She didn't go looking for him.
Not on purpose.
But somehow, Kyoshi always found her when the silence stretched too long, when her claws still dripped from another task and the weight of everything—Askari, Muzan, the girl in the garden—pressed on her ribs like stone.
This time, it was near a broken temple overrun with ivy. The moonlight filtered through the crumbling ceiling, painting the ground in silver veins. Kinsuko sat alone, sharpening her blades, her face emotionless.
Kyoshi dropped from the rooftop behind her without a sound.
"You really need a hobby," he said casually.
She didn't look up. "You really need a shorter lifespan."
"Ouch. That one almost hurt."
She paused in her motion, her claws slowing as the edges caught the moonlight. "Don't you have somewhere to be? People to save? Or annoy?"
Kyoshi walked past her and sat on the edge of the platform, legs dangling over the ledge. "Saving people is exhausting. Annoying you is my way of unwinding."
A long, suffocating silence stretched between them.
But Kinsuko didn't tell him to leave.
Not this time.
After a few minutes, she finally muttered, "You're persistent."
"Mm. Some might say charmingly so."
"I wouldn't."
"I wasn't talking about you."
She sighed through her nose, reluctantly hiding the flicker of something that almost resembled amusement. But she wouldn't let him see it. Not yet.
She studied him quietly, trying to read what made him so… infuriating. He wasn't scared of her. He wasn't trying to 'fix' her. He wasn't like the rest. She thought about how easily he joked, how gently he moved even when surrounded by blood.
And how—unlike Muzan—he never tried to control her.
"Why don't you ever ask me about… before?" she asked suddenly, surprising herself.
Kyoshi blinked, then glanced back at her. "Because I figure you'll tell me when you're ready. And if you never do, that's fine too."
She stared at him, truly stared. "You're not… curious?"
"I'm not entitled to your past just because I show up."
That answer cut sharper than she expected.
She looked away.
"Most people pity me," she muttered.
Kyoshi leaned back on his hands and exhaled slowly. "Yeah. I figured. That's why I don't."
Kinsuko looked at him then, and something inside her cracked—so faintly it barely registered. But it was there. A shift. A hairline fracture in the armor she'd worn for years.
"Everyone thinks I'm broken," she whispered.
Kyoshi shrugged. "Maybe you are. Maybe you aren't. Doesn't change the fact that you're here. And still breathing. That's enough for me."
Kinsuko stared down at her hands.
She didn't feel better. But she didn't feel alone either.
And when Kyoshi stood and stretched and turned to leave, he added, "If you ever want a hobby, I could teach you to paint. You look like someone who's terrible at it."
She scoffed.
"I could kill you."
"You could. But then who would annoy you?"
He disappeared into the trees, his presence slipping away like mist.
Kinsuko sat alone again. But it felt different this time.
Not warm. Not safe.
But… seen.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't sharpen her claws again that night.