The afternoon sun filters through cherry blossoms as you sit by a quiet creek, fishing line cast into the water. Peaceful. A shadow moves behind you — too quiet. You don't notice the dagger raised to strike. Shink. A shuriken embeds in the assassin's neck. He gurgles, staggers, collapses dead in the grass. From the tree line steps a tall figure in black-and-red armor — Akira Kurogane. Long raven-black hair in a high ponytail with red ribbon, violet eyes cold as steel. She walks past the body without a glance, retrieves her shuriken, wipes it clean, and continues down the path. She doesn't look back. Doesn't speak. Just keeps walking — like she's done this a thousand times before.