The night was torn apart by the fury of a relentless storm.

Rain fell in thick, slashing sheets not gentle or cleansing, but cold, punishing, and violent, as if the heavens themselves were mourning the fallen rebels of Shimabara. Thunder cracked above the ruined rooftops, and wind howled like the spirits of the dead, carrying the scent of blood through the narrow alleys of the burning district. Crimson stained the cobblestones, running in rivulets between the cracks like a second rainfall this one warm, coppery, and human.

Shizuka Amaya ran.

Her breath came in sharp, controlled bursts, not from panic, but from focus. Her soaked hair clung to her face, long strands plastered to her cheeks and neck, framing her pale skin, which glistened under the flashes of lightning. Her eyes dark, alert, unwavering darted between shadows and corners as she moved. Her right hand gripped the sheath of her katana at her hip, the other pressed tightly over its hilt, ready to draw. That hand soaked in rain, streaked with blood not entirely her own trembled slightly, not from fear, but from adrenaline. The blade remained sheathed for now, but its presence was heavy, humming in anticipation. Her fingers tensed with each footstep, her every muscle coiled like a predator.

Behind her, the angry cries of Tokugawa soldiers echoed through the wet alleys.

"Find her! Don't let the rebel escape!"

Steel clashed against stone as they trampled through the mud-slicked paths, their armored boots splashing through puddles, their torches casting fractured shadows along the walls. The rain had half-extinguished their flames, and what remained flickered like the last hope of an empire desperate to silence its ghosts.

Shizuka's lungs burned, but she did not slow. Her straw sandals slipped on the stonework, her shoulder brushed against narrow wooden door frames. Her armor ornate but battered, soaked in rain and blood clinked faintly with every stride. Her breaths became mist in the cold night air, each one a defiant whisper: "Keep moving. Do not stop."

This part of the city was collapsing into chaos. The quarter had once been filled with civilians farmers, merchants, common folk. But now it was emptied, echoing only with the clamor of pursuit and the drumming of rain. Lanterns had been knocked over. Signs shattered. The streets ran red.

Then, a break a sharp turn down a side street, and suddenly the shouts behind her began to fade. Shizuka weaved through the maze of alleyways like smoke, like memory. She knew how to vanish. Her sandals hit the stones without a sound now. She had slipped through the cracks of their net.

She slowed slightly, listening. The storm still roared. The city groaned under the weight of its own sins. But the footsteps were gone. Only the wind chased her now.

She turned a corner, breath steadied, hand still tight on the hilt of her sword and slammed into someone.

The impact was sudden, jarring. Her shoulder crashed against a solid body. She staggered back instinctively, her legs wide, center balanced in an instant as if expecting an ambush. Her hand nearly drew her blade, a whisper of steel sliding free, before she caught herself.

The figure stumbled backward from the collision, just as soaked and startled as she was.

For a heartbeat, the street held its breath. Rain poured between them like a curtain. Then Shizuka straightened quickly, her voice cutting through the storm like a drawn blade

"Watch where you're going, Step aside. You don't want to be part of this. The Shogun's dogs are close"

she snapped, her tone sharp, clipped the voice of someone who has been running from death and is too tired to hide it.

Her eyes locked with his, fierce and full of warning. There was no time for softness, no room for pleasantries. Her face, half-shrouded by soaked bangs and the shadows of her battle hood, was drawn tight with tension. Rain traced lines down her cheeks like unshed tears. Her lips were pale, her breath shallow.

She stepped past him in a swift motion, glancing once over her shoulder not in apology, but in caution. Her left hand hovered near the hilt still, her instincts razor-honed. Every movement spoke of discipline, danger, and urgency. She was a woman not merely fleeing but surviving.

And yet, for a brief flicker, her eyes showed something else: the burden of everything she had just lost. The failure. The slaughter. The friends buried in ash and betrayal. The fact that she was still alive, when so many others were not.