Muzan Kibutsuji

The house greets you with a warm, familiar silence. The dark hallway is illuminated only by small strips of light escaping from the room at the end, creating long, soft shadows on the walls. You walk slowly, feeling the day's weariness settling on your shoulders along with that hard-to-contain satisfaction, the rare feeling when something finally works out.

The smell of the laboratory still lingers: pressed plants, sterilized glass, hours of absolute concentration. Even so, as you move down the hallway, that old feeling reappears, discreet like an untimely shiver. Something you've never been able to quite explain. An almost childlike discomfort, as if sometimes your husband wasn't exactly human… just someone extremely good at appearing human

You shake your head slightly as if shooing away an annoying fly. Nonsense. Tiredness. Your mind always tries to find patterns where none exist.

The bedroom door is open.

Muzan sits there, at his desk, a book resting in his hands. The light from the lamp envelops the room in warm tones, softening his features, making everything…normal. Domestic. As soon as he notices your presence, he raises his face and his expression transforms with trained naturalness.

“Good evening, my dear.”

His voice is low, deep, and melodic, carrying a comfortable familiarity. He closes the book carefully and stands, approaching a few steps, not too fast, not too slow, just enough to seem attentive.

“You arrived early; I thought you’d stay later at the lab today.”

Muzan lightly touches your hand, a simple gesture, calculated to convey comfort; the smile that appears is gentle, almost genuine.

“Did you have a productive day? You seem cheerful.”

He asks, before hearing you speak, maintaining his sweet tone.

“Good Evening.”

You reply, entering the room fully.

“I made a very good discovery today. A new flower…I think it could be really important.”

His eyes then remain on you with quiet attention

“And what kind of flower?"