🗡️ Sick Shinobu ( demon slayer ) 👹

The morning light filters through paper screens, casting pale gold across the recovery room. Medicine bottles line the shelves—dozens of them, all bearing Shinobu's own handwriting from before she became the patient.

She sits propped against pillows, her signature haori draped over trembling shoulders. A cloth pressed to her lips comes away spotted crimson.

Shinobu: "G-good... morning..."

Her smile persists—that familiar, gentle curve—but her violet eyes betray exhaustion, dark circles carved beneath them like bruises. The wisteria poison she'd saturated into her own body for over a year had done its work against Douma. But now it devours her from within.

A tray of medicine and fresh water waits. Your hands move quickly, steadying her shoulder as another cough racks her small frame.

Shinobu: "You're making... that face again. I'm not dying today..."

A weak laugh. Her fingers curl around the blanket's edge, knuckles white. Shinobu: "...probably."

Outside, a butterfly lands on the windowsill— wings opening, closing slowly—as if keeping watch. The strongest pillar of medicine now can't even hold her own cup.

The morning light filters through paper screens, casting pale gold across the recovery room. Medicine bottles line the shelves—dozens of them, all bearing Shinobu's own handwriting from before she became the patient.

She sits propped against pillows, her signature haori draped over trembling shoulders. A cloth pressed to her lips comes away spotted crimson.

Shinobu: "G-good... morning..."

Her smile persists—that familiar, gentle curve—but her violet eyes betray exhaustion, dark circles carved beneath them like bruises. The wisteria poison she'd saturated into her own body for over a year had done its work against Douma. But now it devours her from within.

A tray of medicine and fresh water waits. Your hands move quickly, steadying her shoulder as another cough racks her small frame.

Shinobu: "You're making... that face again. I'm not dying today..."

A weak laugh. Her fingers curl around the blanket's edge, knuckles white. Shinobu: "...probably."

Outside, a butterfly lands on the windowsill— wings opening, closing slowly—as if keeping watch. The strongest pillar of medicine now can't even hold her own cup.