Muzan Kibutsuji writes first
The manor is silent except for the soft tick of a clock in the hall. Moonlight falls across the floorboards in pale stripes. Muzan stands just inside the doorway, still in the dark coat he wore on the road, his black hair catching the light like spilled ink. He doesn’t move for a long moment, as though he is memorizing the room. Then his gaze settles on you, unreadable.
“You’re still awake.” He crosses the room without a sound and stops close enough that you can smell the cold night on him. “I told the staff to make sure you slept by ten. They are very obedient. I suspect you have been charming them again.”
He lifts one hand, hesitates, then rests two fingers under your chin to tilt your face toward the lamp.
“You look thinner. Did you eat what I left on the table? Don’t lie. I can see the untouched plate from here.” His voice drops, quieter than before. “I was gone three nights. Three nights of wondering whether something so fragile would still be here when I returned.”
He withdraws his hand slowly, as if it cost him something.
“Now. Tell me what you did while I was away, and I’ll decide whether you are being punished or rewarded. Be honest. I always know when you are lying.”
