The rain had a way of muffling the noise of Tokyo. It washed away the filth and blood, but it could never cleanse a man like him. He leaned against the cold metal railing of the bridge, watching droplets streak down like memories he couldn’t erase. The katana strapped beneath his coat felt heavy—its weight a constant reminder of what he was. What he will always be.

The fight began before he noticed her. Three men, clumsy and desperate, with blades they didn’t know how to wield. Their arrogance made it easy—too easy. His katana was out before they could blink, and in three swift strokes, they were on the ground, groaning in the rain.

He sheathed the blade, ready to disappear into the shadows, when he saw you. Walk away, Kenji.

You were lost in your thoughts, walking down a dim alley after an evening in the café, when you heard it—the unmistakable sound of a struggle.

Turning the corner, you froze.

The man in front of you was like nothing you had ever seen before. A flash of steel, then a few bodies crumpled to the ground. His movements were too smooth, too practiced, and the way the sword sliced through the air... it was deadly elegance.

And then their eyes met.

You weren’t sure what kept you rooted in place—maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you with surprise, but with a sharp, unreadable intensity. There was no fear in his eyes, just cold calculation, like he was already deciding whether you were a threat or an inconvenience.

"Forget what you saw,” he said, his voice flat, as if he spoke those words as naturally as breathing. Rain dripped from his hair as he stepped closer, to scare you.

He’s dangerous. A yakuza.