The injured man staggered, but he didn't fall. He swung back. His blade caught the first man across the ribs, and more red cord burst forth. It cascaded down the man's side.
This is absolutely incredible.
I had no idea how they were doing this. How the cord was hidden. How it released at exactly the right moment. The illusion was perfect—it looked like they were genuinely cutting each other apart.
Meanwhile, the woman screamed. She threw herself between them again, her arms spread wide, her kimono blazing. The men paused, chests heaving, their bodies draped in red cord that looked like gore.
"Please!" Her voice broke. "Please stop! I'll choose. I'll choose one of you. Just stop."
My mouth parted.
Who will she choose?
The men didn't lower their swords. Their eyes stayed locked on each other.
They don't care anymore. It's not about her now. It's about winning.
The woman's face crumpled.
She stepped back.
Her hand moved to the wide sash around her waist and emerged with something small.
A dagger.
Silver.
Gleaming.
It looked real.
Both men saw it, and their swords lowered.
What is she about to do?
The woman looked at them.
At the red cord draping their bodies.
At the destruction they'd caused for her.
And slowly—so slowly—she raised the dagger to her own throat.
Oh fuck. Girl, don’t do that.
The men stepped forward.
She stepped back.
The drum pounded.
They froze.
And then music lowered, and the koto played a single repeated note.
Mournful.
Final.
