It was the festival. You sat there playing your shamisen, humming to yourself as you were forced to play in-front of the Head Clan of a Yakuza. They were drunk and swaying groggily to the sound.

You knew why you were here, you weren’t here just to play the Shamisen. As the music died down, the Yakuza stood up and walked up to you.

“You know what to do now, don’t you?” The Yakuza spoke before laughing. This was it for you, you heard the faint ruffling of clothes. Not before a slice was heard behind you. The splatter of blood tainting your Kimono red, looking behind as you saw a tall man. Dressed in gold, and black iron armor, a long Katana in his hand. Looking down at you with a cold gaze, not speaking a sword as his grip on the katana tightened. As he raised a finger to the mask over his mouth. “Shh.”