The two guards outside the master bedroom died without a sound, faces frozen in rictuses of shock. Katsuko flicked the blood off her blades and stepped over the threshold. The soft sound of breathing greeted her: Masaaki and his wife, asleep behind the silk curtains drawn around their large canopy bed. Moonlight filtered through the maple trees outside and fell in dappled patterns on the thick carpet. Paintings in extravagant frames hung on the walls, details lost in the shifting shadows. An intricately carved jade dragon loomed on its marble base in the center of the room; its cut ruby eyes gleamed down at Katsuko in watchful censure.

Katsuko crossed the floor on silent feet, passing by a large desk laden with scrolls and calligraphy brushes. A framed picture next to the inkwell caught her eye; unlike the rest of the art in Masaaki’s room, this one was simple, rendered on lined notebook paper. A child’s clumsy hand had drawn crayon roses arranged in a circle; a blob with a tail that might have been a cat frolicked in the center. The clarity that directed her focus during missions wavered like the surface of a lake, weakening enough for one selfish, human thought to coalesce:

Thank god I’m not the one in charge of killing the kids.

Shame prickled down Katsuko’s spine and curdled into a stone in her gut. She’d executed children before, snapped fragile necks and stopped young hearts. Hesitation was a weakness—and she was not weak.

Somehow, though, the memory of the Fujiyama house (blood-soaked tatami, the glimpse of a blue sundress in the space underneath the floor) lingered.

Her katana hilt creaked in her grip. Katsuko forced herself to turn away.

Masaaki and his wife slumbered on. Katsuko sheathed her katana and pushed aside the curtains, flipping her kodachi so the blade pointed downwards. Two clean strikes; Masaaki wouldn’t feel a thing—

Except he wasn’t there.

The even, rhythmic sound of two sleepers breathing didn’t stop, but Masaaki’s bed was empty of occupants, blankets folded and pillows propped up against the headboard. Katsuko’s heart pounded in her chest.

On the other side of the house, Raidou’s chakra signature flickered and bloomed open, its owner either too wounded or too distracted to conceal its presence.

Instinct forced Katsuko into action. Dimly, as if on the other side of a fog, she saw herself slice the edge of her kodachi in a smooth motion across the palm of her free hand. Blood welled up in a thin line through the lacerated fabric of her glove, followed by stinging pain. It was enough to knock her back into her own head; enough to feel the web of illusion settling over her mind. She slammed her kodachi back into its sheath and slapped her palms together.

“Kai!”