In a breath, the blade left the scabbard. Not with violence, but with intention . The edge kissed the air, slicing a falling petal from the vase beside her. The cut was so clean, the petal didn't even realize it was dead until it hit the floor.
She didn't announce herself. She didn't need to. The katana in her grip was an extension of her will—three feet of folded steel, honed over a thousand hours of battodo . katana works it
And then, she worked it.