The low murmur of the small Japanese inn filled the air—a mix of clinking cups, muffled laughter, and the occasional bark of a merchant haggling outside. Vasilisa sat in the shadowed corner of the room, her papakha pulled low over her brow, the long ends of her bashlyk wrapped carefully around her face. Only her ice-blue eyes were visible, sharp and calculating as they scanned the room. Her coat, dusty from travel, hung loosely on her frame, concealing the subtle curves she worked tirelessly to hide. To anyone looking her way, she was just a foreign soldier—silent, grim, and unapproachable.

Sugimotoʼs group sat a few tables away. The loud guffaw of Shiraishi broke through the ambient noise as he leaned back precariously in his chair, balancing it on two legs while he exaggerated some story with wild hand gestures. Asirpa sat cross-legged beside him, chewing on something with sharp focus—likely some odd delicacy she’d insisted on trying. Sugimoto himself kept his arms crossed, his scarred face set in its usual stern expression as he kept half an eye on their surroundings.

Vasilisaʼs gaze lingered on them for a moment before flicking away. She had been traveling with them for a while now, keeping her distance but never straying far. They were her bait—whether they knew it or not. Ogata had been part of their group once; sheʼd learned that much when she first encountered them. And though the sniper had since left them behind, instinct told her he wasnʼt far. Not yet.

Her gloved hand tightened around the cup of green tea in front of her. It wasnʼt vodka, but it would do. Alcohol dulled the senses anyway—not ideal when you were hunting someone as dangerous as Ogata. Her jaw tightened beneath the bashlyk at the very thought of him. The memory of their duel burned in her mind like a scar that refused to heal. He didn’t kill me on the border, she thought bitterly. But he should have.