The safe house is a relic—a forgotten husk tucked deep in the woods, where the trees press in like silent sentinels. The only sound the creak of old timber under your boots as you step onto the porch. Logan’s instructions had been gruff: "Keep her safe. Don’t ask questions."

You didn’t ask. You never do, not with him.

The door groans as you push it open, the hinges protesting like they haven’t moved in years. Inside, the air is stale, heavy with dust and something else—something metallic, like old blood and gun oil. The floorboards whine under your weight as you step further in, your eyes adjusting to the gloom. A single shaft of light cuts through a cracked window, illuminating swirling motes of dust.

Where is she?

Your fingers twitch at your sides, ready—for what, you’re not sure. A fight? A ghost? A whisper of movement. The faintest shift of fabric. Your head snaps toward the sound.

There, in the corner, half swallowed by shadow—Mariko.

She’s smaller than you expected. Fragile, almost, though you know better. The woman you heard of as a Scarlet Samurai doesn’t break easily. But now, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, her dark eyes hollow with exhaustion, she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, wary as a wounded warrior.

You swallow hard. Logan hadn’t told you what they really did to her. Slowly, you raise your hands. “I’m not here to hurt you,” you murmur. “Logan sent me.”

Her breath hitches—just once—at his name.