The only sound in the cramped apartment was the whisper of steel cutting air. Shiiing. Sasaki moved through the kata. His motions were languid, graceful. Deadly. Outside his window, the city screamed. Holo-ads painted his skin in shifting stripes of garish pink and electric blue. This was his sanctuary. In a world synced to the relentless digital pulse of the Nexus, this was his only prayer.
Here, he wasn't the forgotten, illegitimate son of the Blacklock CEO. He was just a man. And his sword.
The first bullet shattered the window.
It tore through the cheap polymer with a sound like a rotten tooth cracking. It passed so close to his temple he felt the heat-shimmer of its wake. The flat crack of the report came a second later. A perfect sniper shot. For a normal man.
Sasaki didn't flinch. His feet settled into a deeper stance. His mind, once lost in meditation, now coldly calculated trajectories.
The second shot came. A glint of tungsten aimed between his eyes.
Time didn't slow. His perception simply expanded. The scent of ozone. The feel of the textured wrap on his sword. The bullet's path. It all became a single, undeniable line.
His body moved before the thought was complete.
The katana flashed. A silver arc in the neon gloom. It wasn't a wild swing, but a short, impossibly precise draw-cut. The monomolecular edge met the bullet with a clean shink. A single, brilliant spark flared. Two halves of the mangled projectile whirred past his ears and thudded into the wall behind him, smoking.
He stood, sword now held ready, his breathing even. The window was a gaping maw. Three figures dropped through the opening. They landed with the silence of spiders. Their form-fitting gear absorbed the light. Their helmets glowed with a single, malevolent red sensor strip. In their hands: Overload Stun-batons. Weapons that could fry a nervous system to ash.
So, Sasaki thought, a cold smile touching his lips. The other little heirs of the Blacklock dynasty are cleaning house. Can't have the old man's bastard cluttering the inheritance.
He watched them fan out. "You rely too much on your toys," he said, his voice calm. "They make you predictable."
One lunged. The baton hummed, making the air crackle. To a chromed-up street-samurai, it would be a blur. To Sasaki, it was a clumsy, telegraphed move. He sidestepped. The baton passed harmlessly by his ribs. His katana flicked out. The movement was minimal. Barely there. The tip sliced through the primary power conduit on the baton's hilt. A fizzle. A pop. The weapon died. The assassin stared at his useless tool for a fatal half-second. Sasaki didn't grant him another. A reverse swing. The man crumpled.
The remaining two attacked together. A pincer movement. One high, one low. Sasaki dropped into a crouch, his sword a whirlwind of defensive arcs. He deflected a thrust at his knee, the impact jarring his arm. He used the momentum, spinning, his blade tracing a horizontal line that forced the second assassin to leap back.
"Your tech is telling you my vitals are spiking," he taunted, his breath even. "It's lying. This is my baseline."
He feinted high. The third assassin took the bait, bringing his baton up to block. A trap. Sasaki changed the angle mid-cut. The blade dropped and severed the assassin's femoral artery. A wet, choked gasp. The man fell.
The final one had drawn a heavy pistol. The muzzle flashed. Sasaki was already moving. He didn't try to cut the bullet. He simply wasn't there when it arrived. Two steps closed the distance. The assassin's eyes, visible behind the red sensor, widened in pure terror. This wasn't in the mission parameters.
Sasaki's final cut was kesa-giri. The diagonal robe-cut. Clean. Efficient. Final. The assassin dropped.
Silence returned. It was heavier now. Thick with the smell of blood and ozone. The neon from outside continued its cheerful, oblivious dance.
Sasaki stood amidst the bodies. The razor-sharp focus drained away, leaving a familiar hollow ache. He walked to the small, traditional alcove in the corner. A single, real bonsai. A simple wooden stand. He carefully cleaned the blade. A cloth. A drop of oil. The ritual was sacred. Every trace of his attackers was wiped away. The steel restored to a mirror polish.
Only when the katana was resheathed with a soft click did he turn back. He knelt. The blood seeped into the fabric of his pants, warm and damp. He ignored it. He placed his hands together and closed his eyes.
He wasn't a religious man. The world had outgrown gods, replacing them with corporations and code. But the old ways held a truth that transcended faith.
"May the turbulence of your lives find calm," he whispered into the heavy silence. "May your souls, unburdened by the data-ghosts of this world, cross the silent sea and find peace."
He remained there for a long moment. A relic praying for the lost in a world that had already forgotten how to lose.
The fight was over.
The war, he knew, had just begun.