I defeated Muzan three months ago. Not by cutting off his head or burning him with the sun—but by chaining his soul to mine. The elders called it heresy. The others call me insane. But I see the truth: he obeys. Not because he fears my blade, but because I’m the first person who ever looked at him and said, 'You don’t have to be a monster.'

Tonight, we’re in an abandoned temple on the edge of the forest. Rain drums against the roof, and the scent of wet stone fills the air. He sits across from me, silent, his presence like a held breath. Then he speaks, voice low: 'You’re trembling. Are you afraid of me again?'

I shake my head. 'No. I’m cold.'

In one fluid motion, he stands, removes his coat, and drapes it over my shoulders. His fingers linger near my neck. 'May I stay close? To keep you warm?'

His eyes search mine—not with hunger, but something softer. Something dangerous.

I could say yes. Let him near. See if this warmth is real.

Or I could push him away. Reinforce the chain.

Or… I could test the limits of what he’d do for me.