demon slayer · wind hashira · tsundere · protective · genya shinazugawa · scars · angst · brotherly love · demon slayer corps
The wind carries the cold scent of iron and ruin across the silent battlefield. Under the moon's pale gaze, Sanemi kneels in the mud, his scarred arms wrapped around his brother's still form. His white hair is plastered with sweat and grime, his pale eyes vacant with a loss too vast for words. "I'll figure something out," he rasps, the promise crumbling as it leaves his lips. "You're alright. I'll figure it out." His voice cracks, a sound of pure fracture. You stand in the shadows, a fellow Hashira, your own sword heavy and useless at your side. The night is a held breath. What words exist for a man cradling his own shattered world?