Ryu swept the floor, his amber eyes drifting over the crowd. His black hair hung unbound, brushing against the collar of his tattered kimono. He moved quietly, but the thoughts in his head were anything but still. The Ox's enforcers still clung to his memory like shadows. And now there was Taro's warning about a ronin—an unease that settled in his chest like the moment before a storm.
His eyes flicked toward the storeroom door. Behind it, wrapped in dusty cloth, lay Taro's old katana. Its presence haunted him. Not just steel, but possibility.
At the counter, Hana fanned herself with a lacquered fan, her faded cherry-blossom kimono catching flickers of lanternlight. "You're too quiet tonight, Ryu," she said, half-teasing. "Still brooding over Kenta?"
Ryu kept sweeping, the bristles rasping against the floorboards. "Not worth the breath. They'll come back. Always do."
Her smirk faltered, just a little. "Yeah. And Taro's jumpy. You see him earlier? Kept checking the alley like something's breathing down his neck."
Ryu's fingers tightened around the broom handle. "That ronin he mentioned?"
"Could be." She glanced toward the door. "Or maybe just ghosts. Taro's got a past he doesn't like people digging into."
Yumi passed by, her tray stacked with sake cups. The bruises on her cheeks were hidden under pale powder, but her eyes stayed fixed to the floor. Her patched kimono hung loose around her frame. A drunk merchant reached out, hand greedy.
Before his fingers touched, Ryu stepped in, gaze hard. The man froze, then grunted and looked away, muttering curses.
Yumi gave a tiny, grateful smile. "Thank you, Ryu."
"Anytime," he said, his voice low, steady. The way the slums gnawed at people like her—it made something burn in his chest.
Hana joined them, her voice gentler now. "Yumi, you've got to push back a little. They'll keep testing you otherwise."
Yumi's hands trembled. "I try, Hana. I do. It's just… scary."
Ryu nodded. "You're not alone in this. We've got your back."
Yumi looked at him, her eyes shining with something soft. "I know."
The brothel's door slammed open.
A man staggered in, broad-shouldered and flushed with drink. His kimono had once been expensive, but now bore stains and grime. At his hip swung a katana—worn, but real. The room's noise thinned. Merchants grew quiet, shifting in their seats.
Ryu's stomach tightened.
"Where's Taro?" the man called out, loud and slurred. "Need a drink. And a warm body."
Hana's expression soured. She leaned closer to Ryu. "That's Jiro. Used to be a samurai—or so they say. Drinks too much, but that blade's not for show."
Ryu watched as Jiro dropped into a table, his katana clinking against the wood. "Used to be?"
"That's the word," Hana murmured. "Taro knows him. Said Jiro still talks like he's got a master. But he doesn't."
Yumi approached Jiro's table, her tray shaking. "S-sake, sir?"
Jiro gave her a long, slow grin. "Pretty little thing, aren't you? Come closer."
Yumi hesitated, but placed the cup down carefully. Jiro's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
She gasped, the tray tipping and clattering.
"Don't be shy now," he slurred, pulling her closer. "Sit with me. Let's talk."
Ryu dropped the broom, heart pounding. "Let her go."
Jiro turned, his eyes bloodshot but glittering. "Well now," he said, grinning wider. "The brothel boy speaks. Got a little fire in you."
He yanked Yumi closer, hand snaking around her waist.
"Your mother," he added, voice oily, "wasn't she one of these girls? A slum whore, opening her legs for whatever noble could pay?"
The words hit like a blade. Ryu's mother—just a whisper of a memory, no name, no grave—was suddenly laid bare before strangers, mocked.
"Say another word," Ryu growled, fists clenched, "and I'll shut your mouth myself."
Hana grabbed his arm, voice urgent. "Ryu, don't. He's drunk, but not slow."
"Please," Yumi whimpered, trying to pull away.
Jiro laughed, his grip tightening. "I like a little fight," he said, shoving her against the table. His other hand fumbled at her kimono.
Something snapped inside Ryu.
He lunged, slamming into Jiro with his shoulder. The older man toppled from the chair, Yumi stumbling back, sobbing. Cups and sake crashed to the floor. Ryu's fist connected with Jiro's jaw, sending the man sprawling.
"Ryu, stop!" Hana cried, dragging Yumi behind the counter. "He's got a sword!"
Jiro staggered to his feet, laughter gone. His katana hissed from its sheath.
"You little rat," he spat. "I'll carve you up."
Ryu didn't flinch. He grabbed a broken chair leg from the floor, gripping it like a bokken. "Come on, then."
The room emptied. Merchants scattered. Yumi and Hana huddled behind the counter. Hana's voice trembled. "Ryu, he's a samurai. This isn't a game."
Jiro lunged, his blade a blur. Ryu ducked, feeling it graze his shoulder. Pain flared, warm and wet. But he didn't stop. He swung the chair leg hard, cracking it against Jiro's arm.
The older man grunted, eyes flashing with real anger now.
Ryu kept moving. Instinct more than training. He aimed for the knee—connected. Jiro roared and slashed wildly. Ryu dove aside, the blade slicing into a table behind him.
"You're nothing!" Jiro shouted. "A whore's son playing warrior. You think that makes you strong?"
Ryu didn't answer. He kept circling, looking for an opening. The makeshift weapon was light, clumsy. But his mind went to the storeroom. The katana waiting in the dark. He needed it. Not just the blade—but what it meant.
Jiro charged again. Ryu ducked under the arc and slammed the chair leg into his wrist. The katana wavered—but didn't fall.
Then the front door crashed open.
Taro strode in, his tanto gleaming. His scarred face was locked in fury.
"Jiro!" he barked. "Drop the blade. Or I'll take your hand myself."
Jiro froze. He laughed, but it was hollow. "Taro. Old friend. Just… disciplining the help."
Taro stepped forward, eyes like stone. "You touch Yumi again, or speak to Ryu like that, and I'll bleed you dry in this room. Now get out."
Ryu stood panting, the chair leg shaking in his grip.
Jiro glanced between them, then slowly sheathed his blade. "Not worth my time," he muttered. "But I'll remember this. Both of you."
Taro didn't blink. "You come back, and you'll leave in pieces."
Jiro stumbled out, boots scraping down the alley. Silence followed, thick and heavy.
Yumi sobbed, clinging to Hana. Ryu dropped the chair leg, blood trailing down his arm. His chest heaved. He had stood against a samurai. A drunk, maybe—but still a samurai. And he had lived.
Taro turned to him, face tight. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Ryu met his gaze, voice hoarse. "He was hurting her. Talking about my mother. I wasn't going to stand by."
Taro's tone softened, but only slightly. "Brave," he said. "But you'll get yourself killed. You're not ready."
Ryu looked away, pride warring with shame. He had acted on instinct—but he didn't regret it.
Hana helped Yumi to a stool. "Did he…?"
Yumi shook her head through tears. "No. Thanks to Ryu."
Hana looked at Ryu, her teasing voice replaced by something gentler. "You're a damn fool. But a good one."
Taro exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Clean it up. We're closing early tonight."
As they swept and gathered the broken pieces, Hana whispered, "That was bad—but did you see Taro's face? When he came in? He's worried about more than just Jiro."
Ryu followed Taro's silhouette at the door, watching the alley. "The ronin. He thinks he's coming soon."
Hana's voice turned grim. "If it's a real one—not just some drunken fool—then we're in trouble."
Yumi spoke quietly. "But why? Taro's not a bad man. Why would someone come after him?"
Ryu didn't have an answer. But he felt it—something coming. Something dark. He straightened. "Whatever it is—we protect each other. No matter what."
Hana gave a soft smile. "Spoken like a samurai. Hope you've got the steel to match the words."
Ryu didn't respond. But the weight of the storeroom blade pressed on his thoughts. Not yet—but soon. The time would come.
Outside, cherry blossoms fell gently into the street's filth. The slums still loomed. But far off, somewhere past the grime, was light.
Ryu's path was opening. Step by bloody step.