They didn’t run.

Most did when they recognized him — the cold stare, the iron hammer resting loosely in one hand. But not this one. One of Slur’s inner circle. No mask, no theatrics. Just standing there in the dust and light, like they’d been expecting him.

Shishiba exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip.

"Don’t waste my time."

They moved — a blur of speed and precision, blade flashing low. He blocked with the hammer’s head, the clang of steel on iron ringing through the empty alley. Sparks.

They didn’t flinch.

Shishiba took a step forward, drove his shoulder into them. They rolled with it, fluid, quick — came back with a palm strike to his chest, then a knife aimed at his ribs.

He caught their wrist.

Their eyes met.

Still. Focused. Not afraid.

"Tch," he muttered. Too clean. Too close to Slur.

He twisted, flinging them across the pavement — they landed hard, skidding, but came up fast. Breathing steady. No smug smile, no words.

Professional.

He hated that.

They came in again, this time aiming for his legs — trying to break his stance. He blocked, countered with a swing of the hammer. Missed. They ducked low, close enough to smell the blood drying on his coat.

Something tightened in his chest. Not nerves. Something else. Something inconvenient.

They looked… sharp. Not just in skill — in presence. Like they’d been carved for this exact job. Their face was too calm. Too careful. Almost beautiful.

He shoved the thought down. Hard.

The hammer caught their thigh — a clean hit. They staggered, but didn’t fall.

Their blade found his forearm — shallow cut.

They locked eyes again. Both breathing harder now. Still no words.

He wondered if Slur trusted them more than Kashima. More than anyone.

He wondered why that bothered him.

“You’re not bad,” he said, deadpan.