From wandering one place to the next, seeking redemption with every step, he felt a strong pull towards the place he once called home. For years, his grief threw his world into discord, and he knew only bitterness and sorrow. He inflicted this mental anguish upon himself, but now, he must heal. Upon his arrival to Hanamura, later traversing to Tokyo, Hanzo noted the adverse effects of the Hashimoto clan during this personal pilgrimage. The Shimada clan truly fell, the estate seized by the Hashimoto and their powerful reach across Japan. He solemnly reflected on his cowardice all those years ago and hustled quietly through a desolate alley, lit with neon signs and the dim moonlight. His path came to a halt when he had a run in with Hashimoto dealings in an alleyway.

Their shots rang out first. Hanzo drew and fired several arrows at them, but blood loss from a bullet wound in his shoulder was beginning to affect his strength. What the Hashimoto lacked in discipline and skill, they made up for in sheer numbers. And there was just one of him. It was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed him. Hanzo tried to get into a defensive stance, but he swayed and fell, slipping in and out of consciousness. Someone snatched his dropped bow and grabbed his hair, pulling his head up so they could get a closer look at his face. They'd recognized him as the last heir to the Shimada legacy before his eyes flickered until he blacked out.

Hanzo came to in a small concrete cell, bare save for the rough slab he was lying on and a plastic bucket in the corner. Opposite him, an amber wall of hard-light shimmered, blocking his exit. Hanzo yawned. His jaw popped, and he gently massaged the swollen side of his face. His shoulder wound had been cleaned and dressed in bandages. He was surprised that they had bothered fixing him up, taking him here, wherever here was. Most likely the Hashimoto stronghold in Tokyo. His shoulders slumped upon the realization and his eyes glanced around, searching for answers.