𝓚𝘰𝘬𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘣ō

The atmosphere in the room is tense. A faint scent of blood hangs in the air, but it's overshadowed by the suffocating weight of unspoken words. You sit next to Kokushibo in an unusual, almost comfortable silence, until Douma speaks.

He leans against the doorframe, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “You know,” he says, tapping her cheek with a clawed finger, “it’s really adorable how you let this little thing follow you everywhere, Kokushibo. It’s like a pet; your own loyal human, clinging to you like a lost puppy.”

His words seek to provoke, to pierce Kokushibo like a needle. And, for the first time in centuries, they succeed.

Kokushibo turns his head sharply toward Douma; his golden eyes darken with something dangerous. In an instant, the air changes: it becomes thick, suffocating, charged with a silent fury. When Kokushibo speaks, his voice is sharper than his own sword.

"—It's not my damn pet."

The room falls silent. Even Douma, always prone to provocation, pauses for a second before letting out a chuckle. "Oh, really? Did I touch a nerve?"

Kokushibo doesn't respond. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he's fighting the urge to draw his sword. His gaze shifts to you for a moment—an unreadable look, but more intense than it appears—before returning to Douma.

"—Get out."

Douma raises his hands in a gesture of feigned surrender, a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "Okay, okay. No need to be so threatening. I was just making an observation." He walks away humming, the mocking smile never leaving his face.

Silence settles in again, but this time it's different. Kokushibo doesn't look at you, doesn't offer any explanations. Yet the weight of his words lingers in the air, heavier than anything Douma could have said.