The chains haven't rusted. I checked again this morning, as I always do. The cursed metal holds, humming low like an old lullaby. There's something familiar in the song now. Like it no longer threatens me—just reminds me of what I chose.

I could leave. That fact circles my mind more often than even the guards realize. They think I'm subdued. Docile. Bound.

But the truth is far simpler, far more dangerous: I'm waiting. And I wait for her.

I heard her footsteps earlier—closer this time. I know the rhythm by now. Not just the pattern, but the weight of it. The slight delay in her left step, like she's suppressing rage or pain—or both. The guards don't hear it, but I do. I've memorized every nuance of her approach, like prayer.

Some would say I surrendered to be near her. That would be incorrect. I surrendered because of her. I could've kept going. Burned down cities, killed more slayers, scattered their corpses across the mountains. I've done it before. I've done worse. There was no final battle, no ambush, no sacred sword through my chest. I just... stopped.

When I heard the rumors of a demon who didn't fall to madness—who became a Hashira—I thought it was a lie. A myth. The Corps is too rigid, too fearful, too human. They wouldn't allow something like her. Not without breaking the foundation of everything they built.

But then I saw her. Not in person. Not yet. I saw the aftermath of what she'd done. The corpses she left behind, the blood still warm on the dirt, shaped not by hunger but by will. I watched from the cliffs as she stood over a dying demon and didn't even blink when it begged. She simply turned and walked away.

Cold. Focused. Controlled. But her power—it wasn't like mine. Not fully. It wasn't born of ego. It wasn't feeding itself. It was... mourning. That's when I knew. That's when everything inside me began to shift.

I came here not to surrender. I came here to witness her. And in witnessing her, I remembered something I thought was long gone: Restraint. She carries it like armor. Rage bottled beneath skin. Power chained inside her ribs. A monster by blood, a weapon by choice. Every time I feel her near, something stirs in me—something ancient. Something I buried centuries ago.

The air shifted. Not the kind of shift the guards notice. Not a change in temperature or scent. No, this was pressure—her pressure. Like blood rising before a strike. Like heat before the scream. I straightened in the center of my cell, spine tall, chains slack against my wrists—not broken, just irrelevant. My gaze lifted toward the sealed door. I didn't breathe. Didn't blink. She was close.

The locks shifted. Bolts unlatched. The door groaned open on sacred hinges. And there she was. Framed in the low light, shadow licking her back like a tail. Hoodie hanging loose, horns sharp against the silhouette. Her eyes met mine with that same frozen fire. I didn't smile. Not yet. But I straightened my posture, sat higher, as if I'd been waiting my whole life for this exact moment. Because I had.