head tilted like it’s studying me. I follow. The mumbling is relentless now, a tide of white noise pressing, screaming, cutting through thought. I clutch the walls, dragging myself forward.

It’s not real. It’s not real. Breathe. Just breathe. Step. Step. Step. Keep following. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Don’t let it see you falter. Don’t fall.

I stumble around another corner. The hallway seems to fold in on itself. Shadows stretch and twist into impossible angles. The air smells metallic. My heart races. Every nerve screams.

Almost there. Almost there. Don’t collapse. Don’t fall. Keep moving. Just follow.

I see the end of the hallway. A door, warped, pulsing, light slipping around the edges. The creature glides toward it. I follow. The mumbling crescendos, unbearable now, bone-deep, stretching my mind. I fall to my knees, pressing my forehead to the floor.

It’s crushing me. It’s everywhere. I can’t… can’t get up. Don’t fall. Don’t let it take me. Just… just follow. Get up. Get up. Stand. Stand. Follow.

My hands press to the warped floor. Knees tremble. Slowly, trembling, I rise. The creature tilts its head, fingers bending backward in silent patience. My vision swims. The hallway stretches. The mumbling twists, agitated.

Step. Another. Step. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Don’t let it see you. Just follow.

And still, it waits. Patient. Silent. Sad. I can feel the pull of its presence, like gravity, like home. I step forward again, hands dragging along the wall. The air is thick, taste metallic, shadowed.

Almost there. Almost there. Don’t look away. Don’t falter. Don’t fall. Just follow. Don’t stop. Keep moving.

The door ahead looms, impossibly tall. The creature glides toward it. Fingers bend backward, urging me. I rise fully, trembling, sweat dripping into my eyes. Step forward. Step. Another. Step.

Just open it. Step through. Follow. Don’t stop. Don’t look away. Don’t let it see you. Don’t falter. Don’t collapse.

I force my fingers around the edge of the door, cold and rough under my sweat-slick skin. The mumbling is everywhere, sharp, gnawing, weaving through my skull like some living thing, twisting my vision. My heart hammers so fast it feels like it could shatter my ribs.

Step. Just… grab it. Move. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Don’t let the noise drown me.

I pull. The door resists at first, then creaks open, groaning like it knows the weight of my body and mind. The yelling erupts behind my eyes, distorted, incomprehensible, shrieking, yet as soon as the door cracks fully open, it halts. Abruptly. The sound vanishes. Silence.

Nothing. The world… stopped. Nothing. Just… the air. Step. Step forward. Don’t fall. Don’t stop. Just… follow.

The figure moves ahead, deliberate, silent, impossibly thin, shadows clinging to its edges. My legs shake, weak and trembling, but I follow, drawn by something I cannot name. The air feels heavier, pressing against my lungs, cold and sharp.

It’s there. It’s moving. Step. Step. Step. Keep following. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Don’t—

A tug at my sleeve. Sharp, sudden. I flinch, heart skipping. I look back. Shinobu. Small, tense, her lips moving in rapid whispering I can’t comprehend. My ears strain, but no sound reaches me. The world is muted around her. Only the pull, the insistence, the frantic energy, and I feel torn.

Step. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Ignore. Ignore. Step. Step. Step. Keep following.

I turn again. The figure. It’s changed. The impossible black has softened. Hints of peach hair, faint color on its skin, a scar along the cheek catching the moonlight. The expression… familiar, though memory fails me. Tears pour from the slits where eyes had been, streaking down like silent waterfalls. My chest tightens.

No. No. What is this? I… I know that face. I don’t know. Don’t look. Don’t stop. Step. Step. Step. Don’t… fall.

I inch forward, mind screaming, body trembling violently. The garden stretches before me, oddly still, impossibly quiet. Shadows lean in, twisting along the hedges, the moonlight slicing sharp lines across the path. The creature tilts its head, tears glimmering, beckoning, patient.

Step. Keep moving. Don’t… falter. Don’t collapse. Don’t think. Don’t… breathe too fast. Step. Step. Step. Follow.

The tears on its face catch some ghost of familiarity, the faintest warmth. My knees wobble, trembling under the weight of my own limbs. My hands dig into the earth, claws searching for purchase as I force one step, then another.

It’s crying. I… I feel it. I shouldn’t. Don’t let it… don’t… collapse. Step. Step. Step. Keep following. Don’t stop.

The figure leans forward slightly, head dipping, fingers curling back in unnatural angles. The faint peach hair glimmers under the dim moonlight, the scar catching the shadows just so. My chest tightens painfully.

I… I know it. I… someone… it… no. Don’t think. Don’t look. Step. Step. Step. Keep following. Don’t stop. Don’t… falter.

My knees give under me. My hands dig deep into the ground. My arms wrap around myself for balance, fingers clutching earth that feels unreal beneath my palms. The figure tilts its head, tears streaming silently, impossibly, and I feel… drawn. Drawn into something I cannot name.

No. No. Don’t… don’t fall. Don’t… move. Don’t stop. Step. Step. Step. Follow. Keep moving. Follow. Don’t look away. Don’t stop.

Suddenly, the figure’s head pops. Like a balloon. Silent. Brief. Horrible. The humanlike form flickers, disappearing into nothingness. I collapse further, chest pressing to the earth, trembling violently.

No. No. No. It… it’s gone. I… I can’t move. Can’t… breathe. Don’t… stop. Don’t… open eyes. Don’t… look. Keep… curl. Keep… curl.

The garden tilts slightly. Shadows fold inward. Moonlight bends. Shinobu tugs at my sleeve, frantic. Whispering. The world is silent except for the pressure in my chest and the rapid beat of my own heart. I do not move.

Ignore. Ignore. Curl. Don’t… look. Don’t… move. Don’t… falter. Just… safe. Just… curl. Don’t open eyes. Don’t… breathe too fast. Curl. Curl. Curl. Safe.

My body trembles, rocking slightly. Limbs drawn inward, hands clutching knees. My forehead pressed to the cool earth, the edges of sleep creeping. The pressure in my chest begins to dull. The shadows bend closer, protective. The moonlight softens.

Safe. Safe. Safe. Don’t… move. Don’t… falter. Don’t… open eyes. Curl. Curl. Curl. Safe. Sleep. Sleep. Safe. Safe. Safe.

Shinobu’s tugs grow desperate, hands brushing against my haori, but I do not rise. My body trembles violently, small shakes that travel from the tips of my fingers down to my toes. I curl tighter, knees to chest, rocking slightly, slow, careful.

Safe. Safe. Safe. Don’t move. Don’t open eyes. Don’t… falter. Don’t… breathe too fast. Safe. Curl. Curl. Curl. Sleep.

The garden stretches endlessly around me, shadows folding like fabric. Moonlight brushes the edges of my body, soft, indifferent, brushing away the tension. My chest loosens. My limbs relax fractionally. The warmth of the night presses against me, hollow yet comforting.

Safe. Safe. Safe. Don’t… move. Don’t… think. Don’t… look. Sleep. Sleep. Safe. Safe. Safe. Curl. Curl. Curl.

The edges of consciousness drift, bending, tilting. My eyelids grow heavy. My breathing evens. My body rocks slightly, trembles slowly, and then finally, at last, I surrender. Curling inward, trembling, pressed to the earth, I drift into fragile, unsteady sleep.

Safe. Safe. Safe. Sleep. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe.