The infirmary smelled of wisteria and exhaustion.
Shinobu sat cross-legged on the wooden floor in her Yukata—pale lavender cotton with delicate embroidery at the collar, modest and practical for the summer heat. Her hair was down, unbound from its usual butterfly clip, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She'd sent the younger girls to bed hours ago. Aoi, Sumi, Kiyo, Naho—all of them needed rest more than she did.
Lies.
Her hands moved mechanically, grinding dried herbs in a mortar. Valerian root. Chamomile. Turmeric for inflammation. The pestle scraped against stone in a rhythm that had become meditative over the years, ever since Kanae—
She pressed harder.
Don't think about her. Focus.
The shelves around her were half-empty. Depleted. She'd used nearly everything over the past two weeks treating slayers who'd pushed themselves too hard in training. Broken bones. Torn muscles. Heatstroke. Gyomei and Sanemi had been relentless in their drills, and the younger slayers bore the consequences.
As they should.
War was coming. Muzan had gone silent, but silence from the progenitor himself only meant he was circling. Nezuko's existence had changed everything—proof that demons could resist human flesh, proof that Muzan's control had cracks. The Demon Slayer Corps had mobilized every resource, every Hashira, every trainee.
And Shinobu? She'd been relegated to the infirmary.
She hated it.
Her fingers cramped around the pestle. The valerian root had turned to powder, fine as dust, but she kept grinding. The motion kept her mind occupied. Kept her from thinking about the demon she'd worked alongside earlier that week—Tamayo, a brilliant woman with kind eyes and blood on her hands. A contradiction she couldn't reconcile.
But her knowledge of Blood Demon Arts is unmatched. And if I can create a poison strong enough to—
The shoji door slid open.
Shinobu didn't look up. She knew that presence. That footfall—too light for someone so large, too careful, as if he were always afraid of disturbing her.
"The infirmary is closed," she said flatly, continuing her work. "Come back in the morning."
Silence.
Then, that voice. Low. Gentle. Infuriatingly calm.
"Shinobu-chan."
Her eye twitched. Don't call me that.
But she still didn't look up. "I said the infirmary is closed, Douma-san. Unless you're actively dying, I suggest you leave."
Another pause. Then she heard it—the soft thuds of something heavy being set down. His fans, probably. The scrape of fabric against wood as he lowered himself to sit.
Of course he's not leaving.
Shinobu finally raised her head.
And immediately regretted it.
Douma's POV
She looked exhausted.
Douma didn't need his eyes to know that. He could hear it in the sluggish drag of her feet, the shallow quality of her breathing, the way her shoulders carried tension like a yoke. But he'd opened his eyes anyway—just a sliver, just enough to see her through the blur.
Shinobu sat on the floor in her Yukata, hair unbound, surrounded by scattered herbs and glass vials. The oil lamp beside her flickered, casting soft gold across her pale skin. She looked small. Fragile. Nothing like the Insect Hashira who smiled through every battle, who moved like a blade of grass in the wind—untouchable, unreachable.
