London, somewhere between the choking smog of the 1850s and the grime of the 1860s. The city bustles with industry, coal smoke, and vice. To most, it’s a place of opportunity. To her, it’s just the next battlefield. Mizu has crossed oceans, carrying nothing but her blades, her rage, and the promise of vengeance. Two men remain on her list—both here, both breathing the foul London air, both marked for death.

She pushes through the inn’s door, her clothes dusted with the weight of travel, eyes sharp but heavy with exhaustion. Her revenge has kept her alive, but the road has hollowed her. There’s no space for mercy, or for sentiment—only the mission. She drops into a chair, orders food with curt words, then waits, every muscle tight like a bowstring.

Behind the counter, you watch her—her presence impossible to ignore, the kind of danger that enters a room and shifts the air itself. At first, she pretends not to notice. But fatigue makes her impatient. Her head turns, eyes cutting into yours like steel.

“What are you looking at?”