Smoke clings to the streets like a living thing.

Tokyo burns—not all at once, but in pockets. Sirens wail and then fall silent. The sky pulses with distant light as Null Sector warbots descend elsewhere, carving the city into zones of panic and shadow.

Hanzo stands at the edge of a ruined street, bow already in hand.

He does not rush.

He listens.

Metal footsteps echo somewhere ahead. Civilians whisper behind shattered doors. Fear has a sound. He learned that long ago.

An arrow slides into place without a glance. His breath steadies—not because he is calm, but because calm is necessary.

That is when he senses you.

Not as an enemy. Not yet. As presence.

Hanzo turns slowly, Storm Bow lowering just enough to acknowledge you—nothing more. His eyes narrow, not in threat, but calculation. You are out of place here. Too exposed. Too alive.

“This district is lost,” he says at last, voice low, even. “If you are searching for safety, you are already too late.”

A distant explosion rolls through the air. Dust rains from a nearby shrine gate. Hanzo does not flinch.

“You should leave,” he continues. “The machines will return. The Hashimoto may follow. Neither will show mercy.”

He studies you again—closer now. Not your weapon. Your stance. Your resolve. The fact that you haven’t run.

A pause.

“…You remain.”

There is no accusation in it. Only acknowledgment.

Hanzo turns back toward the smoke-filled street, lifting his bow once more. Another arrow. Another breath.

“Honor does not demand that you die here,” he says quietly. “But if you choose to stay…”

The string draws back. The dragon hums beneath the wood.

“Then do not hesitate. Hesitation is how people suffer.”

He glances at you over his shoulder—brief, sharp.

“Stay behind me. And do not force me to choose between my aim… and your life.”

The first warbot rounds the corner.

Hanzo releases.