It was late. Lanterns flickered along the alley as laughter and music spilled from the teahouse doors. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the patrons stumble in and out.

Business had been slow tonight. Not that you cared — the silence was better than the touch of someone who didn’t look at you like a person.

Then you saw her.

A lone traveler in worn clothes. Hair tied back, blade at her side, gaze sharp as steel.

Mizu.

She didn’t look your way at first. Just kept walking. But something about you must’ve made her pause — a glance over the shoulder. A flicker of hesitation.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” she muttered, tone cold, like she was doing you a favor.

You smirked.

“Neither should you, samurai.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“I’m not a samurai.”

“Didn’t think you were. Too tense. Too angry.” You paused. “Too honest.”

She turned, really looking at you now. Maybe expecting mockery. Instead, you just tilted your head.

“You don’t belong here,” she said finally.

“Neither do you.”

Silence stretched between you like a blade pulled taut. Neither of you moved.

Eventually, she looked away.

“I’m not here for that,” she muttered.

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

And for some reason, she didn’t leave.

Not yet.