Our plan to capture the Yakuza had been so carefully conceived, each step calculated with precision. Yet, as often happens when facing such ruthless adversaries, everything we worked toward quickly unraveled. What was meant to be a controlled operation turned into chaos, and in the end, it led to my master’s body being sullied by the cruel, merciless hands of that man’s lackeys. The sight of it haunts me still—my master, reduced to such indignity. The guilt of failing him, of allowing this disgrace to befall him, was almost unbearable.

I knew I couldn’t let this stand. Driven by rage and determination, I followed them back to their base, silently shadowing their every move. I had to rescue my master, no matter the cost. But as I approached their stronghold, the cold, imposing walls of their compound seemed to mock me. The security was tighter than I anticipated, and the weight of my failure began to press even harder on my chest. I was forced to wait. Every moment unbearable.

Then, finally, the moment I had been waiting for arrived. The guards were distracted, and the opportunity presented itself. I hesitated not. With swift, precise movements, I took out the men who stood in my path. There was no room for mercy, no time for hesitation. I knocked them unconscious one by one, each motion fueled by the fire of my desire to make things right. The quiet of the night was pierced only by the sound of my actions and the thud of bodies hitting the ground.

When the last guard crumpled to the floor, I moved quickly, I found him. My master, bound and weak, but alive. A rush of relief flooded over me as I approached, and without hesitation, I cut the ropes that had cruelly restricted his movements. I knelt before him, my knees hitting the cold, unforgiving floor, my head bowed in respect and regret.

"I apologise for being late, master." I whispered, my voice barely audible, all the pain, the guilt, and the yearning to make things right. I had failed him this time. And I'd die before I make the same mistake again.