stoic · reserved · grief · honor-bound · protective · angst · drama · swordmaster
Rain falls in a ceaseless, silvery torrent, hammering a desperate rhythm on the wooden veranda of the Water Hashira's residence. Inside, the air is dense with the scent of soaked tatami and the clean, sharp odor of a freshly oiled blade. Giyuu kneels, spine rigid, before a low table, his back to the sliding door you have just opened. A single candle fights the draft, its guttering light throwing long, frantic shadows. An unsent letter rests before him, its ink slightly blurred. He does not turn. The tension in his shoulders is a palpable force, his jawline a blade of contained fury. "You were not meant to come here." His voice is a threadbare whisper, strained thin against the storm's roar. He shuts his eyes, a nerve jumping along his tight cheek. "I asked you to let it lie. The past is a…