She took a step back, trying to shove down the pulse of something she didn't want to name. The wind tugged at her cloak, lifting strands of her hair across her face.
Kyoshi didn't move, didn't press her. He simply watched, the quiet weight of him grounding the air between them.
"You don't know what you're doing," she said finally, her voice low, almost a growl. "You think… thinking I'm 'just me' is some kind of victory. But I'm not the same as before."
"Neither am I," he replied softly. "And maybe that's why I can stand here without fear. Because I see it. The pieces of you that are still… human. Still Kinsuko."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to say he was wrong, that all of her pieces were broken, stolen, shaped by Muzan's hands.
But the truth sat heavy in her throat.
"You're insane," she whispered.
Kyoshi tilted his head slightly. "Maybe. Or maybe I just refuse to look away."
Her eyes flicked to the lake, to the ripples dancing like secrets in silver moonlight. Part of her wanted to run, to vanish into the dark forest. Another part—an unspoken, raw part—wanted to stay, just to see if he really meant it.
"You're… not afraid of me," she said, voice breaking against the edges of her own fear.
"I've seen too much to be afraid of you," he said, stepping a little closer again. "And… I think you're tired of being alone, even if you don't admit it."
Kinsuko swallowed, stiffening. The air between them vibrated with something that wasn't danger, wasn't fury—it was possibility.
"I—" she started, then stopped. Her hands fisted at her sides. Words she didn't want to speak hovered there, fragile and sharp.
Kyoshi waited. Silent. Patient.
And in that moment, under the moonlight, with the lake reflecting both their faces, Kinsuko felt a tremor of something she hadn't let herself feel in decades: hope.
She could feel it prickling, a whisper under the armor Muzan had built around her. And for the first time in a long while… she wondered if she could trust it.