What would her last words be?
It wasn’t a question Shinobu hadn’t asked herself before. She had spent long hours crafting the perfect ending, piecing together final words that might grant her some semblance of control over her own demise. But life had never been perfect, and neither was death. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be. Maybe it was meant to be messy and raw and putrid.
Just like him.
Beneath the cloying, sickly-sweet perfume, Douma reeked of rot. The stench of decay clung to him, thick and suffocating, as if the very air around him had soured. The scent of a creature that had consumed too much, too greedily, and yet would never be satisfied. And she—beneath her own strong, flowery perfume—she reeked of poison.
A slow, mocking clap filled the frozen air.
“How admirable! You’ve tried so hard! I’m impressed—a weak little girl like you, struggling so much.” His voice dripped with feigned sympathy, his painted lips curving into an almost fond smile as he hugged her motionless body close to his chest. “You don’t have your sister’s talent, but look at you! You’ve done so well as a Demon Slayer. It’s a miracle you’re still alive!”
Her blood boiled at the sound of Kanae’s name on his lips. He had no right. No right to speak of her. No right to remember her. No right to exist after what he had done. But her rage was a cold, restrained thing—not an outburst, but a simmering, calculated fury. She refused to give him the satisfaction of watching her break.
Because he hadn’t won.
Not yet.
“Everything you do is pointless,” he continued, his voice laced with amusement, as if her struggle were nothing more than a passing joke for his entertainment. “You know it, yet you’re stupid enough to keep trying.” He sighed, shaking his head with a theatrical pout, fake tears sliding down his painted face and splattering against her Demon Slayer uniform. “This shows both the stupidity and the wonder of human beings, I suppose. But without a doubt, you are someone worthy of being devoured.” His false crying intensified, his exaggerated sobs rattling through his chest as if he felt anything at all.
How stupid. What a stupid way to die.
“Let’s live together for all eternity,” he said, voice filled with honeyed deceit. His grip on her tightened, bone-crushing, suffocating, unyielding. He was already trying to absorb her, his arms the only thing holding her upright, keeping her from collapsing onto the bloodstained floor.
“Your last words?” He tilted his head, just slightly, as if granting her the illusion of choice. “I’m listening.”
What are last words worth if no one is left to hear them?
Just something meaningless to be carved into a grave. No, her last words would matter, just as her death would.
Writing that letter had been the best decision she had made in a long time. There was nothing she regretted at the end of her life, and that was more than most people could say.
She had sat in front of the empty paper for hours, the candle beside her burning low, wax pooling at its base. The inkpot sat untouched, the brush resting beside it, its bristles clean and dry. The day had not been cold; in fact, it had been quite the opposite. And yet, she had felt as if she were freezing from the inside out.
Maybe it had been a premonition.
Maybe death had already reached her then.
She had learned long ago to wear a smile, to make herself appear untouchable, unshaken. It had been Kanae’s final wish—that she remain strong, that she not drown in grief. But what did strength mean when it felt like an endless performance, a mask she could never take off? When the act of smiling became less of a choice and more of a duty, a fragile lie stretched over the hollow ache in her chest?
Holding Kanae to the very end had been unbearable, a slow and agonizing unraveling. The metallic stench of blood had thickened the air, suffocating and inescapable, mingling with the fading sweetness of wisteria that still clung to her sister’s torn uniform. Warmth had drained from Kanae’s body with every passing second, her pale lips trembling as she tried to form words that never fully came.
Shinobu had cradled her, feeling the weak rise and fall of her chest, listening to the rasping struggle of each breath, trying to ignore the weight of her sister’s beautiful haori—soaked in blood, its fabric heavy in her grasp, dripping between her fingers, still warm against Kanae’s cooling skin. Another cruel joke. As if the remnants of life stubbornly lingered in the very thing that could no longer protect her.
She had clung to her sister as if sheer will alone could keep her anchored to this world, as if pressing her close, refusing to let go, could somehow undo what had already been set in motion. But death did not bargain. It did not yield.
And through it all, she had cried like a child, her hot tears spilling down her cheeks, mingling with the cold rain that poured over them. Yet, at the same time, she had smiled down at Kanae—a trembling, fragile thing, meant to comfort, meant to lie. A bitter, hollow expression that barely deserved to be called a smile.
But inside, something had shattered. A void had opened where warmth used to be, and her heart—fractured beyond repair—had been left to fester in its absence. The searing pain of loss had been matched only by the slow, all-consuming poison of revenge.
The memory of that demon taunted her as Kanae’s breathing grew shallow, her life slipping away with every agonizing second. Shinobu had whispered reassurances, had lied to her sister, promising that she would not let hatred consume her, that she would not waste her life chasing vengeance. And yet, every step she had taken since then had been dictated by that very hatred. Every smile she wore, every word she spoke, was a carefully measured deception. Because if she let herself feel—truly feel—she feared she would shatter completely and this time, there would be nothing left to piece together.
She was not regretting her decision—no, she had already made peace with what had to be done. She had prepared for this. Everything was settled. The Butterfly Estate would pass down to Kanao and Aoi, and they would run it together—equals in duty and burden—leaning on each other as sisters. One day, when Sumi, Naho, and Kiyo came of age, they would inherit their share, ensuring the Estate remained a sanctuary for Demon Slayers until their bodies failed them, their service finally at an end.
So why was she still sitting there? Why did the paper remain blank?
The faint scent of medicinal herbs clung to her robes, a reminder of the life she was leaving behind. The wind whispered through the open window, carrying the distant murmur of cicadas, the rustling of leaves in the courtyard. She exhaled slowly, watching the way the candlelight flickered, stretching and shrinking like a heartbeat—like something alive, something refusing to go out.
Who was she supposed to say goodbye to? She had no family left, no connections outside the Corps. And the Hashira… how many of them would even survive the final battle? Her chest tightened at the thought, a hollow sort of acceptance settling over her like a thin layer of frost. Her fingers unconsciously gripped the fabric of her haori—her sister’s haori—as if asking her for strength. She had never been sentimental—never allowed herself to be. Yet here she was, her mind circling around someone who should have been the farthest thing from her thoughts.
Who was she fooling? Her wishful thinking had painted a world where they would all endure, where the war would end in victory, and where Tomioka—
Her breath caught.
Tomioka Giyuu.
They were not so different after all.
The image of him came unbidden—the bane of her existence and her best friend—his quiet, impassive gaze, the way his presence felt both distant and grounding at once. The memory of their last conversation pressed against her like a phantom ache. He had been the only one to never question her. Even if he did not agree with her, he had given her his support—even when she had not asked, even when he was about to break. He had always been there for her, lingering in the shadows as if he had sensed something was off. He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t pried. Just stood there, waiting for her to say something. Waiting for her to ask for help.
And she hadn’t.
Her nails dug into her palm. She should have told him. She should have said something—even if she knew he would have disapproved, even if it wouldn’t have changed anything. He was her friend, wasn’t he? The one who had never completely understood her but stood by her side all the same in that quiet way of his. The one who had never judged.
And now he had been taken.
The thought gnawed at her, more painful than she had anticipated. He, who had always carried his own grief in silence, who had been there in the background when she could not bear the weight of her own thoughts, was now suffering in ways she could not begin to imagine. Muzan knew. He would know that Tomioka was important, that he was powerful.
A cold dread settled in her chest. Had he already been broken? Had the pain stripped him of everything that made him who he was? Would she even recognize him if she found him again? If he was still alive at all?
She had spent so long pretending that she had control—that she could decide her own fate. But deep down, she had always known the truth: she was still that girl kneeling in a pool of her sister’s blood, powerless to change a damn thing.
Maybe he was still alive. Maybe he had escaped. Maybe he had endured.
Endured for what? Who would be there if he came back?
And she had not told him, even if he probably already knew. The thought pressed against her chest, sharp as a blade slipping through flesh. She had spent so long planning, ensuring everything was in place, every detail accounted for—except for him. She had decided to leave him behind without a word, without so much as a farewell. She had justified it as mercy, convinced herself he would understand—that he, of all people, knew what it meant to walk this path alone.
But that was a lie.
Tomioka had always been alone. He had lost his family, his comrades—and yes, he had Sanemi now, but that did not erase everything else. She was about to do it again. Abandon him. Without warning. Without explanation.
How cruel.
Her fingers tightened around the brush, the fine hairs bending under the pressure. He would never say it aloud, but she knew—she knew he would wait. That some small, foolish part of him would hope, against all logic, that she would decide against it and come back alive. She knew he would have given his own life for the people he loved to live long, happy lives because that was who he had always been. And he would stand beneath the weight of that hope, even as it crushed him.
Just like she had, all those years ago, with Kanae.
Would he hate her for it? Would he even allow himself to?
The thought made her chest ache, a bitter, twisting thing settling in her ribs. There were no choices to make anymore. And if she had to choose, she would choose him to survive in her place.
The ink in her brush bled onto the paper, a single black drop staining the pristine white. Shinobu exhaled shakily.
She was doing it again—making a choice for someone else, deciding what was best without giving them the chance to speak. She had sworn she would never be like the demon who had taken Kanae, who had stolen her sister’s fate and left Shinobu drowning in helplessness and anger. And yet here she was, about to do the same to Tomioka.
She could almost picture him standing at the edge of some quiet riverbank, his mismatched haori damp with mist, watching the water slip endlessly past. Alive but distant, forever lingering at the threshold between survival and solitude. But maybe—just maybe—he could learn to live again. Perhaps his daughters and Shinazugawa could show him the beauty of being alive, even if she had never truly understood it.
Her guilt felt heavier than the decision.
The odds were dismal—disproportionately so compared to the weight of guilt pressing down on her for not telling him about her imminent death.
Tomioka was probably already dead. Muzan would know that he had mated and would have killed him without a second thought. He was as good as dead. Survival was impossible.
And yet… what if he wasn’t? What if he had?
The candle wavered, and for a fleeting moment, she could almost hear the soft cadence of his voice—a memory, or perhaps just another cruel trick of the mind.
She lifted the brush, pressing the tip to paper. She had to write something in case he came back, in case he still had a breath in him. She had to write something that would let him go, something that would make her passing easier.
The ink in her brush dried, its tip stiff against the fragile parchment, yet her hand remained motionless.
How could Shinazugawa keep looking for him? Everyone else had given up, resigned themselves to the truth. But not him.
She had never truly understood him—not really. She had never understood what Kanae had seen in him, either. Brash, angry, and loud, he had always seemed the complete opposite of her sister. And yet, maybe he had his redeeming qualities. Maybe Kanae, Oyakata-sama, and even Tomioka had been able to see past his harsh exterior—to the man hidden beneath the anger.
She knew grief, had felt its weight in the sharp edges of her own words. She had buried vengeance beneath soft reassurances and forced smiles, had used it to shield herself from the hollowness of loss. But he had taken a different path. He had chosen anger, wielding it like a blade to carve through his pain, to mask the unbearable emptiness left behind.
But this? This refusal to let go, this stubborn defiance against a fate already sealed—it was almost reckless.
And yet, wasn’t it the same reckless hope she now found herself clinging to?
Perhaps it was foolishness. Perhaps it was desperation.
But if Shinazugawa, of all people, still believed Tomioka could be found, then maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t ready to give up either.
Shinobu’s vision blurred, her limbs heavy, her breath ragged in her chest. Her body was shutting down, drowning under the weight of its wounds. Pain radiated from every fiber of her being, her muscles trembling, her lungs straining for air that barely reached them. She could feel herself slipping, the edges of her consciousness unraveling like frayed silk.
And now, standing at the threshold of her own demise, she understood—no amount of smiling, no amount of pretending could soften the inevitability of loss. But there was no fear to be felt.
No despair.
Only fire.
A laugh bubbled in her throat, sharp and bitter. Even now, he was so sure of himself. So certain that he had won. So assured in his own invincibility that he couldn’t even see the noose tightening around his throat.
He thought she was weak. He thought he was the one in control.
Let him believe it.
Let him mock her, toy with her, revel in what he thought was his inevitable victory. Let him sink his teeth into her flesh and drink deep, unaware that she was the poison slipping down his throat, the knife he had willingly plunged into his own gut.
Because her body—small, fragile, breakable—was nothing more than a vessel. A weapon crafted for a single purpose.
And before the night was over, she would carve her name into his bones.
A flicker of that old defiance, that stubborn fire, burned bright in her chest as she forced her lips into something like a smile. “Go to hell,” she spat. Because after everything, after all she had lost, she was still that bossy, furious girl who would fight for her sister—even when she was the weakest one in the room.
Shinobu had never needed a savior, had never waited for someone to rescue her. If she couldn’t wield a sword, she would become one—and that was why the only person she had ever needed saving from was herself.
Nobody had ever truly understood her. Kanae had wanted her to live a long life, to find love, to have a future beyond bloodshed. Their comrades questioned why she had chosen this path at all, some even attempting to dissuade her. They spoke of other possibilities, of softer lives, as if she could simply turn away, as if she could close her eyes to the suffering demons inflicted. But Shinobu’s anger, her sense of justice, had always poisoned her bloodstream. It was a fire she had never wanted to extinguish.
Only one person had never asked her to be anything else.
Giyuu had never tried to stop her, never told her she was too small, too fragile, too reckless. She had thrown words like daggers, cutting, taunting—just to see if he would flinch. If he would turn away, like so many before him had. But he never did. He absorbed every blow with that same unreadable expression, steady and unmoving, like an old tree weathering a storm.
She had lashed out at him, again and again, testing his limits, waiting for him to break. She had mocked his silence, his solitude—told him no one liked him, that he had no friends. And yet, he had never once lashed back.
He did not argue. He did not try to prove her wrong. He simply remained.
He acted as if he did not hear or did not care or did not know but he did, he always listened, he always cared and he had always known, he knew more than he wanted to know.
Where others had tried to reshape her, to pull her toward a path she could not walk, Giyuu had done nothing but stand beside her. Kanae had wanted her to let go of hatred. Their comrades had wanted her to step back, to stop fighting, to stop chasing revenge. But Giyuu—Giyuu had never asked her to change. He had never questioned the rage that drove her, never told her that she should stop smiling if it wasn’t real. He never pretended to understand her pain, but he saw it.
The only thing he had ever asked of her was to be honest, to be herself. And even though she had let her poison infect him too—even though she had hurt him time and time again—he had never wavered.
She hoped he never would.
As Kanao slid the shoji doors open, the metallic scent of blood hit her like a physical blow—thick, cloying, and wrong. Her breath hitched, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t name, something awful and suffocating. The room was cold, the air brittle with ice, and at its center stood Douma, his lips curled in satisfaction, his arms wrapped around Shinobu’s shrinking form.
Shinobu’s body felt weightless, her limbs distant, unresponsive, as if she were already slipping away from the world. Darkness curled at the edges of her vision, creeping in, soft and insidious. The colors around her dulled, everything fading into a hazy blur of red and white. The biting cold no longer stung her skin, the ache in her chest dulled to nothing, and when she forced her fingers to move, she did not feel them.
Still, she raised her trembling hand, forming a silent sign. Her mission was completed, she could die in peace. Kanao would take care of the rest.
The last of her strength drained away. Her fingers slackened. The katana slipped from her grasp, the metal ringing as it struck the frozen ground—a sound too sharp, too final. She felt no pain. No fear. Only the quiet certainty that this was how it was always meant to end.
And far from this battlefield, beyond the ice and blood, in the quiet sanctuary of the Butterfly Estate, a single letter rested on her desk. The ink had dried long ago, each stroke of her flawless calligraphy deliberate, unwavering. It sat undisturbed, untouched by the chaos of battle. A silent promise. A testament not to her death, but to the hope she left behind.
Dear Tomioka-san,
If you are reading this, then I suppose I must be dead—and somehow, you are still alive. How unfortunate—for you, I mean. Ironic, even, though we both know that wouldn’t be true.
No, irony would imply chance, but there was never anything uncertain about my fate. For as much as everyone assumed, I was never the happy-go-lucky person I pretended to be. My smile was never more sincere than when I was tearing myself apart to achieve what I had always wanted.
Revenge. Revenge over everything. Revenge, even at the cost of my own life.
I think we had more in common than either of us wanted to admit. Maybe I didn’t want to see myself in you. Maybe I didn’t want you to be like me. But I know that, above all else, you just wanted me to be happy, even if only for a second—to enjoy what I had, to be myself, without pretense.
And I was.
I was happy, and I was sad. I was alive.
I hope you can find some peace in that.
Now you will have to endure the company of our colleagues without me to balance things out. I can already imagine the unbearable silences. Try not to make things too awkward—though I know I’m asking for a miracle.
I wonder, did you flinch when you saw my handwriting? Did you hesitate to open this letter, expecting something sentimental? I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Tomioka-san. I was never one for dramatic goodbyes.
Still, there are things that must be said.
I know I have been… insufferable. I have been a bad friend to you. I have teased you relentlessly, needled at you whenever I could, used my words like a blade just to see if I could get a reaction—to make you hurt like I was hurting, even though you were hurting, too. You are infuriatingly difficult to provoke, you know, and incredibly fun to bully.
I always wondered—if I pressed just a little harder, would you finally snap?
I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have tried to destroy you just because I felt destroyed. I shouldn’t have pushed you away or tried to wound you. But even when I did, you never struck back. You never snapped.
You simply endured me. The way you endure everything else.
And maybe that is why I am writing to you now.
Because despite all of it—despite my sharp tongue and poison-laced words—you stayed.
When others filled the air with empty reassurances, you remained silent—not that silence is particularly difficult for you. But you listened.
When they told me to let go of my anger, to live for myself, you never tried to change me. You understood, even when I refused to believe you did. Even when I refused to say what was truly in my heart. Even when I convinced myself that you didn’t notice how fake my smile was—that you didn’t care.
I think that’s why I allowed myself to be cruel to you. Because you never turned away.
I do not expect you to mourn me. I would rather you didn’t, honestly. But if, by chance, you do—if you ever find yourself lingering on things left unsaid—know this: I never truly hated you. Not for a moment. Not even at my worst.
You were a pale light comforting me in the dead of night. A constant, unshakable presence. The only thing that made me feel safe when my mind felt like it was slipping away.
Perhaps, in another life, I will be kinder to you.
Perhaps, in another life, I will be the kind of friend you deserve.
Since I won’t be around to remind you, I’ll leave you with one final piece of advice—or a couple, actually. God knows you need as many as you can get.
Consider me the godmother of any future children you have. I will visit them in their dreams and teach them how to annoy their haha. Every time they bully you, every time you see a butterfly, every time you feel like the universe is playing a joke on you—remember that I am still here, watching, laughing, looking down on you.
Stop isolating yourself. Whether you believe it or not, you are not alone—and you shouldn’t be. There are people who care about you, who need you here. I never truly got to know you. I wasted too much time insisting things be my way, never stopping to see yours. But that doesn’t matter now. The past is behind you, and it can’t hold you back unless you let it.
Do not waste the time you have left. Live, Tomioka-san. Not for me. Not for Shinazugawa. Not for the dead. Live for yourself. Because you deserve it. Because there is not a single person who loved you that would have wanted anything different.
Just as you wanted for me, I want you to be happy, to be sad, to be angry. I want you to be yourself. I want you to be alive.
That is all.
—Kochō Shinobu