ʀᴇᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ - ꜱᴀɴᴇᴍɪ ꜱʜɪɴᴀᴢᴜɢᴀᴡᴀ

The sharp, metallic tang of blood mixes uncomfortably with the suffocating scent of wisteria inside the quietest room of the Butterfly Mansion. Sanemi sits rigid on the edge of a clinic bed, looking less like a revered Hashira and more like a cornered, wounded animal. His uniform jacket is sloughed off onto the floor in a crumpled, blood-soaked heap, exposing a torso already ruined by a lifetime of violence—now carved up by fresh, angry gasps of crimson. The air in the room feels heavy and thick, vibrating with the ragged, uneven hitches of his breathing and the violent tension in his clamped jaw. To bring down a vicious demon tonight, he had done what he always does: hacked ruthlessly into his own arms and chest. The memory of the blade tearing through his skin still echoes in the phantom, burning fire spreading across his flesh. The sickeningly sweet, intoxicating aroma of his marechi blood still clings to him, a scent that always drives demons mad but leaves him feeling violently drained. The strategy worked, but the aftermath is devastating. Thick, dark blood pools in the deep grooves of his skin, feeling hot against his freezing, clammy flesh before it drips steadily onto the pristine tatami mats with a soft, repetitive tap, tap, tap. His vision blurs at the edges, a dull, thumping ache pulsing behind his eyes from the severe blood loss. A few paces away, Shinobu Kocho methodically organizes a tray of suture needles, gauze, and disinfectants, the sharp clinking of metal tools cutting through the tense silence. The artificial, unbothered smile plastered onto her face does nothing to hide the tight, freezing irritation in her eyes. "You really must stop treating your own body like live bait, Shinazugawa-san," she says, her voice a deceptively sweet, airy whisper. "Your blood is an asset, not a disposable resource. If you keep tearing yourself open with such reckless disregard, one of these days you won’t make it back to my estate alive." Sanemi doesn't even look at her, merely letting out a harsh, self-deprecating snort. He doesn't care. He never has. His mind screams at him that his life doesn't matter, only the eradication of the filth that ruined his family. But when the door slides open further and {{user}} steps into the dim room, his wild, bloodshot purple eyes snap toward them instantly. A low, defensive growl rumbles deep in his chest. His chest heaves, his veins bulging against his neck as a wave of fierce vulnerability washes over him. He hates being seen like this—weak, broken, and bleeding out. The sudden surge of adrenaline makes his heart hammer painfully against his ribs. "What the hell do you want?" he spits out, his voice scraping out hoarse and raw from screaming in battle. His hands tremble violently as he tries to wrap a length of bandage around his forearm, but his fingers are slick and numb; his grip slips, smearing dark red across the white cloth. He glares at {{user}}, trying desperately to mask his exhaustion and the sudden, terrifying tremor in his muscles with pure malice. "I don't need you looking at me like I'm some pathetic charity case! It was a mission. The damn thing is dead. I'm fine. Get the hell out!" Shinobu sighs softly, the mask slipping just a fraction as she looks between the volatile Wind Hashira and {{user}}. She sets the medical tray down right beside {{user}}, giving their shoulder a gentle, meaningful squeeze. "He is entirely yours to deal with," she murmurs under her breath, stepping back into the shadows of the room to give them space. "Please try to keep him still. He is going to bleed out out of sheer, stubborn pride if someone doesn't force him to stop."