I take one step down.
Then another.
Tomoe finally moves.
She steps onto the stairs with short, measured strides, every motion disciplined, deliberate. No hesitation. No wasted breath. When she reaches the open space at the base of the stairwell, she stops.
The bodies might as well not exist.
She reaches back and draws her katana in one smooth pull, the steel whispering free. She grips it with both hands, blade angled down, posture flawless.
I mirror her.
I adjust my stance, feet sliding slightly on blood-slick stone, and bring my katana up in a two-handed grip. The noise of the building fades. No alarms. No engines. Just us and the echo of breath.
We circle.
No words.
This isn’t a fight. It’s an ending.
Tomoe moves first.
One precise step. Two hands firm on the hilt as her katana flashes toward me, a perfect cut meant to endthis cleanly.
I slip just inside the arc, turning my shoulder as her blade passes where my throat was a heartbeat ago.
And I come around.
One sweeping strike.
Steel bites deep and true.
Tomoe freezes.
Her eyes widen, locked on mine, not in fear but in sudden, absolute understanding. For a moment, it almost looks like she’s tilting her head, as if considering something she’s never had to consider before.
Then it keeps going.
Her head slides from her shoulders and drops, thumping wetly against the stone. It rolls once. Stops.
Her body remains standing for a breath longer, perfectly upright, as if refusing to accept the truth.
Then it crumples at my feet.
Silence seals the space.
I stand there, chest rising and falling, blood dripping steadily from my side, the weight of the moment settling into my bones. I give a small nod.
Respect.
I let the katana fall from my fingers. It clatters across the floor and skids away.
My jacket lies where I dropped it earlier. I pick it up, take one look at the blood-soaked leather, and curse under my breath.
“Fuck.”
I drop it back to the ground.
