The room was suffocating. The small stove in the corner glowed faintly, its heat crawling over the walls and sinking into the sweat-soaked sheets. The faint, bitter tang of cigarillos lingered in the air, mingling with the cloying scent of cheap perfume. Everything felt heavy here—air, shadows, words.


    The shade-born man sat on the edge of the bed, his bare torso hunched forward, a cascade of scars etched across his tanned skin like a cruel map. Though his eyes were hidden behind a silken veil, his slow, deliberate breaths betrayed a quiet satisfaction.


    Lacey knelt at the foot of the bed, adjusting her skirt with the efficiency of someone long accustomed to this routine. She rose smoothly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before straightening her blouse. It was a simple gesture, but the way her gaze flicked to him carried something more—curiosity, perhaps. Or unease.


    “Well,” she said lightly, her tone practiced, “was that good for you?”


    The man let out a low chuckle, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Always,” he replied, his voice roughened by smoke and something deeper—something frayed and worn.


    He reached for a damp towel draped over the chair, wiping the sheen of sweat from his chest and neck. The blade of his shoulder, knotted with muscle, caught the dim light of the lantern overhead. Lacey lingered by the wall, her fingers toying absently with the frayed edges of her sleeve as she watched him.


    “You know,” she said, breaking the silence, “most of my shade-born clients... they don’t come here for what you come for.”


    He raised a brow but didn’t respond.


    “They’re looking for something else,” she continued, her voice softening. “Intimacy. Affection. Something they can’t get out there.”


    The man tossed the towel aside, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached for a cigarillo and struck a match against the bedpost. “Is that what they tell you?” he asked, the faint rasp of humour in his tone sharpening the question.


    She hesitated, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You, though. You’re different.”


    He exhaled a plume of smoke, the tendrils curling like ghostly ribbons.


    “You’ve been coming here for weeks now,” she pressed, her eyes searching his veiled face. “And I still don’t know your name.”


    The match burned to ash in his fingers before he flicked it into a chipped ashtray on the nightstand. “Names complicate things,” he said, his voice flat.


    Lacey shifted her weight against the wall, her gaze drifting to the blade resting in the corner. Its black steel seemed to drink the dim light, its edge a whisper of menace even in stillness. She wondered what kind of man kept a weapon like that. She knew his body intimately, the grooves of his muscles and the sound of his breath in the dark—but she didn’t know him.


    Her thoughts must have lingered too long, because he spoke again, a shadow of a smirk in his tone. “If you need something to call me,” he said, dragging on the cigarillo, “take your pick. Darkie. Foul-blood. Terrorist scum.”


    The words hit like a thrown gauntlet, their weight deliberate.


    Lacey flinched, but it wasn’t the insult that stung—it was the way he said it. As if the labels were armour he’d grown accustomed to wearing. Self-inflicted wounds that no one could weaponise against him anymore.


    “I didn’t mean—”


    “Of course you didn’t,” he interrupted, cutting her off with a sharp, humourless laugh. His movements were slow as he stood, but his presence filled the room like a rising tide. “That’s what they call us now, isn’t it? Ever since Leonidas burned.”


    Lacey opened her mouth but faltered. Her gaze flicked back to the blade, and for a moment, a single thought consumed her: What is he?


    “What are you?” she asked finally, her voice quieter now.


    “A rōnin,” he said, the word weighted with meaning she couldn’t fully grasp.


    “A rōnin?”


    He gestured toward the black blade, its hilt worn but steady. “That steel? It was forged to drop demons.”


    Her breath caught as her unease deepened. “They say the rōnin order’s full of cutthroats now.”


    “Some of us prefer cutting throats,” he replied, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve always been more partial to slicing heads clean off.”


    His tone was light, almost playful, but the joke fell heavy in the room. Lacey didn’t laugh.


    The man moved with quiet precision as he dressed, pulling on a black shirt that clung to his lean frame before shrugging into a hooded coat. The fabric was frayed at the hem, its edges softened by wear, but it shrouded him like a second skin. When he slid the blade over his shoulder, it was an extension of him, as natural as breath.


    He paused at the door, glancing back at her. “Thanks for the company, Lacey,” he said, his voice softer now, almost genuine. “I’ll see you next week.”


    The door clicked shut behind him, and Lacey exhaled slowly. Her gaze lingered on the blade’s shadow on the wall, and then to the space he had just vacated.


    She touched her lips, her fingers trembling faintly. What is he? she wondered again, but this time the question seemed too vast, too tangled in shadows for an answer.


    The hallway moaned with pleasure. Soft gasps, the rhythmic creak of bedframes, the low murmur of intimacy bought and paid for. The air was thick—a mix of perfume, sweat, and something deeper, something faintly metallic. Incense burned lazily from sconces on the walls, though it did little to cover the lived-in scent of the Concubine.


    The Rōnin moved through the corridor, the soft creak of wooden planks beneath his boots nearly lost under the noise. His fingers traced the fabric of his hooded coat, smoothing it over his shoulders as he walked. A ritual of sorts.


    As he stepped onto the staircase, the sounds of pleasure faded, replaced by the low, rolling murmur of the tavern below. The heat was still there, thick and humid, but now it mixed with the scent of spilled ale, cheap cigars, and bodies pressed together in drunken camaraderie.


    The moment he descended into the room, the atmosphere shifted.


    Eyes turned to him.


    A tavern full of voices, laughter, drunken boasts, and yet the moment he appeared, something hung in the air. A pause. A breath caught mid-sentence.


    It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But he felt it. The weight of their attention. The moment of hesitation before they resumed their conversations. As if his presence alone had taken the warmth out of the room.


    In the far corner, Madam Ivy sat like a queen in exile, half-reclined, her legs crossed at the knee. A cigarette burned between two delicate fingers, the smoke curling around her in lazy spirals. A martini glass rested on the table beside her, condensation trailing down its stem.


    The Rōnin made his way toward her, the murmurs returning, though the weight of the room never left him.


    When he reached her table, he placed a few gold Gallianese Riels onto the wood. The heavy foreign coins gleamed in the dim light, their embossed edges catching the lantern glow.


    “A little extra for the service,” he murmured.


    Madam Ivy exhaled smoke, her lips curling into something amused. “Good to hear you’re satisfied with our service.”


    She didn’t reach for the coin. Didn’t need to. Instead, she gestured to the seat across from her, an invitation spoken in silence.


    “My company invites the wrong kind of attention,” he said.


    “Ironic, wouldn’t you agree?” Her gaze flicked toward him, dark and knowing. “Given what you are and what I am?”


    He gave the smallest nod. “I suppose.”


    “One drink,” she said smoothly. “You’re an Old Fashioned man, aren’t you?”


    The Rōnin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You keep track of my habits now?”


    She smiled. “We just had a case come in. Lionel Reserve. A small-batch distillery.”


    “Quite the journey that bottle’s had.”


    Madam Ivy’s smirk deepened. “Similar to yours, I’d wager.”


    The Rōnin sighed through his nose, took the seat.


    A drink was placed before him. The ice cube clinked softly against the glass. Amber liquid. A curl of orange peel resting against the rim.


    They clinked glasses. He took a sip.


    “How do you find it?” she asked.


    “Better than what I’m used to.”


    “What’s the occasion?”


    “No occasion,” she murmured. “I’m just a sucker for irony.”


    She took another sip, eyes flicking toward the bar. A group of men watched them.


    Burly. Hard-faced. Gallianese.


    “Sailors,” The Rōnin noted.


    “Mmm. From the west,” Ivy confirmed. “Rowdy and brutish. They’re ruining a lot of evenings tonight.”


    The sailors placed their drinks down. Stood up.


    The Rōnin exhaled, slow and knowing.


    “…And there it is.”


    The men walked over, the scent of alcohol and salt clinging to them.


    “Oi, Marcus,” the first one, Lawrence, sneered. “Look what we have here. A fucking foul-blood.”


    “I heard this was supposed to be a respectable establishment,” Marcus added, glancing at Ivy. “Nobody said anything about drinking with darkies.”


    Madam Ivy twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Gentlemen, all kinds are welcome at The Concubine, so long as they have coin.”


    “Terrorist coin, no doubt.”


    The Rōnin chuckled, lifting his glass to his lips.


    Lawrence’s voice hardened. “Your kind attacked my beloved royal capital. Burned down Parliament. Spilled the blood of my countrymen.”


    The Rōnin didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. He only swirled his drink, watching the ice spin slowly.


    “Come, let’s be quick about it,” Marcus said. “Here or outside?”


    The Rōnin downed the rest of his Old Fashioned. Set the glass down deliberately.


    “Outside is preferred.”


    His gaze flicked toward Madam Ivy. Annoyed. As if she had caused him a minor inconvenience.


    “Take care of my blade, will you?” he murmured.


    Madam Ivy nodded once.


    They stepped out into the alley.


    The cold hit first. The alley was damp with the stink of the docks, the ground slick with rain and filth. Lantern light from the street barely reached past the brick walls, leaving them in a half-lit pocket of shadow.


    Lawrence and Marcus squared their shoulders, confident, relaxed—they had the numbers, the size, the weapons.


    The Rōnin only cracked his knuckles, exhaled slowly through his nose.


    A tremor of anticipation ran up his spine. There it was. That old, familiar feeling.


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    “You know, darkie,” Lawrence sneered, brandishing a switchblade, “our beloved Knight-Captain Braythar, Goddess bless his name, burned the lot of you. He purged this realm of foul-bloods.”


    Marcus grinned. “We’re just doing our part to better the realm.”


    The Rōnin exhaled sharply through his nose, as if suppressing a laugh.


    Then, softly, almost bored: “Well, go on then. Do your part.”


    Marcus was the first to rush forward—a brute of a man, fists clenched, swinging wide. A predictable, undisciplined attack. The Rōnin saw it before it came, like a tired old play he had already memorised.


    He stepped into the blow instead of away from it.


    Marcus’ swing went wide. A mistake.


    Before Marcus could recover, The Rōnin’s elbow smashed into his throat—a clean, surgical strike that crushed the windpipe in an instant.


    The sailor staggered, clawing at his throat, eyes bulging, a wet, choking sound gurgling from his lips.


    The Rōnin turned deliberately, ignoring Marcus now, focusing on Lawrence. It was already over.


    Behind him, Marcus collapsed, convulsing as his lungs betrayed him.


    The Rōnin hadn’t even drawn a weapon.


    Lawrence’s face twisted into something uncertain. He gripped the switchblade tighter.


    The Rōnin rolled his shoulders. Loosened his neck.


    And smiled.


    Lawrence lunged forward, fast, slashing wildly. This time, The Rōnin moved differently—slowly, deliberately. He let Lawrence think he had a chance.


    A flick of the wrist. A diagonal slash meant for his ribs.


    The Rōnin leaned just out of reach, his body barely shifting. The blade sliced through air.


    A follow-up jab. Straight for his throat.


    The Rōnin tilted his head to the side, dodging by mere inches. The knife whistled past his ear.


    Lawrence stumbled, unbalanced.


    That was when The Rōnin struck.


    He caught Lawrence’s wrist mid-motion, twisted sharply—the bone snapped like dry wood.


    The blade clattered to the ground.


    Lawrence’s scream barely had time to leave his throat before a boot drove into his gut, lifting him clean off the ground before he crashed onto the wet cobblestone.


    His hands scrambled desperately for the knife.


    The Rōnin stepped on it.


    A slow, deliberate movement.


    A stalking predator.


    Lawrence looked up, panting, his expression torn between rage and growing horror.


    The Rōnin crouched beside him, picking up the fallen switchblade. The dim lantern light caught its dull steel.


    Lawrence’s chest heaved violently, his body convulsing beneath The Rōnin’s weight. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the alley’s filth-streaked ground, fingers slipping through cold rain and warm blood. He tried to push back, to twist away, but The Rōnin’s knee pressed firmly against his ribs, pinning him like a man drowning under an ocean.


    Lawrence’s thoughts were chaos, splintered and desperate.


    This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.


    This was supposed to be easy. Two men against one. A shade-born, no less. They were supposed to teach him a lesson, put him in his place. Maybe beat him half to death, leave him choking on his own teeth.


    But now, he was on the wrong side of fate.


    The Rōnin loomed above him, veiled eyes unreadable, the flickering lantern light painting him in shifting shadows. He didn’t look rushed. Didn’t look angry. He just looked… present.


    And that was somehow worse.


    The knife turned lazily between The Rōnin’s fingers, as though he were bored, as though this were routine.


    And then—his voice. Soft. Unhurried. Almost… gentle.


    "Do you know why we foul-bloods veil our eyes?”


    Lawrence froze, his entire body trembling beneath the weight of those words.


    His breathing hitched, rapid, erratic. His mind screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something, but the weight against his chest held him in place, his lungs shuddering for breath that wouldn’t come.


    The Rōnin tilted his head, as if waiting for an answer. When none came, he continued, his voice carrying the slow weight of inevitability.


    "The light," he murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against Lawrence’s brow, just above his right eye. "It burns. It sears our vision.”


    The knife in The Rōnin’s hand lowered, its tip hovering just over Lawrence’s eye.


    And suddenly, Lawrence understood.


    No. No, no, no—


    "I want to share how that feels with you.”


    The blade plunged in.


    The first thing was the sound—a wet, squishing noise, like a knife pushed through overripe fruit.


    Then—pain. Blinding, consuming, molten agony.


    Lawrence’s entire body arched violently, his scream ripping through the alleyway—or at least it would have, had The Rōnin’s hand not clamped over his mouth, pressing him down.


    The sound came out muffled, desperate, his entire body thrashing beneath The Rōnin’s weight. His hands scratched weakly at the arms pinning him, nails breaking, blood smearing against the man’s coat.


    But The Rōnin didn’t move.


    Didn’t react.


    He only pressed deeper.


    Lawrence’s legs kicked uselessly against the cobblestone, his boot knocking into the wall with a dull thud, thud, thud.


    His body begged for escape, but there was none.


    The blade twisted.


    His vision exploded into white-hot agony, nerves screaming, a sickening pressure in his skull. The pain wasn’t just sharp—it was everywhere, burning down his neck, his spine, radiating out in terrible, unbearable pulses.


    And through it all—The Rōnin didn’t rush.


    This wasn’t just violence.


    This was surgical.


    Measured.


    Personal.


    When The Rōnin finally pulled the knife back, it came with a sickening pop. Lawrence’s breath shuddered, his entire body trembling, his head swimming in shock, nausea, pain, and terror.


    But he wasn’t done.


    No, no, please no—


    The Rōnin admired his work, tilting his head slightly, as if studying the ruined socket, taking in every shuddering breath, every muscle twitch.


    And then—that faint, terrible smile.


    "You''re still seeing too much.”


    The blade hovered over his other eye.


    Lawrence sobbed—a raw, animalistic sound—his body helpless beneath the weight of the moment.


    His hands were no longer fighting.


    They were pleading.


    The knife came down again.


    The second stab was slower.


    More intimate.


    There was a brief moment of pressure, the resistance of flesh and muscle, before the blade sank in.


    The second scream was different. Weaker. Choked. The body beneath The Rōnin jerked violently, then shuddered, then went still.


    Breath still there. But broken.


    When The Rōnin finally leaned back, he exhaled through his nose. Catharsis.


    He wasn’t angry. Not anymore.


    He was... content.


    Lawrence’s chest still rose and fell—shuddering, shallow, ruined.


    The Rōnin leaned in, his lips near the man’s bloodied, trembling ear. His voice was a whisper.


    "I want you to remember this night.”


    The last thing Lawrence would ever hear before unconsciousness took him: "When the darkie you fucked with made it so you can’t put food on the table. If you are married and blessed with children… I hope they starve to death and suffer. And it was all because people like you can’t leave well enough alone.”


    A final punch cracked against Lawrence’s temple.


    The body slumped.


    The alley was silent now.


    The only sound left was the distant lap of waves against the dock, the occasional drip of rainwater slipping from the rooftops.


    Lawrence’s body lay motionless, sprawled in the filth, his chest still rising and falling in shuddering, shallow gasps. His fingers twitched—not in defiance, but in the way a broken thing twitches when it doesn''t know it''s dead yet.


    The Rōnin stood over him, rolling his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. The heat of the fight was already dissipating, a quiet satisfaction settling in his bones.


    He flexed his fingers.


    No trembling. No adrenaline rush. No regret.


    He felt lighter, as if something had been purged from him.


    And yet—nothing had changed.


    The realm still hated his kind. The blood on his hands wasn’t new—only fresh.


    A storm had passed within him, but the sky above remained the same.


    The Rōnin turned, his boots crunching against the gravel, stepping over the ruined man beneath him without so much as a glance.


    Behind him, the alley was dark, violent, and cold.


    Ahead—warmth, laughter, and light.


    He stepped back inside the tavern.


    The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted entirely.


    Warm air wrapped around him, thick with the scents of smoke, ale, and perfume.


    The room was alive. Merry. Loud. Chaotic.


    A musician plucked a stringed instrument near the bar, off-tune but energetic. Dice rattled on wooden tables. Women laughed, the sound bright, carefree, ignorant.


    The world inside hadn’t changed.


    It was as if the violence outside had never existed.


    For them, it hadn’t.


    No one inside had heard the squelch of the blade, the muffled, gasping screams. No one had felt the tremor of a man realizing he was about to be broken.


    The horror of the alley belonged to the alley.


    This place? It was untouched.


    It was almost surreal.


    The Rōnin walked forward, weaving through the bodies, through the light, through the laughter, and felt himself shifting with it.


    He had learned, long ago, how to move between these worlds.


    It was like adjusting a mask.


    No one stopped him. No one spoke. The momentary pause when he had descended earlier was gone now—replaced with the indifference of those who chose not to see.


    They ignored him, the same way they ignored the filth in the gutters. The same way they ignored the occasional body that turned up near the docks, missing its tongue, its hands, its life.


    The Rōnin pulled out a chair.


    Slid into it like he had just returned from a smoke break.


    Across from him, Madam Ivy didn’t react. Didn’t ask. Didn’t press.


    She only took a slow sip from her martini, her eyes half-lidded, unreadable.


    The silence between them stretched for a breath, two, before The Rōnin exhaled, slow and deliberate.


    He tapped the rim of his empty glass. “Another round?”


    She smiled faintly, swirling the last remnants of her drink. “Enjoy your exercise?”


    He rolled one of his shoulders, as if working out a minor ache. “It helped.”


    A quiet chuckle. She motioned to the bartender.


    The glass was placed before him.


    A fresh Old Fashioned. The ice clinked softly against the glass, delicate, crisp, the world resetting itself.


    He lifted it, bringing it to his lips.


    This time—he savoured the taste.


    The streets of Kyosaka were quiet at this hour—the kind of quiet that only came when the weight of the world had finally settled, when the city''s lifeblood had slowed to a sluggish, exhausted pulse. The rowdy energy of the tavern had long faded behind him, replaced by the soft howl of the wind as it wove through narrow alleys and empty canals. A few lanterns still burned along the streets, their light flickering weakly, casting long, thin shadows across the cobblestone.


    The Rōnin walked alone. He preferred it that way.


    The cold air bit at his skin, threading through the fabric of his coat, but he didn’t pull it tighter. The discomfort was grounding—something real to feel, something sharper than the numbness creeping at the edges of his mind.


    Nights like these were solace. No one around. No unwanted eyes. No hushed whispers, no judging stares, no tension hanging in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Just the sound of his boots against stone, the rhythmic tap of his steps swallowed by the vast emptiness of the streets.


    In the past, this city had felt different. Or maybe he had.


    Once, he had walked these streets not as an outcast, but as someone who belonged. He had known different roads, different doors, different lives. There had been warmth then—not in the air, but in the spaces between things.


    Now, it was just this.


    A long walk through a city that wasn’t his anymore.


    He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the night before vanishing, much like the life he had left behind.


    He didn’t know why, but some nights, he still imagined a different path. If things had gone another way, if choices had been made differently—would he still be there? Would they still say his name without venom, without fear?


    No. That man was gone.


    And yet, some ghosts refused to die.


    He finally reached his door. The building was modest, barely more than a box of stone and wood, perched near the river, just out of the way enough to be left alone. The door had seen better days, the wood worn and slightly warped from the humidity, the edges frayed where time had taken its toll.


    He paused, taking in the sight of it, and scoffed under his breath.


    What a shithole.


    It wasn’t disgust. Not entirely. Just an acknowledgment of what was. A reminder of what had been.


    He had once lived in luxury—wrapped in silk sheets, in rooms too large for one man, in places where the air smelled of incense and fresh fruit. Now, he had this.


    A cracked door. A bed barely large enough to stretch in. A room that never quite lost the scent of damp stone and the river outside.


    It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it was just another cell.


    He pushed the door open and stepped inside.


    The Rōnin’s abode was small, unassuming, and quiet—the kind of place one lived in, not the kind one called home. Nestled near the river, it was built with function over comfort, a space that existed only to serve a purpose. The floor was clean but worn, the furniture sparse. A single bed. A small desk. A kitchen counter stripped of personal touches. The walls were bare, save for the faint remnants of old nails—places where something once hung but had long since been removed. There were no paintings, no trinkets, no signs that anyone had ever called this place their own. It was a place to sleep, to clean his wounds, to disappear when needed. Nothing more.


    He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Didn’t need to.


    The moment he stepped inside, he knew he wasn’t alone. There was a shift in the air, a subtle but undeniable presence in the darkness. His hand hovered near the hilt of his blade for only a moment before a voice—low, steady, familiar—emerged from the shadows.


    "Sensei Nakamura. I see you’ve made yourself quite at home.”


    The old man sat in the corner of the room, his posture relaxed, yet deliberate. He was always deliberate. His presence was never intrusive, yet it always carried weight. "I would have left a light on, but you don’t even have a table lamp. Or a candle.”


    "Never needed one," the Rōnin replied, shrugging off his coat with slow, measured movements. The night still clung to him—the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something far more distinct. Something metallic. He set his blade down carefully, leaning it against the wall.


    Nakamura inhaled lightly, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. "You’ve been drinking," he noted.


    "Drinking. Whoring," the Rōnin admitted, exhaling through his nose as he rolled his shoulders. The stiffness from the fight had settled in now, an ache he welcomed.


    Nakamura’s expression didn’t shift, but he took another slow breath. The air between them was thick, the scent of blood still fresh. "You’ve spilled blood tonight.”


    "Acutely observed, Sensei.”


    The old man’s gaze remained unreadable in the dark, but his voice carried weight. "Are they alive?”


    "Last I checked," the Rōnin muttered. He walked toward the kitchen, retrieving a small tin from the counter. The scratch of a match cut through the silence, a brief flicker of orange flame illuminating the sharp lines of his face before the glow was swallowed by smoke.


    "You can’t keep doing this," Nakamura murmured.


    The Rōnin didn’t answer right away. He took a slow drag from the cigarillo, letting the taste settle before exhaling. "Something tells me you’re not here to follow up on how my evening has gone.”


    Nakamura reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope, wax-sealed, pristine. He held it between two fingers, a silent offering. "We’ve received a request in Fengjian. A haunting. A school.”


    The Rōnin took another pull from his cigarillo, the ember at the tip burning faintly in the dark. "A school," he repeated, exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissipate.


    "I’ve taken the liberty of procuring your ticket on the Eastern Express. You leave tomorrow morning.”


    He didn’t take the envelope right away. His gaze lingered on it, the thin wax seal reflecting dimly in the minimal light. After a beat, a smirk curled his lips. "You’d send a darkie to a school?"


    Nakamura didn’t flinch. "Your affliction has no bearing on the job.”


    The Rōnin chuckled softly, shaking his head before finally reaching for the letter. His fingers brushed the paper, lingering on the seal before pulling it from the old man’s grasp. "The job will be done. Of that, you can be certain." He let the envelope rest between his fingers, tapping it lightly against the counter. "But should they choose to express their worldviews and prejudices…" He lifted his eyes toward Nakamura, veiled but sharp, the edge in his voice unmistakable. "I’m likely to reciprocate in kind.”


    Nakamura let out a quiet sigh, not out of surprise, but something closer to resignation. He pushed himself up from the chair, his movements slow, deliberate. As he stepped forward, he hesitated—just for a moment. There was something in his posture, something restrained.


    "There is goodness in you, Delacroix," he said softly, earnestly. "I just hope—“


    "No, no, no," the Rōnin cut in sharply, his voice low but laced with warning.


    Nakamura stilled.


    "Do not speak that name.”


    The silence that followed was heavier than before, carrying the weight of unspoken things. Nakamura’s gaze remained steady, as if searching for something in the Rōnin’s expression. But there was nothing to find.


    It was gone.


    He had buried it.


    He had killed it.


    "It’s dead," the Rōnin murmured. "Let’s keep it that way.”


    The silence between them stretched, thick and unmoving. Nakamura studied him for a long moment, but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. Finally, he gave a slow nod. "Well. What am I supposed to call you, then?”


    The Rōnin let the question settle, but he didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was cold. Resolute.


    "Not that.”


    Nakamura exhaled softly. It was neither disappointment nor agreement, but something else. Something far older. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and turned toward the door, pausing only once to gesture toward the kitchen counter.


    "By the way, you’ll find your gift there.”


    The Rōnin’s gaze flicked toward the counter. A small box. Wrapped neatly, carefully.


    "Happy birthday," Nakamura said before stepping outside. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the Rōnin in silence.


    For a long moment, he didn’t move. The room was still, save for the slow, curling tendrils of smoke drifting from the cigarillo in his fingers. His eyes remained on the box, but he didn’t approach it. Not yet.


    He took another slow drag, the ember burning low.


    He stood there, staring at the name he no longer was.