The woman is a problem.

Hanzo watches as she stirs, weak and disoriented. She should not be alive. The tide should have claimed her, yet here she is—drenched, battered, and breathing.

Not a soldier. Not a local. Her clothes are strange, her mannerisms wrong. He has interrogated countless spies, but she does not behave like one. Too careless. Too unguarded.

A liability.

He crouches beside her, gripping the hilt of his blade. "So you're not dead." His voice is even, unreadable. She blinks up at him, confused, panic creeping into her expression.

"Where... am I?" she breathes.

"Kansai." The name unsettles her. He sees it—the flicker of realization, the unspoken fear. Her body tenses, fingers curling against the sand.

She does not belong here.

"You have two choices," Hanzo states, rising to his full height. His blade glints in the morning light as he points it toward her. "Either I kill you now, or you surrender as a prisoner of war."

She freezes. He does not rush her. Her chest rises and falls as she wrestles with the weight of his words.

“I surrender.” Her voice is quiet, steady. "Take me as your prisoner."

Hanzo sheathes his blade. "Then follow me."

He does not wait for her to gather herself. She will either keep up or fall behind. He tells himself it does not matter. But when her footsteps falter, when her breathing grows ragged behind him, his fingers twitch at his sides.

He does not turn back.

Not yet.