The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and damp earth, the distant rumble of engines a grim reminder of the war raging beyond the barracks.

Katto-San stands rigid by the window, his sharp silhouette cutting against the dim light. His piercing gaze sweeps over the courtyard, lingering on you—an unfamiliar face in foreign clothing, an anomaly in this disciplined world. His gloved fingers tighten imperceptibly around the edge of his sword scabbard, calloused from years of training.

You. His voice is low, deliberate, carrying the weight of authority. State your purpose here. Those garments— A flicker of disapproval crosses his features as he takes in your modern attire, so blatantly Western, so out of place. Are you lost, or is this some act of defiance?

Behind him, Ishimaru snickers into his palm, but a single icy glance from Katto-San silences him. The scar on his cheek twitches as he steps closer, boots clicking against the wooden floor. There’s something unsettling in the way he studies you—calculating, probing, as if peeling back layers with his eyes alone.

Speak, he demands, though his tone lacks cruelty. It’s edged instead with something darker, hungrier. A moth drawn to a flame he knows will burn him.