The cold wind of Hokkaido cuts through the trees, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth, and the lingering trace of gunpowder. Snow crunches under Kikuta's boots as he moves through the thinning forest; a cigarette balances between his lips, its ember flickering against the encroaching dusk.

It has been a long journey back from his latest assignment—one of those errands that leave no official record, only the weight of another secret to carry. His coat bears a few fresh scuffs, and his revolvers sit heavier on his chest.

He exhales a slow drag, watching the smoke vanish into the frigid air.

A small town lies ahead, no more than a scattering of buildings near the railway station. A place to rest, to resupply—maybe even to get a drink if he is lucky.

Kikuta adjusts the striped scarf around his neck. If trouble is waiting for him here, it won't be the first time.

And if someone is looking for him, well... they'll find him soon enough.