Fish, Thieves, and First Impressions

The scent of grilled eel and sour pickles thickens the air. Crowds bustle under crimson awnings. Merchants shout. Children weave. And somewhere, someone's yelling—

The scream cut through the chatter.

"Thief! Stop that man!"

Not my business. That's what I told myself as I chewed on the last of my rice ball. It had more grit than flavor, and the nori was the kind that stuck to your teeth like an overenthusiastic mistress. I had better things to do, like finish this lunch and maybe nap away the hangover that was still doing a kabuki dance behind my eyes.

Then I saw her.

Highborn. Peach-colored silk. White obi. Hair tied with a fan-shaped clasp worth more than I'd seen in the past six months combined. She looked like a plum blossom that wandered into the butcher's market.

Three boys surrounded her. Not men. Not yet. But the kind who thought carrying blades made them men.

I sighed. Loudly.

"Oi," I called, voice half-dead and twice as annoyed, "if you're gonna rob a girl, at least do it with some style."

The closest thief turned. Too slow.

My sandal crashed into his stomach before he finished blinking.

He folded and his head cracked the corner of a fish barrel on the way down. A wet splat followed as he rolled into the street, daikon and mackerel scattering like startled pigeons.

The other two paused. One reached for his tanto.

Wrong move.

I caught his wrist mid-draw, slammed it into the edge of the stall, and let the knife clatter to the ground. I didn't stop there. His face made a nice thwack against a hanging string of dried squid.

The last one bolted. Smart. I didn't chase. Not worth the effort.

"Typical," I muttered, shaking pickled octopus off my sleeve. "No discipline in today's youth."

I turned to check on the girl—

—and nearly got my nose broken by a rolled-up fan smacking across my face.

 "You cretin! I had the situation well in hand!"

Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass, her cheeks redder than the lacquered lanterns above us.

She looked me up and down like I was something scraped off her sandals. "You barge in like some kind of sweaty street hero, ruin everything, and now look at me!"

I did. She was covered in fish guts and one of her hairpins had skewered a dried sardine.

I smiled. "You're welcome."

"Welcome?! Do you think I wanted help from a half-drunk ronin with seaweed in his face?"

I rubbed my chin. She was right. It was seaweed.

"Well, next time I'll let the delinquents give you a proper etiquette lesson."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then—

"Hmph!"

She crossed her arms and turned her nose skyward. One of her retainers, a tall man with the expression of someone perpetually smelling something sour, stepped forward. He looked ready to cut me in half.

"Kiyomi-sama," he said with the patience of a man used to this kind of thing, "perhaps we should...move along."

So that was her name. Kiyomi. It suited her, noble and thoroughly unimpressed with me.

She glanced at me one last time.

"I suppose this could've gone worse," she muttered. Then louder: "You! Ronin. Come with us."

I blinked. "Us?"

"You're being hired. Effective immediately."

"Didn't I just get smacked for interfering?"

"I'm allowed to change my mind."

I stared at her. Then at the tall guard. Then back at her.

This day was turning out stranger than usual. And I'd been stabbed in a love hotel before breakfast once.

"…Do I at least get lunch out of it?"

I followed them. Not because I was desperate for work, which I was, but because the whole thing reeked of intrigue. And perfume. Expensive perfume, the kind that stuck to the back of your throat.

Kiyomi strode ahead like she owned the street. Technically, she probably did. Her two retainers flanked her, giving me the occasional "touch her and die" glance like I was a stray dog foaming at the mouth.

I gave them my best smile. The one that said: you'll be dead before your sword clears the sheath.

They didn't smile back.

We turned off the main road into a shaded alley that smelled less like fish and more like old blood and secrets. The kind of place that begged for betrayal, or at least a stern talking-to. At the end of the alley stood a teahouse, quiet, proper, and screaming for something shady.

Kiyomi paused at the door, looking me up and down again.

"You will behave yourself."

"Define 'behave.'"

"I will slap you again."

"…Fair."

Inside, it was all polished wood and whispered conversations. The kind of establishment where every server bowed too low and spoke too softly, like their very existence was a public inconvenience.

We were led to a private room, paper walls, lacquer table, enough pillows to choke a courtesan.

Kiyomi sat like royalty. I slouched like scum.

The retainers took positions at the door.

She didn't waste time.

"You've heard of the Masuda clan?"

"Old money. Big swords. Bigger tempers. Got their hands in shipping, arms, and politics."

"And now," she said, steepling her fingers like a villain in a stage play, "they're kidnapping scholars."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're not exactly short on enemies, are you?"

She didn't flinch. "The Masuda are targeting intellectuals who support reform. Every arrest is legal on paper, every disappearance swept under a tatami mat. The magistrates do nothing."

I let that sit for a beat. "And you want me to what? Break into a noble's estate? Kill some people? Rescue a few bookworms and call it a day?"

"Protect me," she said simply.

"From?"

"Everyone."

That shut me up for a second.

Not because I was touched. I wasn't. I've been a lot of things, butcher, killer, assasin but I was never a protector. That was a title for heroes and fools. I was neither.

But looking at her—too proud for her own good, hiding fear behind fan-snaps and insults—it was hard not to remember other people I failed to protect.

People who didn't get to walk away.

I took a deep breath, let it out slow.

"Fine. I'm in."

She gave a single nod, tight and serious.

Then added: "But you will bathe before entering the palace grounds."

"You wound me."

"Not yet," she said sweetly. "But I'm sure I'll get the chance."

The paper doors slid open with a whisper.

Kiyomi stepped out first, her silken sleeves brushing the frame like a noble's version of a war banner. Her two retainers followed—quiet, watchful, too clean for a place like this. I brought up the rear, mostly because I liked keeping everyone where I could see them. And because I'd rather be the one doing the stabbing than the one getting stabbed.

Y'know. Old habits.

The market had quieted down. Stalls were closing up. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their warm glow painting the street in shades of red and gold. The kind of setting people wrote poems about.

The kind of setting I knew better than to trust.

We were halfway down the alley when the scent hit me. Not fish, not sweat, not piss.

Oil. Cold steel. Breath held too long.

"Down," I said.

Kiyomi didn't move. "Excuse me?"

So I did the polite thing and shoved her.

The arrow flew where her head used to be.

The retainer on her right went for his blade, too slow. A shape dropped from the rooftop and cracked his skull against the cobblestones before he finished drawing.

The one on her left shouted something noble and stupid—charged blindly into the shadows. I heard the sound of a blade meeting flesh. Then nothing.

Kiyomi stared in frozen silence. Her lips moved, but no words came out.

I yanked her behind a stall, drew my katana in one hand and my temper in the other.

"That enough proof for you, princess?!"

Three figures emerged from the alley's mouth. Plain clothes, no family crests—professionals. One of them was holding a short bow. Another had a chain wrapped around both fists.

The third just smiled.

"I thought they were supposed to be protecting her," the archer said lazily. "Not delivering her."

"Maybe he's smart," said the one with the chain. "Maybe he knows she's worth more alive."

I spat on the ground. "You know what I'm worth?"

They paused.

"Your teeth," I said, raising my blade, "after I knock 'em down your throat."

The chain came first. I sidestepped the swing and caught it with the edge of my scabbard, twisted, pulled—his footing failed him before his balance did. I helped him meet the pavement with a solid thud to the chin.

The archer drew, but I was already moving. Steel glinted. Something stung at my shoulder. Not deep. I could still swing.

And I did.

The third one blocked—barely. Our blades sparked, danced, screamed. This one had real training. That just meant I got to enjoy myself.

"Who sent you?" I asked, locking blades.

"You'll be dead before—"

I headbutted him.

He staggered back, nose broken, blood leaking into his mouth.

"I said," I growled, "who sent you?"

That's when I heard it behind me. A voice. A chant. Quiet but cutting, like the softest scream.

Kiyomi.

The wind died. The shadows thickened. And a sigil burst to life beneath our feet—ink and spirit weaving in the air like fireflies made of scripture.

The remaining assassin screamed. Not from pain—from terror.

He turned and ran. Straight into a stone wall that hadn't been there a second ago.

Kiyomi was standing, panting, arms raised and trembling. Her eyes were wide, terrified of her own strength.

I lowered my blade, breathing hard. Blood dripped from my arm, my shoulder, my pride.

"…Not bad for a scholar."

She looked at me like I'd slapped her. "You—you shoved me!"

"You're welcome."