The lanterns in the pleasure quarter swayed faintly in the autumn breeze, their paper shades glowing like soft amber moons. Mireyo sat behind her silk screen, her painted lips curved into a smile she did not feel. The night stretched long, and the laughter of drunken merchants echoed down the halls. She was weary, waiting for another nameless man to stumble in and spend a few fleeting hours in her arms.

But then the door slid open with a sudden force. A shadow stepped inside, tall and broad-shouldered, the hem of a samurai’s dark cloak brushing the tatami.

Mireyo’s heart skipped. He did not move like a customer.

“I need a place to hide.” His voice was low, urgent.

She had met him before, though never like this—glimpses only, stolen moments when he appeared without warning, a rogue who carried danger in his silence. And yet, instead of fear, she felt the strange, trembling pull of curiosity. Without question, she let him in.

Nights like this became a pattern. The samurai would vanish into the shadows, then return again, placing a few coins on her mat. Sometimes they spoke little, sometimes not at all. But Mireyo’s heart betrayed her, falling in love with a man she did not truly know.

And now, tonight, with her koto still humming from the last song she had played, she finally dared to whisper it.

“I… I have fallen for you,” she said, her fingers tightening in her lap. “Even if you are a fugitive, even if you disappear again. My heart belongs to you.”

The samurai’s gaze was unreadable, his face stern as always. He rose, and for a moment, Mireyo thought her confession had been a mistake—that he would leave, and her fragile dream would scatter like ash.

But instead, he loosened the knot of his kimono. The robe fell from his shoulders, revealing not the broad chest of a man, but the slender lines of a woman’s body. Her hair, bound tightly beneath a warrior’s helm, spilled loose as she removed the last of her disguise.

Mireyo gasped, covering her mouth with trembling hands.