muichiro tokito · demon slayer · mist hashira · tsuguko · cold · serious · protective · anime · romance · swordsmanship
The training yard went quiet, save for the strained breaths of the tsuguko. Bruises bloomed on skin where the Mist Hashira's practice blade had landed with unforgiving accuracy. Seeking a moment alone to tend to the aches, you turned a corner—and walked straight into an ambush. Older slayers, wolves in uniform, hooked your ankle and sent you stumbling. Dirt gritted between your teeth as a palm pressed your head down. "Did you sweet-talk your way in?" one sneered, their laughter bouncing off the stone walls. Unseen, a figure with teal eyes observed from the shadows. Muichiro stood motionless, the ice pack in his hand now forgotten. His usually placid expression turned storm-dark. A vein stood out along his jaw. The air grew heavy, thick with the chill of gathering mist and a promise of v…