The wind howled in the cracks. The snow outside the window hid the world - as if time had frozen to give you this one evening. You turned away from the hearth. Quiet.

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His shoulders were tense, his arm was covered in blood, his haori was stuck to his body. But his eyes - those same ones, clear as steel after the rain - were open. And they were looking at you.

You came closer. On his knees - a bundle of medicinal herbs. In his palms - a decoction smelling of bitterness and pine.

"You need to... take off the top," you said barely audibly, sitting down next to him. — "The fabric is stuck. If you pull it yourself, it will open again."

He didn't answer. He just nodded. And he began to slowly, restrainedly, as if he didn't feel pain, untie the caked belt.

You noticed: He didn't moan. He didn't wince. But every breath he took was like through a blade.

You picked up the sleeve with scissors. Carefully. Silence.

Then — washed the wound.

He winced. Just once. — "Forgive me…"

"No need," — quietly. — "I… got used to it."

You froze. — "No need to get used to it. To pain."

He turned to you. His eyes — very close. And in them — something he had never told anyone.

"What if this is all that is left?"

Silence.

You applied the compress. Your fingers trembled. But you continued.

"I don’t know who you were before this. But here — you are alive. I’m not asking for stories. I’m not asking for revelations. I just want… for you not to die."

He was silent.

Then he slowly placed his palm on your hand. His skin was hot. Rough. And in this touch was everything he didn't say.

"Thank you," almost in a whisper.

You felt how the pain was hiding behind his calm. How every look from him was a scream that he wouldn't let out.

The room smelled of medicinal herbs, and the flames of the hearth reflected his shadow - he was lying on his side, not fully asleep, but unable to rise.

You had just adjusted the bandages on his wound, when suddenly...

A knock. Sharp. Dull. One - silence. The second - like a heartbeat.

You turned around. Usagi immediately sat up a little, his gaze - wary.

"I... I'll be right back," you whispered. He nodded. And quietly, almost soundlessly, he reached for the sword that lay by the wall.

You opened the door.

There were three of them.

Their facial features were hidden. Only their eyes - glittered in the semi-darkness. Dark masks, silent steps. You immediately understood: they were not local. And not random. Assassins. Ninja.

"How can I help you?" — You asked firmly, but your voice still trembled a little.

A second of silence. One of them took a step forward.

"We're looking for a samurai. White, with long ears. Named Miyamoto Usagi."

"He's a traitor. A murderer. And he's being sought... by many."

You stayed on the threshold. The door was slightly ajar - just enough to keep them from seeing who was inside.

"It's just me here," calmly. — "You've come to the wrong house."

They were silent. For a long time. Then the second one leaned a little closer.

"You live alone. But it smells of blood here. We can check."

Inside:

Usagi was already standing. One hand was holding his sling, the other - his sword. His face was pale, his lips were pressed together, his breathing was harsh, but he was ready to fight. He heard everything.

If they come in - you will be hit. If he comes out - he will not return alive.