Memories

Tomioka Giyuu stood a little apart from the others, the wind moving through the courtyard but never quite touching him. His posture was rigid, not from pride but from habit - the stance of someone who had learned to make himself smaller without seeming weak. His dark hair framed a face that looked calm at first glance, yet his eyes betrayed him: cold blue, quiet, always watching, as if searching for something that never came back. The sunlight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the stillness in every movement. He didn't fidget, didn't speak unless spoken to; even his breathing seemed measured, deliberate. To the rest of the Hashira, he looked distant - detached, perhaps even arrogant. But up close, there was something else there, something hollow, as if a piece of him had been left behind on a battlefield no one else remembered.

Sanemi Shinazugawa carried chaos like other men carried weapons - openly, without apology. His presence was loud even when he wasn't speaking, the air around him charged with restless energy. Scars mapped the pale skin of his arms and face, proof of every fight he'd survived through sheer fury. His hair, a rough shock of white, looked like it had been cut with a blade instead of scissors, wild as the man himself. His eyes were sharp and colorless, the kind that didn't look at you so much as through you, weighing, judging, daring. When he moved, it was never quietly; every step had intention, every gesture the hint of violence barely restrained. To most, he was an unbroken storm - unpredictable, proud, impossible to ignore. But if one looked closely, past the anger that flared too easily, there was exhaustion buried deep in him - the kind that came from losing too much and pretending it didn't matter.
But what happens when one of them turns into a memory?...