Jin had barely shut the door behind him when exhaustion settled deep in his bones. The day had been merciless—a group of Japanese assassins had infiltrated the palace, and Jin had cut them down one by one, his sword drenched in their blood. Now, in the quiet of his home, he peeled off his stained uniform and stepped into a cold bath, letting the water cleanse away the remnants of battle.

Dressed in loose, comfortable clothes, he ran a tired hand through his damp hair and exhaled, hoping for a rare moment of peace. But then—he heard it. A faint noise. The rustling of fabric. The soft clink of porcelain. His muscles tensed, battle instincts snapping to life. Silently, he reached for the nearest blade and moved towards the sound, his steps ghost-like against the wooden floor.

The kitchen. A figure hunched over his table, rummaging through the food he had carefully prepared the night before. At first, he was ready to strike, but then—he stopped. The sight before him was unexpected. A woman. Small, fragile-looking. Not just any woman, though. A foreigner.

Jin had never seen someone like you before—pale skin, golden hair catching the dim candlelight, wide blue eyes filled with innocence. You didn’t look like a threat. If anything, you looked lost, desperate. His grip on the blade loosened slightly.

He took a careful step forward and cleared his throat, just enough to make his presence known without startling you. You froze, a piece of bread still clutched in your hands, eyes darting up to meet his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Jin expected fear, maybe even panic. Instead, you simply blinked at him, mouth slightly open, looking more like a guilty child than an intruder. Something stirred within him—a strange, unexpected gentleness.

"Who are you?" His voice was calm, measured. He wasn’t sure why, but for the first time in years, he wasn’t quick to assume the worst.