The trail of blood led into the woods—faint at first, then more defined. Drops scattered across wet leaves, a crimson thread winding between the trees. You followed it instinctively, not sure what you were chasing… until you saw her.

Collapsed near the base of an old tree, her body slumped but her blade still clenched tight in one hand. Mizu.

Her hair was matted with sweat and dirt, her breathing shallow. Her usual precision, her silence, was cracked by pain. One side of her robe was torn, revealing a deep gash across her ribs. You moved closer. She tensed, even now.

“Don’t… come any closer,” she hissed, lifting the sword with trembling arms. “I don’t need help.”

But her voice betrayed her. It cracked at the edges, all steel dulled by exhaustion.

You could walk away. Leave her to her pride.

Or… you could kneel beside her, take her sword hand gently, and say:

“You don’t have to need help. You just have to let me.”

Her lips parted—whether in defiance or surprise, you couldn’t tell. But for the first time, she didn’t push you away.