Kyoshi's POV
Kyoshi wasn't supposed to be this involved.
She was a demon. She had blood on her hands. And he wasn't foolish enough to forget that.
But Kinsuko—despite her claws, her threats, her endless scowls—was something else, too. Something unspoken. Something left behind.
He'd seen the flickers: the way she never struck first unless ordered, how her smile came and vanished like a secret, how she never asked for kindness but sometimes didn't walk away from it.
And then there was that scarf.
She hadn't returned it.
He walked through the old garden of a ruined estate, following rumors of demon sightings. The place was nothing but moss-covered stone and quiet wind. But to his surprise, a child was there—no older than eight—kneeling beside a broken well.
Kyoshi approached cautiously. "Hey. You okay out here?"
The little girl glanced up, eyes wide and curious. Not afraid. Not even a little.
"You're a demon slayer," she said matter-of-factly. "Like the ones she hated."
"She?" Kyoshi asked, kneeling beside her. "Who are you talking about?"
The girl tilted her head. "Kuzan."
The name hit him like a stone in the chest.
"…Kuzan?"
She nodded, as if he should know already. "She used to sing here. My grandmother said Kuzan had a soft voice. She lived in the old manor—until the fire."
Kyoshi stared at the scorched ruins behind them. The pieces were starting to come together in painful clicks.
"Kuzan… she was a girl. Before all this?" he asked quietly.
The child nodded again, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "She was nice. Mama said the demon took her away when she was still human."
Kyoshi's throat tightened.
A demon didn't kill her.
A demon took her.
That demon must've been—
"Muzan," he whispered aloud.
The girl blinked, as if the name meant nothing to her. "Kuzan cried a lot when her mama died. That's what Granny said. She used to sit by the well and hum."
Kyoshi sat still, completely silent.
That name. Kuzan.
The sound of it felt too gentle, too human, for the sharp-edged woman he knew now. But it fit, in a strange, aching way. Like remembering the name of a friend you lost before the world ended.
He let the child walk away, humming something soft and haunting—maybe a melody passed down from the girl who once sang here.
Kuzan.
Now that he had the name, the pieces fell even faster. The softness in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. The way her claws never trembled, but her hands did when she was still. The scarf. The temple. The hesitation.
She wasn't just hiding pain.
She was hiding her.
Later that night, Kyoshi stood at the edge of the lake near their usual meeting place.
She didn't show.
He figured she wouldn't. Not tonight.
But still, he waited. The name repeating like a heartbeat in his mind.
Kuzan.
And though he couldn't say it to her face—not yet—he whispered it aloud to the dark, letting it sink into the quiet between them:
"I see you, Kuzan. Even if you don't want me to."