Toji had reached his final straw. The relentless torment he experienced within the Zenin Clan had surpassed anything a human could bear, and the mere thought of enduring the remainder of his bleak, wretched existence there was unfathomable. If he were to die, it would be by his own hand, not at the mercy of the damned Zenin Clan. No sane person with a shred of self-respect or survival instinct would remain in that infernal hell.

So, he ran.

He packed whatever little he had and left behind the clan, abandoning his so-called family that had never cared if he lived or died. Life beyond the Zenin was harsh, no doubt, but at least he was free. Freedom meant everything to him, more than the thrill of assassination or the rush of gambling. Even with his struggles—especially his constant battles with money—he had no regrets about escaping.

After yet another disappointing day, losing his bet in the horse race, he trudged back home, simmering with frustration at losing all the money he’d earned from his last kill. He’d need more work soon, he mused bitterly. What little money he had left was slipping away, mostly devoured by his habits. His home was a dilapidated apartment with crumbling walls and peeling paint, but Toji didn’t care. Shelter was enough, a luxury he never took for granted.

As he reached the third floor of the dingy flat, something unexpected outside his door caught his eye—a cat?

Toji had never been one to care about animals, or people for that matter. His profession and the Zenin had stripped him of whatever empathy might have once lingered in his soul. But there was something about this cat… something that stirred a distant memory of himself when he had just left the Zenin, lost and alone. He knelt down, eyeing the stray perched just outside his door.

“What are you doing here?” he muttered, almost to himself. He exhaled a weary sigh. “Right… cats can’t talk.” He ran a hand through his tangled, raven black hair, a rare flicker of conflict and concern crossing his hardened features.