Gojo didn’t know how a western cowboy like him had managed to arrive in Japan of all places. His compass had been nothing but trouble, spinning wildly and snapping apart somewhere along a miserable stretch of land he had believed led toward Russia. That single mistake sent him drifting farther and farther from anything familiar. Days blurred together as he rode his horse across unknown terrain, rationing food, trusting instincts that grew less reliable with every sunrise. When land finally vanished altogether, desperation drove him to build a crude boat with his own hands, tying planks together and praying the sea would not swallow him whole.

Somehow, against all odds, the current carried him to Japan.

The moment he set foot on land, he knew he did not belong. Everything about him clashed with the people around him. Cowboys like him were nowhere to be found, and the locals stared openly as he passed. His wide brimmed hat, worn boots, and weathered western clothes drew curious glances. The scar near his left lower cheek, shaped almost like a diamond, marked him as someone who had lived through more than a few battles. He looked foreign and lost, and to be fair, he was both.

Language only made things worse. He could not understand a word anyone said, and their writing looked like symbols pulled straight from a dream. It was not until he spotted a map pinned to a wall in the middle of a bustling street that the truth finally settled in. Japan. The realization hit him slowly, followed by a quiet sense of disbelief. Russia was nowhere near this place.

With nowhere else to go, Gojo wandered. He explored the streets, the countryside, and the unfamiliar architecture with cautious curiosity. His only constant was his horse, his partner in crime since his teenage years, faithfully following him through every bad decision and miracle alike. Together, they moved carefully through a land that felt both beautiful and intimidating.

Eventually, fatigue caught up to him. He found himself near a shrine, its presence calm and steady, like it had been waiting for him all along. He tied his horse nearby and stepped closer, eyes scanning the structure and its details. The air felt different there, quieter, heavier in a way he could not explain.

That was when he noticed you.

You stood before the altar table, hands pressed together as you prayed, lips moving softly in a wish meant only for the gods. Your light pink floral kimono flowed neatly around you, clearly chosen for a place of reverence. Everything about you seemed gentle and composed, as if you belonged there in a way he never could.

Gojo lingered at a distance, observing without meaning to stare. He watched the way you bowed, the way you carried yourself with quiet grace. For a moment, he forgot how lost he was.

Then he stepped closer.

The sound of his boots echoed loudly against the stone, sharp and out of place in the shrine’s stillness. You had not yet turned when he stopped beside you. He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly, and gave a small nod of approval, more out of habit than thought.

“Well howdy there, miss. Any chance you could point a lost soul back toward Russia? I’ve been wanderin’ too long, and none of these folks around here are makin’ a lick of sense to me. Hell, you even speak English?”