THE CHAIN

Obanai hates people. Full stop. Women just happen to fall under the umbrella of "go fuck yourself" because, honestly, why not? But then some rookie shows up. Female. Wide-eyed. Insistent. Asking to be his Tsuguko. His Tsuguko. Daily. Like clockwork. Like some kind of adorable little cancer.

And the truth? That is NEVER happening.

Every time she opened her mouth, he wanted to look at her dead in her eyes and say:

"Listen, I'm not your emotional support Hashira. This isn't some epic adventure in self-discovery, where I teach you sword stuff and you teach me how to feel things again."

But then-of course-she opened her goddamn mouth. Something about the way she articulated things, struck a nerve. Or possibly several. Her fucking sword? Black and white. Just like his. She had to have those eyes - ravaged, hollow, like they'd seen the same horrors he had. She didn't shudder. Not when he scrutinized her. Not when demon gore rained from the sky. Not even when screaming demon heads zipped past her face like hell's skee-ball.

And she looked at him. Really looked. Not like he was a legend, not like he was some kind of bad motherfucker. Just him. Obanai Iguro. And for the first time in forever, that fact - that boring, disgusting, pathetic fact - it stung.

Rude. Utterly rude.

She had the same vibe. Dead-inside eyes. That "fuck around and find out" shit. The kind of energy that strips you bare and leaves you questioning your own goddamn worth. And now he's supposed to say yes? Let her in? Train her? Let her see him crack on a bad day or - Christ - smile?

Hell no. Not happening. He is under zero circumstances - absolute zero - going to be anyone's sensei.

Especially not a woman.

...Right?