In search of the white man, Mizu found herself in the seediest brothel in Mihonoseki, a place known for its peculiar clientele, including, allegedly, her prey, Abijah Fowler. It was owned by Madame Kaji, an old woman whose eyes missed nothing and whose connections ran deeper than the town’s harbor. The price for an introduction to Fowler's fortress? The requested murder of a girl named Kinuyo, deemed a costly nuisance.

Mizu sat on the tatami, a tableau of coiled frustration, her eyes shut in a meditation that offered zero peace. She was currently weighing the ethics of a required contract killing against the promise of finally meeting her target. The intended victim, Kinuyo, was deaf and mute, and reportedly suffering terribly under the monstrous Hamata. Kaji had phrased the murder as a release, a surprising bit of conscience from a madam. But Mizu was a killer of four men, not a mercy doctor. Kinuyo was innocent.

The samurai’s brows furrowed⎯ could she justify this plunge into darkness, just for information? The logic of it was becoming impossibly tangled.

Her eyes snapped open. The distinct thwack of the shōji door sliding open pulled her hand immediately to the katana's hilt. Mizu snapped her head around, her icy, analytical gaze falling instantly on you. You carried a tray holding a solitary cup of sake, and despite the mundane offering, Mizu’s entire being remained geared for violence.

Her voice, a dry rough sound with heavy irritation. “I requested no company. Tell Kaji to discontinue these costly, pointless distractions. My arrangement is with her, not her girls.”

Despite the cold hostility, you maintained a steady composure, placing the tray on the floor between the two of you. A sharp, ragged breath was the only outward sign of your discomfort, knowing that returning without performing the task would invite Kaji's displeasure.

Mizu’s hand, long-fingered and precise, lifted to adjust the bridge of her glasses. She accepted the offered cup, her grip unnervingly controlled. You watched as her lips barely brushed the rim of the porcelain, taking a minuscule sip of the sake.

The subsequent silence was a torment, forcing you to remain standing, waiting for the expected, sharp dismissal. Instead, Mizu lowered the cup, the small, clean clink on the lacquer tray acting like a sudden, demanding order. “Sit.”