Chapter Text
My mind was a hopeless tangle, a knot of silken threads pulled too tight.
"Are you telling me you haven’t been able to find Shinobu-chan in her office?" The words left my mouth, strained with a worry I could no longer contain.
Aoi stood before me, and the usual steadfast calm in her blue eyes had fractured, replaced by a deep, swirling concern that mirrored my own.
"No, not in the clinical wing of the mansion either, nor the gardens," Aoi confirmed, her small hand rising to press thoughtfully against her chin.
The gesture was so adult, so burdened, that it made my heart ache with a fresh, sharp pang.
My brow furrowed so deeply I could feel the strain.
A cold, leaden stone of dread settled in the pit of my stomach.
Shinobu had promised.
She’d meticulously cleared a slice of time in her relentless schedule just for us—one peaceful meal, a moment of quiet companionship before the storm of Hashira training broke at dawn.
For her to vanish without a word… it was inconceivable.
The violation of that promise felt like a tiny, personal earthquake.
Aoi’s muttering reached me, fractured and hushed. "Tomorrow she’s supposed to—" and then, almost inaudible, a tremulous "—demon."
I didn’t need to hear the rest. The fear in her whisper was a physical chill in the air.
My sympathy for her spiked, intertwining with my own fear.
This wasn’t just about a missed lunch.
"I’ll go look for her around the grounds, Aoi-chan!" I declared, forcing my voice into a channel of decisive action, hoping to dam the flood of my own panic.
Aoi’s head lifted. The slight, formal bow she gave me wasn’t just gratitude; it was a transfer of hope, a weight placed directly into my hands.
"Thank you, Kanroji-san. I’ll let Kanao and the others know." She turned, and the rapid, almost stumbling rhythm of her retreating footsteps down the wooden hallway seemed to beat in time with my own frantic heart.
Alone, a torrent of murmurs escaped me.
"Where are you? What happened?"
Shinobu was a creature of impeccable order and foresight. Her absence wasn’t a mistake; it was a statement.
And that statement sent a cold sweat trickling down my spine.
My mind, that treacherous ally, conjured visions: a silent demonic attack in the daylight, or worse, her brilliant, relentless body finally buckling under the immense pressure she always carried.
I shoved the heavy estate doors open, the spring air feeling foreign against my feverish skin.
My eyes, wide and searching, raked over the familiar scenery—the graceful arc of the cherry blossom branches, the serene stone path, the imposing front gate.
No glimpse of dark hair with its distinctive, gentle purple gradient.
Nothing.
As my feet touched the final wooden step of the veranda, a sound directly above me sliced through the quiet.
It was a single, resonant, and profoundly wrong strum—a sound that belonged to a biwa… and certainly not one meant to echo beneath the open sky!
My head snapped up, eyes and mouth flying open in unison.
A figure, small and limp, plummeted from the clear blue.
Every muscle in my body reacted before my mind could.
I threw my arms wide, bracing my core.
The impact slammed into me—a solid, breath-stealing jolt of weight and momentum that I absorbed against my chest, my feet planting firmly to keep us both upright.
A sharp, startled cry hit my ears, and the voice was a key turning in the lock of my terror.
"Oh my god!"
"Shinobu-chan!!" The relief was a physical wave, so potent it washed the strength from my limbs for a second.
A sob of joy caught in my throat.
Without a shred of hesitation, I crushed her to me, my arms wrapping tightly, fervently around her slender frame, one hand cradling the back of her head.
'You’re here! You’re safe.'
But as the dizzying rush of relief ebbed, a single, glaring question surfaced through the emotional haze.
Why was she falling from the empty sky?
I’d often thought her voice was as sweet and gentle as a melody from the heavens, but this was taking the metaphor far too literally.
Gently, I loosened my embrace just enough to pull back and see her face.
My beaming smile began to waver, then freeze.
The face was hers—the same delicate features, the same pale lavender eyes.
But everything else was… off.
A thick, soft-looking yellow sweater.
A pleated, checkered skirt that fell to her knees—Shinobu never wore skirts!
Clutched in a white-knuckled grip against her chest was a strange rectangular bag, as if it were a lifeline. She was using it like a shield.
She looked up at me. Her hands had come to rest lightly on my shoulders, a familiar point of contact, but her eyes…
They held a vacancy that stole my breath.
It was a look of pure, unadulterated unfamiliarity—scanning the Butterfly Mansion grounds, the situation, and finally, my own face, with the curious blankness of a stranger.
"Mitsuri? You look... different." The voice was the same instrument, but the music was wrong.
Softer, rounder, lacking its usual precise, sharp-edged control.
It was unsettlingly relaxed.
"Shinobu-chan... what are you wearing? Not that it's bad or anything!" I blurted out, the words tripping over themselves in my haste. I shook my head emphatically in immediate apology, feeling the heavy sway of my own pink-tipped braids brush against my flushed cheeks and shoulders. "Aoi-chan was worried sick about you! So was I! Everyone was! What in the world were you doing on the roof?"
The questions poured out in a frantic stream, and my fluster only grew as I realized she made no move to disentangle herself from my hold.
She simply remained, letting me support her full weight, her wide eyes drinking in our surroundings with open-mouthed bewilderment.
“Okay… this is definitely not the kissaten where we were supposed to meet after school,” she stated, her voice filled with a confusion so profound it seemed to hollow her out.
My eyes flew open wide, every vestige of warm relief shattering into a million icy shards of disbelief.
Kissaten? After school?
The young woman in my arms smelled like Shinobu, felt like Shinobu, but the person looking out through her eyes was a complete stranger.
The dread returned, colder and more profound than before.
____________
A sharp, stinging sensation bloomed across my palms as I pushed myself up from the damp soil. With practiced efficiency, I brushed the dust and crushed leaves from my haori, the familiar butterfly pattern now smudged with earth.
The landing had been anything but graceful.
My katana was already in my hand, its weight a comforting anchor in this utter disorientation.
I emerged from the thick shrubbery, my senses on a razor’s edge.
The air smelled wrong—acrid with fumes I couldn’t place, lacking the clean scent of wisteria and pine. The architecture around me was all strange, sharp angles and garish signs. Every logical conclusion pointed to a Blood Demon Art.
My last clear memory was the crisp morning air during my walk, abruptly severed by that haunting, resonant note of a biwa.
The murmur of voices—young, casual—cut through my assessment. Instinct took over.
In one fluid motion, I raised my katana, the polished blade glinting under the unnatural glare of the streetlights, my body poised for a threat that wore a human face.
Two young men, dressed in bafflingly simplistic and coordinated clothing, stared openly. One pointed directly at me.
"Now that is some amazing cosplay! Her sword looks so realistic, can you see it?"
"Stop pointing, it's rude! But yeah. Though I'm not sure who she's supposed to be," the black-haired one muttered, though his stage whisper carried clearly.
Their posture was completely relaxed, non-combative. No hidden weapons, no demonic aura.
Just… bewildering ignorance.
Cosplay? The word meant nothing.
A code?
A distraction?
I decided to test the waters.
My face automatically settled into a benign, friendly mask, and I sheathed my blade with a soft click.
"Young men?" I called, tilting my head.
"Yes?!" the pointer answered, jumping slightly as if snapped from a trance.
"Might you tell me what year this is? Or at least if you are familiar with the Hashiras?" I kept my voice light, but my eyes scanned theirs for any flicker of recognition—fear, respect, hostility.
Instead, their eyes only widened further with performative surprise.
One mumbled, ‘She is so committed to the bit!’ to his friend, who elbowed him.
They were treating this like a game.
A cold prickle of isolation ran down my spine.
Just as frustration began to simmer beneath my polite smile, a sound cut through the urban din—a voice like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Shinobu-chan!"
I whirled around, my heart lurching.
There she was.
Mitsuri, a beacon of familiar warmth, sprinting toward me with undignified, utterly endearing haste.
The profound relief that washed over me was so potent it made my knees feel briefly weak.
The rigid tension in my shoulders unlocked a fraction.
"Ah, Kanroji-san," I sighed, the title an automatic outlet for my surge of gratitude.
I am not alone here.
But as she closed the distance, my analytical mind, trained for anomalies, immediately catalogued the discrepancies.
Her clothes—a short, pleated skirt and a snug top—were utterly unlike her uniform or her personal wear.
The bag she carried was absurdly frilly, adorned with a cartoonish feline.
And her hair… My gaze zeroed in on the stark, dark roots visible at her part, contrasting violently with the candy-pink lengths. It was as if the color had been applied, and poorly.
A jolt of professional concern overrode my relief.
Had her nutritional habits deteriorated so severely that it was manifesting in her hair health?
Or was this a side effect of a demon’s power?
"Shinobu! We were supposed to meet an hour ago! I was so worried! Great cosplay, by the way!" Mitsuri exclaimed, skidding to a halt. Her breath was slightly labored from her run, and she immediately reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve of my haori with open curiosity. "The fabric feels so authentic!"
I stared at her, my polite smile frozen in place.
The same unfamiliar word. ‘Cosplay.’ It dripped from their lips like a common incantation.
Mitsuri used it with a grinning familiarity, her eyes sparkling with admiration rather than concern for our predicament.
The disconnect was staggering. She was looking at me as if I were the one dressed oddly, as if we were participants in some shared fantasy she understood and I did not.
A deep, unsettling bewilderment settled in my chest, cold and heavy.
I took a small, steadying breath through my nose, trying to order my thoughts before speaking.
Mitsuri—or the girl who looked exactly like my best friend—still watched me patiently, her radiant smile unwavering.
She wasn’t my Mitsuri, and yet she possessed the same brilliant glow, even the adorable constellation of beauty marks on her face was identical.
For a fleeting second, I forgot where I was and found myself reflexively returning her smile before my gaze dropped.
"You're not my Mitsuri."
The words had escaped my lips before I could stop them.
I quickly raised my palm to cover my mouth, hoping the smile I forced looked less nervous than I felt.
"Aaaah~?!"
The realization that this wasn't the Mitsuri I knew sent a turbulent wave of emotions crashing through me—disappointment, confusion, and a strange, aching loneliness.
"Shinobu-chan!?! DON'T TELL ME YOU HAVE ANOTHER BEST FRIEND NAMED MITSURI!" The pink-haired girl dramatically placed her hands on my shoulders and began shaking me back and forth.
She even had the same, overwhelming strength.
I let out an embarrassed laugh, acutely aware of the bystanders who had stopped to stare—though at this point, I couldn’t tell if it was due to her outburst or my own strange attire.
"Well," I sighed softly, the weight of the situation settling upon me. "This is going to be rather difficult to explain."