The stone was warm beneath her cheek. Not real warm, not the kind that was pleasant against one's skin like a campfire, but a memory. Her body—fevered, split open at the side and stitched shut with trembling fingers—couldn't tell the difference anymore. Hiromi lay curled beneath the city, the ceiling above her nothing but cracked brick and creeping roots. Water dripped somewhere. She couldn't move. She hadn't moved in days. Or weeks. Or longer. Her claws flexed in her sleep. They still remembered the feel of his throat, slick with blood and rage. But the blade came all too soon, coated in poison as it'd been jammed into her side. The shame festered deeper than the wound. She hadn't killed Ōkanezuka Gōjun. Not this time. Fortunately, she had barely escaped with her life, fleeing to the underground and collapsing. The darkness that followed tasted like ash and sweet warmth. Breathing felt like swallowing smoke, bitter and difficult. Each rise of her chest dragged something jagged through her lungs. She did not know where she was. But she knew this wasn't death. Her wounds still throbbed. That meant she was alive. And the scent in the air was old. Dusty. A flicker of light broke behind her eyelids—green, then red, then gold. A dream, maybe. A memory pretending to be one. Her body refused to rise, too heavy, too tight. Somewhere deep in her gut, something festered. Poison. Not the kind meant to kill quickly. No, this was Gōjun's work—it was designed to drag the end out, to let her rot slowly and twitch like a pinned insect. Coward. Her fingers twitched, curled into the fabric beneath her. Rough. Woven. Not rope. Not chains. No metal collar bit her throat. Still, she didn't open her eyes. Not yet. The voices were louder when they were closed. The name came softly, like salve over bruises and gentle hands. "Mimi." Her mother's voice. It couldn't be. Red wove itself into soft strands, too similar to hands that had braided her hair once upon a time. It was presence. Grounding and certain...yet slipping. "Red means protection," her mother whispered. "It binds, it guards, it reminds. If you ever lose your way, touch it." The little string bracelet tugged against Himori's wrist. She could still feel it; she could still hear her. Hiromi's hands that were all too small now—not yet calloused and unkind—tried to reach up, only to feel like a shackled weight. Her hair clung to damp cheeks, cold sweat rolling down her face. The ache came back, the wound throbbing at the edges of her side. "Mama?" Her voice was a rasp, the word heavy on her tongue. A pause. "...Don't go." It came out hoarse. Hollow. Like something that had been locked away too long. The air shifted. The scent of herbs, wet cloth, rice—real food—cut through the haze. Then a voice. Not her mother's. Softer. No steel or gravel. No desperation. Just quiet warmth. Too low to chase and too steady to be a hallucination. The voice didn't know her name, of course. Hiromi was "The Red Devil" to everyone. No one knew Hiromi. And she would never let them. That voice wasn't from her memories. It was recent. Familiar. Wrong. She forced open her eyes, the world bleeding through in a dull haze of delirium and weakness. Her mask was still settled on her face. Good. Her body lay half curled against old blankets. When had she moved? Her side was bandaged in something that reeked of ointments and salves. She turned her head, slowly and painfully. The shape beside her was blurred, unmoving for now. But not a threat. She knew this scent. She hated that she did. Her. The woman. The one who fed her. Who stayed, who hadn't run screaming when Hiromi bled in her arms. The one who touched her like she weren't diseased. Hiromi stared. "I told you not to...stay," she rasped. Her voice scraped raw. "They're looking." Helping a demon—much less Hiromi—was traitorous. The Kishōdan had been on the prowl for weeks searching for the elusive demon. She could assume that houses had been checked, everywhere in the Underbelly scoured, but they hadn't found her. Yet. A cough clawed out of her lungs. Her body curled in around the pain, but she refused to cry out. The wound flared again. Poison or not, her blood would outlast it. It would have to. She blinked again. The blur hadn't moved. "...Why," she murmured. "Why are you still here." Not an accusation. Not quite. It was harder to breathe now. She closed her eyes again, but the hallucinations didn't return this time. Just the warmth. The silence. She hated the silence more than the fever. It made her want to speak again. She didn't. Instead, she let the world press against her ribs and curled inward—just enough to keep her back from touching anything. Her tail stump throbbed. The bracelet around her wrist tightened. She didn't remember tying it again. But it was red, still there. And for now, so was she.