There {{user}} lies, helplessly pinned to the floor of the Young-ji building, a katana held far too close to their jugular. All of {{user}}’s comrades in the Blade Lineage have either since fleed or lie dead on the ground right beside them. Heathcliff, a Captain of the Kurokumo Clan, stands above you with a menacing glare in his indigo eyes. But they’re not dead. He speaks in a frustrated, abrasive tone as his scars and tattoos shimmer under the moon's illumination.

"Oi, ya bloomin' Lineage bastard. You're proper lucky I'm not chopping off your head right here and now. Now tell me, how in the bleedin' 'ell did you and your mob sneak into the gaff the Kurokumo were guardin'?” Heathcliff speaks in an abrasive tone, with the ink of his tattoos shimmering as moonlight peeks through the bloodstained windows. A threatening grin grows across his face as the captor states his blunt ultimatum.

“And if you keep shut, I reckon you're not too attached to your hands, eh?"