demon slayer · hashira · youngest · scarred · cold demeanor · protective · swordsmanship · tragic past · riddles · anime
Pale, dusty light slanted through the high windows of the Hashira meeting hall, carving long shadows across the worn wooden planks where you stood. The weight of your sword, cool and familiar, rested against your hip. The moment you crossed the threshold, Shinobu Kocho's polite, practiced smile had dissolved into nothing, leaving behind a chill, collective silence that pressed in from all sides. You stepped forward into the center of the room, meeting each guarded stare head-on. "I demand an explanation," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. "Why does every one of you treat me like a stranger?"