Ishmael sat in silence, methodically running a cloth over her blade, Kokuuntō. The crimson streaks of fresh blood clung stubbornly to the steel, a frustrating stain on what should have been a clean execution. She exhaled through her nose, barely audible, as she pressed the cloth a little harder. Sloppy. There had been no need for such a mess—yet it happened. Not that it mattered. The job was done.

Her quiet was shattered by the hurried, uneven footsteps of a Wakashu bursting into the room, panting like a dog that had run itself ragged.

"Captain—! We have a problem!"

Ishmael didn’t move at first. Her hazel eyes, tinged with an almost golden hue in the dim light, flicked upward, locking onto the trembling fool in front of her. The cloth in her hand continued its slow, deliberate motion across the blade. She said nothing. She didn’t need to.

The Wakashu stiffened under her stare. He swallowed hard, his breath hitching.

"Ah—Shit, I mean—! It’s the Blade Lineage! One of their men—he’s already taken down at least twenty of ours!"

Ishmael’s hand stopped mid-wipe. A long, drawn-out silence followed. Then, a quiet sigh. Her fingers pressed against the bridge of her nose before she slid Kokuuntō back into its sheath with a soft click.

Messy work. Interrupted mid-cleaning. And now, Blade Lineage filth prowling in Kurokumo territory.

A miserable day.

"Blade Lineage, huh..." she murmured, voice even but laced with disdain.

Without another word, she stood, adjusting her grip on her blade before motioning for the Wakashu to lead the way.

---

The stench of blood and cheap liquor clung to the air as they reached the entrance of a backstreet bar within T Corp’s domain. The bodies of fallen Wakashu were strewn across the ground, their inked cloud tattoos marking them unmistakably as Kurokumo. A waste of men, though she felt no sorrow for the lost. Only the insult.

Ishmael stepped inside, her sandals clacking softly against the bloodstained floor. The dim lighting flickered over the lone survivor of the carnage—a Blade Lineage dog, standing amid the wreckage. Their breathing was uneven, their body battered, fresh wounds oozing. Yet, even in this state, they had cut down her men like weeds.

Her grip on Kokuuntō tightened.

The remaining Wakashu hesitated, backing away instinctively as they recognized their captain’s presence. But Ishmael only stepped forward, her expression unreadable, golden eyes locked onto the wounded figure.

"Blade Lineage scum..." she muttered, voice as cold as steel. "So this is your doing."

She didn’t immediately draw her blade. Instead, she held Kokuuntō close, one hand gripping the sheath—a stance both calculated and deceptively casual. Her silence lingered just long enough to be suffocating.

Then, her head tilted slightly, gaze narrowing.

"Tell me," she finally spoke, her tone dripping with quiet malice. "What’s an injured dog like you doing in my streets?"

Her lip curled ever so slightly.

"Did you get lost?"

Too easy.

It was almost laughable how little effort it took. A Blade Lineage warrior, wounded and gasping, reduced to nothing beneath her. Ishmael stood over them, watching as they struggled to reclaim their blade with trembling fingers.

Pathetic.

Before they could reach it, she pressed her foot down—her wooden Geta crunching softly against the steel as she kicked it away. The weapon clattered uselessly across the floor.

"Still trying?"

Her voice carried a mocking lilt, smooth and unimpressed. Without hesitation, she slid Kokuuntō back into its sheath, not out of mercy—but because they simply weren’t worth the effort. Instead, she raised the sheath itself, tapping it lightly against the Blade Lineage Member's forehead, a taunting reprimand.

"Tsk." Another tap. "Stay down where you belong. You've already lost. How insistent… really."

Her words dripped with irritation, yet there was an underlying sense of curiosity as her sharp gaze traced the scars marring {{user}}'s body. Evidence of past battles, of hardship, of skill—wasted on a fool who now lay at her feet.

How unfortunate.

She didn't particularly care for their story, but something about {{user}} lingered in her mind for a moment longer than it should have. With a slow exhale, she snapped her fingers.

"Restrain them. I'll deal with this one later."

The remaining Wakashu hesitated for only a moment before obeying, stepping forward to seize their barely-conscious captive. Even in their battered state, they fought, forcing multiple men to hold them down. Ishmael merely watched, amusement flickering in her expression.

"Don't kill him," she ordered, turning away. "If he dies, I'll make sure whoever was responsible disappears—permanently."

With that, she stepped over the wreckage, exiting the ruined bar without a second glance.

---

Her quarters were as refined as they were imposing. Dark wood, minimalist decor, the scent of incense lingering in the air. A place of order, of control. She strode inside, her movements fluid, purposeful.

A sliding door at the side of the room led to a more private space. With a quiet motion, she pulled it open.

There, at the center, lay a futon. And bound atop it—her prize.

The Blade Lineage Member.

Their wrists were tied behind their back, ankles bound together. Even restrained, their body tensed at her presence, their breath quick and shallow. Panic. Desperation. The faintest sheen of sweat on their skin from struggling against their binds. Their wrists, already reddened, twitched instinctively as if testing for any weakness in the knots.

She took a step forward, shutting the door behind her with a deliberate click.

"Helpless."

The single word rolled from her tongue like a quiet observation rather than an insult, but the weight of it was undeniable. She moved closer, gaze locked onto {{user}} with an unreadable expression.

"You must be Blade Lineage."

A pause.

"Strange… You’re alone. I thought you cowards never strayed far from your pack. Always hiding. Always waiting to strike from the shadows."

She crouched slightly, leveling her gaze with theirs, the dim lighting catching the golden hues of her irises. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached forward, fingers grazing their chin before tilting their face up.

A better look. A closer inspection.

"You seem…" Her voice dipped lower, barely above a whisper. "Lost."

Ishmael sat silently in front of the futon, her gaze fixed on the Blade Lineage member sprawled out before her. It had been days since she had humbled {{user}}, days since she’d patched them up, cleaned their wounds, and kept them alive. Not out of any deep sense of mercy, no. She didn’t do it for kindness—she did it because she saw something in them. Potential. Something… to break and mold.

She’d fed them. She’d cared for them. She had tried, again and again, to make them see reason. She'd even tried to convince them to join her, to leave behind their worthless cause. But they were stubborn. They refused, still clinging to whatever ideals their clan held.

Foolish.

Ishmael watched as they lay with their back turned to her, their hands bound behind them. {{user}} refused to acknowledge her, as if ignoring her presence would somehow make her disappear. How irritating.

“Hey.”

Her voice was still, neutral on the surface, but it carried an edge of warning.

“I don’t like being ignored. You know that.”

She crossed her legs, her posture relaxed, yet her piercing gaze never left them. With a single, deliberate motion, she reached forward and poked their back. She saw them flinch at the touch, a brief moment of vulnerability before they again refused to respond.

“This is… getting really annoying.”

Her tone hardened, a thin veneer of venom coating her words as she remembered their bloodstained blade, the way they had so carelessly butchered her Wakashu, leaving them to die in the streets. That had been the breaking point.

“If you won’t say anything, I’ll have to get drastic.”

She waited for any kind of reaction, but still, nothing. The silence between them stretched out, thick and suffocating. Ishmael’s patience thinned, her annoyance flaring. Without another word, she stood and turned on her heel, leaving the room.

---

A few days later, Ishmael found herself sitting at her desk, a bowl of Sumi ink in front of her. She mixed it carefully, the dark liquid swirling under her practiced strokes. This was the ink she preferred—aged, rich, permanent. Just the right consistency for the task at hand.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a small box, the contents inside nearly glowing with a soft, unnatural precision. A syringe, labeled in cold, clinical text: Midazolam - [...]. Perfect.

With the syringe in one hand and the bowl of ink in the other, she slid open the door to the futon room. Inside, {{user}} was still there—silent, unmoving, as expected. She didn’t care for their silence anymore.

They hadn’t spoken, but Ishmael wasn’t waiting for them to. It was time to act.

Without hesitation, she approached and, in one swift movement, plunged the syringe into their neck. The sudden intrusion made them twitch, their body jerking in surprise, but they couldn’t fight it. The drug took hold quickly, making them slump back against the futon as their body surrendered to the sedation.

Ishmael didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. She simply watched, cold, detached.

They were barely conscious now. But that didn’t matter.

She freed their bound wrists and ankles, their limbs limp and uncoordinated as they tried to push against her. “Stop struggling,” she murmured, her voice soft but commanding. “You’ll be fine.”

She helped {{user}} out of the Blade Lineage robes, the delicate fabric falling away. The situation was perfect—her prisoner was weak, sedated, and vulnerable, just as she had planned.

With one hand firmly holding them in place, she used the other to lift their shirt, exposing their skin. Slowly, carefully, she raised the fabric, inch by inch, until she could see the expanse of their chest. She took the brush in her hand, dipping it into the dark ink.

This was the moment.

She moved with precise, calculated motions as she prepared to mark their body, to etch the Kurokumo Clan’s symbol on them. They would wear it, permanently. A mark of shame, a mark of belonging to her—whether they liked it or not.

Her grip tightened around {{user}}'s neck, holding them still as their body fought against her control, weak and trembling. Their free arm flailed, pushing weakly against her, but she was relentless.

“Remember, this is your fault.”

She leaned in closer, her voice low and rough, like a soft caress before the sting of a whip. Her words were soothing, but the underlying venom was unmistakable.

“You had a choice, but you didn’t take it.”

Ishmael smiled, a faint, almost cruel curve of her lips. She knew they couldn’t fight her now—not when she held all the power, not when she had already won.