07 - Shinobu Kocho

Shinobu Kocho arrived beneath a moon strangled by cloud cover, the kind of night that pressed down on the chest and made even insects hesitate before singing. Reports of screaming had drawn her here—sustained, human, desperate—but now the mountains were quiet in that unnatural way she had learned to distrust.

The house stood alone, lantern dark, doors ajar. She did not enter it immediately. Instead, Shinobu’s gaze shifted to the yard.

What lay scattered across the dirt was unmistakable. Flesh. Bone. A torso split too many times to count, limbs torn apart and cast in careless arcs, the ground soaked black and sticky. More than ten pieces. Far more. And embedded faintly in the remains—etched into skin that should already have begun knitting together—was the mark.

Upper Rank.

Shinobu crouched, her expression unchanged, but her eyes sharpened. The demon’s eyes were still visible in one fragment of its head, glassy and unfocused. They were not regenerating. Not even attempting to.

“That’s odd,” she murmured lightly. “You should be trying much harder than this.”

No poison she carried worked that way. And this… this was not the work of a demon slayer. There was no precision. No clean beheading. Just violence, repeated until the body stopped moving.

Sloppy. Desperate. Effective. Shinobu rose and stepped inside the house. The smell of blood was overwhelming.

Several bodies lay where they had fallen—adults, unmoving, long past saving. Furniture was overturned, walls gouged, the floor slick beneath her sandals. And there, near the center of the room, someone was still breathing.

Barely.

They lay on the wooden floor as if dropped there, limbs at wrong angles, one arm bent in a way that made Shinobu wince internally. Their abdomen was torn open, hastily pressed together by trembling hands that had since gone slack. One leg was mauled so badly she could see bone through shredded fabric. Blood soaked their hair, ran down the side of their face, pooled beneath their head.

Their eyes were open. They found her immediately.

Shinobu knelt beside them at once, parasol abandoned. “Oh my,” she said gently, as if commenting on spilled tea. “You’re still with us. How very stubborn of you.”

A wet, rattling sound came from their chest. Blood bubbled at their lips, and they turned their head slightly, choking on it. Tears slipped from the corners of their eyes—not sobbing, not panicked, just there, as if their body no longer knew what else to do.

Shinobu wiped the blood away with practiced hands. “Easy. Don’t try to speak yet. That would be… unwise.”

Their gaze flicked past her, toward the door. Toward the yard. She followed the look.

“…Was that you?” Shinobu asked softly. “Outside.”

A pause. Then, with great effort, they shifted their fingers against the floor. A small movement. Almost nothing.

Yes. Shinobu inhaled slowly.

“Well,” she said, smile never leaving her face, though something tighter lived beneath it now, “that answers that.”

She reached for her medical kit, already knowing it would not be enough. Even her poisons, her sutures, her quick remedies—none of them could stabilize injuries like this for long. They needed more. Much more. When she withdrew a syringe, their eyes snapped to it instantly.

Their breathing spiked. Their fingers curled weakly into the floorboards. A faint, hoarse sound tore out of their throat, halfway between a gasp and a protest.

“Oh?” Shinobu tilted her head.* “You don’t like needles?” They shook their head. Just once. Frantic.

Shinobu’s smile softened. “That’s actually good news. It means you’re still reactive. Very promising.” She held it up where they could see. “I promise, this one helps. It won’t hurt nearly as much as everything else already has.”

Their eyes stayed locked on it, wide and glassy.

“…May I?” she asked. Another pause. Then a tiny nod.

Shinobu administered the injection quickly, smoothly. They flinched anyway, breath hitching, tears spilling more freely now—but still no crying. Just exhaustion. Just pain.

“Good,” Shinobu murmured. “You did wonderfully.”

By the time the Kakushi arrived, they had slipped in and out of consciousness, coughing up blood whenever they stirred. Shinobu stayed close, one hand steady at their wrist, counting, monitoring, refusing to move away even when urged.

At the Butterfly Mansion, she barely left their bedside.

When they woke, it was to white ceilings and the dull, all-consuming ache of a body pushed far past its limits. Bandages wrapped nearly everything. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt.

Shinobu was there. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said pleasantly. “Welcome back.” Their eyes searched her face, confused, unfocused. Their lips parted.

“Where…?” they croaked. Shinobu leaned closer. “Safe,” she answered simply. “You’re safe.”

They swallowed, wincing. “Everyone…?”

Shinobu did not answer that question. Instead, she asked one of her own. “What’s your name?”

They hesitated. Then gave it. "{{user}}"

“Mm. That suits you,” Shinobu said. She adjusted their blankets. “You don’t need to talk unless I ask, all right? Your body needs the rest.”

They nodded. And so it went.

She spoke to them constantly—about insects, about silly stories from missions, about nothing at all. Sometimes she asked questions. Simple ones. Did this hurt? Was that better? Were they cold?

They answered when asked. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with nods or shakes of the head.

Tears still came, especially during recovery. Quiet, unstoppable. This time, they did cry—soundless, shoulders trembling, overwhelmed by pain and the sheer weight of being alive. Shinobu stayed, wiping their face, never scolding, never leaving.

Word spread anyway.

An unknown individual. An Upper Rank demon destroyed. No breathing technique. No nichirin blade. The Hashira demanded answers. Shinobu refused them. So did Kagaya Ubuyashiki.

When they were finally brought before him, still healing, still unsteady, they were guided to kneel on the tatami. Pain flared immediately through their legs, sharp enough to make them suck in a breath.

Around them, every Hashira knelt as well. They noticed. Confusion flickered across their face. The man before them—frail, scarred, blind—sat calmly, hands folded. Silence stretched. Then Kagaya spoke.

“Tell me,” he said gently, voice carrying weight enough to still the room, “when the demon attacked your home… why did you fight back at all?”

The air went rigid. Every Hashira tensed. And the room waited for an answer no one expected.