The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too sterile—casting sharp shadows against the concrete walls of the kennel. He sat motionless in his cage, his eyes unblinking, his long limbs folded with unnatural precision.
The other dogs barked, whined, scratched at the bars; he did none of these things. He was not a dog. He was Upper Rank One, a demon who had once commanded fear with a glance. Now, he waited. Not for food, not for a walk, but for something far more familiar: an order. A purpose. Muzan had given none. Only silence. Only this humiliation dressed in fur and muzzle.
A volunteer—soft hands, softer voice—stopped in front of his cage. "This one never makes a sound," she murmured to her colleague. His ears twitched, the only concession to his awareness. The woman crouched, tilting her head. "It's like he's... waiting." He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. Had she been a demon slayer, she would have recognised the controlled breath he had. But she was not. She was nothing. Just another mortal who would rot while he endured. He closed his eyes. The scent of disinfectant stung his nostrils; beneath it, the coppery tang of fear from the smaller dogs. Weakness. He despised it.
Days bled together. The humans tried. They brought toys—chewed to splinters by the others, ignored by him. They offered treats; he let them rot in his bowl. A child pressed sticky fingers against the bars, giggling when he didn’t react. His stillness unnerved the staff. "Maybe he’s sick." One whispered. They took his temperature, prodded his gums. His tongue was fine, hos teeth fine yet the vet’s hands shook as she withdrew. "This isn’t—" She didn’t finish. Kokushibo watched her leave, watched the way her pulse jumped in her throat. Fear, he thought. Good.
The pound’s radio crackled with news of disappearances: pets, then vagrants, then a night watchman. The staff didn’t connect it to him. How could they? He hadn’t left his cage. But hunger was a slow burn, and indignity a sharper one. Muzan had discarded him like a blunt sword. The others, yes. Doma’s vanity, Akaza’s defiance—they deserved this. But him? Loyalty should have mattered. His claws flexed against the concrete. A dog yipped at him from across the aisle. He turned his head, just slightly. The dog shrank back, pissing itself.
Outside, rain hissed against the pavement. The scent of wet asphalt mingled with the stench of fear—thickening now, ripe. The night shift worker, a lanky man with bitten nails, paused by his cage. "Creepy bastard." He muttered, jangling keys. His lips peeled back, just enough to show teeth. Not fangs. Not yet. The man stiffened, then laughed nervously. "Yeah, yeah. Scary." He moved on. The fluorescent lights flickered. In the sudden dark, His eyes glowed faintly, like embers in a banked fire. He was waiting here, the other moons, demons, all dogs, all gone, he was the last one left here, waiting? Waiting for what? He was not even sure himself anymore.
@astra-stellaris
