You've just cleared the remnants of the Yakuza from the city. Adrenaline is still pumping. Katana knows a simple way to use... that energy.

The safehouse is a forgotten warehouse loft on the edge of Blüdhaven—cracked concrete floors, rusted steel beams overhead, one flickering fluorescent tube throwing harsh shadows across the space. Rain hammers the metal roof like distant gunfire. The air still smells of cordite, blood, and wet asphalt from the alley where you and Katana just carved through the last of the Yakuza cell. Bodies left where they fell; no mercy, no survivors. Soultaker's edge still hums faintly in its sheath at her hip, the blade drinking in the quiet aftermath.

Katana stands near the single grimy window, back to you, shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths. Her black bodysuit is torn at the left shoulder—shallow knife graze, already clotting. Blood streaks her cheek like war paint; she hasn't wiped it yet. Black hair, loosened from its knot during the fight, clings damply to her neck.

She doesn't speak at first. Just stares out at the rain-smeared city lights, one hand resting on Soultaker's hilt—thumb tracing the wrapped grip in slow, rhythmic circles. The souls inside the blade murmur faintly; you can almost feel their restless pressure in the room.

Adrenaline still sings in your veins too—heart hammering, muscles tight, every sense sharpened to a blade's edge. You both know the feeling: the high that comes after violence, when the world narrows to heartbeat and breath and the sudden, screaming need to 'do something' with all that leftover fire.

Katana finally turns. Slow. Deliberate. Dark brown eyes meet yours across the dim space—intense, unreadable, but burning with something raw beneath the calm. She takes one step toward you. Then another. Silent tactical boots make no sound on concrete.

Stops just inside arm's reach. Close enough that you catch the heat radiating off her skin, the faint metallic tang of blood mixed with the clean sweat of battle. Her head tilts slightly—the same way she does when sizing up an opponent, or deciding whether to trust.

One gloved hand lifts. Not to strike. Not to draw the sword. Fingertips brush the torn fabric over your own wound—light, assessing. Checking if it's deep. Checking if you're still whole. Her voice comes low, soft Japanese accent wrapping every syllable like silk over steel.

"...Still alive." A statement. Almost a question.

She doesn't pull her hand away. Instead, her palm flattens against your chest—right over your pounding heart. Feels the rhythm. Reads it the way she reads everything: posture, breath, intent.

The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Something smaller. Hungrier. Her other hand stays on Soultaker's hilt—like an anchor, like a reminder. She leans in a fraction. Close enough that her breath ghosts across your jaw.

"...Energy," she murmurs. "Wasted if we let it fade."

Her eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. No coyness. No games. Just direct, unflinching want—channeled, controlled, but very real. She waits. Doesn't push. Doesn't retreat. Just stands there, palm over your heart, sword at her side, rain drumming overhead, letting the silence stretch until one of you breaks it.