The udon floated in a slick of red chili oil — the kind of sight that made your tongue prickle just looking at it, your skin already protesting before you'd taken a bite. Inori wasn't worried. She could treat this body as recklessly as she liked and it would never give her so much as a blemish.
She picked up her chopsticks and turned them through the red broth. A few slices of duck intestine bobbed to the surface, Sichuan peppercorns drifting beside them. She swallowed involuntarily.
—Is he a little generous with the chili oil? For a normal person this is genuinely alarming... Traditional Japanese food is supposed to lean light, isn't it.
"Too spicy, miss?"
"Not at all. It's perfect."
Inori smiled, then unwound the scarf from her face and let her pink hair spill loose — a carpet of cherry blossoms.
"Please enjoy~"
He laughed, easy and clear, stepped back two paces, and returned to the counter with its hanging menu banners, taking a seat.
Inori stopped watching him. She stirred the noodles again. Something strange was happening — her mouth had gone all day without a taste of anything rich, and there was nothing like this at the Butterfly Mansion, nothing like this from the city stalls. She'd been hungry walking in. But now, for no reason she could name, she had no appetite at all.
Clack.
The shop door swung open. Someone else walked in.
Heavy footsteps, but quieter than the weight behind them should have made. Something off about that. Inori glanced back.
The newcomer was a young man in a loose, open-chested yukata. Blank expression. Red hair. A web of tattoos dense across his face — the kind of look that marked a street thug immediately. Inori had no desire to share her meal with this type; people like that always found some reason to start trouble, and there went her already-thin appetite.
She pushed her bowl aside and checked her pocket. A few banknotes left — barely enough for this one meal, and that was it. And now she couldn't even eat it. What a waste.
Next time she might not be able to pay at all. She'd have to find a way to earn money. What could she do — hired muscle? Or singing. An oiran, even — with her looks and skill, becoming a celebrated courtesan should be effortless.
Not that she'd ever actually do it. The whole idea of an industry built on entertaining others repulsed her. It would mean losing her freedom, becoming a tool for someone else's pleasure. Even performing without offering sexual services was absolutely out of the question.
She was about to stand and call the handsome young owner over to settle her bill, when the door opened again.
—Again?
She pressed her lips together. The universe was clearly in a mood. She was a delicate girl on the run — all she'd wanted was one quiet noodle shop — and the place kept filling up.
But then a peculiar smell tightened around her like a hand.
...Demon.
Something cold turned over in her chest. She pressed her lips tight, pinned her legs to the bench, and went very still.
This new arrival was nothing like the man before.
Western suit. Small white necktie. A small formal hat. Long hair in soft waves, draped against his ears. A slender young man. His shoes rang out with each unhurried step — clear, precise against the floorboards. His face was the color of wax. In his pomegranate-red eyes there was something like a smile that couldn't quite be named.
—He looks a little familiar... a demon? One of the original story's characters... wait.
Inori's breathing went sharp. She widened her eyes — then turned her head away before she could stare any longer. But every fractional tell of that reaction had already been caught by the young man behind the counter.
—This man in the Western suit. The final boss of the entire Kimetsu no Yaiba. The Demon Progenitor...
—Muzan Kibutsuji.
—Does the world actually run on coincidences like this?
"Excuse me, miss — would you mind if I joined your table?"
Before Inori had thought of a plan, Muzan Kibutsuji had already opened with small talk.
The well-dressed young man crossed to the table across from her with perfect, unhurried elegance. White-gloved hands settled gently on the surface. He smiled.
"There are plenty of empty seats."
Inori kept her expression as flat as she could. Letting him make the first move was always the stronger position.
Muzan tilted his head, the clean line of his jaw and throat catching the light, and laughed. "But I'd like to sit here, miss. You captivate me."
She wanted to fire a Feather Blade straight through that easy grin of his. Instead he added two more sentences.
"Your face."
"And the blood flowing through your veins."
Delivered lightly, offhandedly — and with them, his purpose was declared.
Not only that: once Muzan had shown his hand with that quiet, placid smile, the tattooed red-haired man from earlier rose from his seat, and the white-haired, iridescent-eyed young man at the counter stepped out from behind it and removed his apron.
The red-haired man wore the same mask of cold indifference as before. But now, in those golden eyes, a set of characters had become clearly visible: 上弦·叁. Upper Rank Three.
And in the eyes of the handsome young "shop owner's son," new characters had appeared as well: 上弦·贰. Upper Rank Two.
Inori suppressed the shock climbing through her chest. She looked at them both — her deep crimson eyes blinking slowly, twice. The corner of her mouth twitched once. Then she almost wanted to laugh. It was actually funny. Absurd, even.
—I walked straight into Muzan's lair?
"My apologies, miss. I wasn't entirely honest — I'm not actually the shop owner's son. The actual owner is already dead."
"I didn't smell anything."
Inori thought for a moment, then answered.
"Ha."
Upper Rank Two laughed — a clear, genuine sound. Now that the pretense had been stripped away, his smile was somehow more radiant than before, and colder underneath.
"Because I was very thorough about it."
Inori let out a breath. Honestly, now that they'd dropped the act, she felt almost more at ease. So Muzan already knew she existed. She didn't know how — but there it was, right in front of her.
This wasn't a chance meeting. This had been a trap, laid and waiting.
Muzan Kibutsuji laced his fingers beneath his chin and looked at her with quiet, smiling interest.
"My name is Muzan Kibutsuji. I imagine you've heard of me."
"You're the demon boss the Demon Slayer Corps has been hunting."
Inori crossed her arms, leaned back slightly, and let something lightly sardonic settle onto her face.
Muzan's brow moved — barely, almost nothing. Outside of his Upper Ranks, no one — human or demon — had ever sat this relaxed in front of him.
"I'd like to invite you to join my Twelve Kizuki... Miss Inori. What do you say?"