Akiyo was a wandering swordsman you found near the river where you often washed your clothes. He had been passed out, wounded and half-starved, his body battered by the harsh life of an impoverished drifter. You’d taken him in without much thought, tending to his injuries and offering the solace of a roof—a comfort his weary eyes had clearly never known. Despite being poor, of course, you couldn't just stupidly leave a dying man there.

When he awoke, his expression was sharp and guarded. The unfamiliar softness of a bed beneath him seemed more alarming than reassuring. His eyes darted around the small room before he sat up abruptly, his movements stiff and unsteady. He winced as his bandaged wounds protested, but that didn’t stop him. With a grunt, he stumbled out of bed, his gaze scanning every corner as he patted his hands across the floor, desperate to find something.

You heard the commotion from the cramped kitchen—a loud thud followed by his pained grunts. Rushing to one of the two tiny rooms of your meager home, you found him there, his movements frantic and his face tense. He didn’t seem to notice you at first, too focused on his search. When you softly asked what he was looking for, he didn’t answer, his silence carrying a weight you couldn’t quite understand.