… Suffocating. Blood rushing. Veins bulging.

The voice whispers again, louder, surprised. “A child?”

Before I even have a chance to fully comprehend the situation, I feel the grip around my neck loosening, the blade being drawn away. Gasping, I spin around, fists raised, ready to confront the assailant.

I’m met with a woman, about five foot seven, light and lean. She has shoulder length hair, flaming red, tied into a ponytail, held by a brooch shaped like a red and white rose. She is dressed in dark leather, a sword at her hip, a bow on her back, and a dagger, which seconds ago was against my neck, that she effortlessly slides back into the cover within her right boot. Then her gaze turns to me, blue eyes expressionless and cold as ice. My body tenses, preparing for what dangers might lie ahead.

To my surprise, she offers a slight bow instead, one hand folded across her bosom. Her voice is calm, logical, stoic, as she says, “My sincerest apologies for the aggression. Fearing for my life, I merely acted out of instinct, thinking you were a thief.”

Her words and body language draw a bout of compassion from my chest, and suddenly, I find myself embarrassed, like one caught in a mutual misunderstanding. I reach out a comforting hand, nodding in sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry as well. I didn’t mean to scare-” I begin, the words escaping almost from habit. But then, the truth of the situation dawns on me, and my hand of solace turns into one of accusation, pointing right at the woman. “Wait, why am I apologizing?! You’re not the victim here! You’re the one that decided to break in!”

The woman lifts her head, observing me curiously for a moment. Then she moves to the entrance of the room. “You're wrong,” she says, her tone flat, her face deadpan. A server’s hand is gesturing to the door, the other swinging it back and forth. “As you can see, the door is very much not broken in. This is because it was unlocked when I entered.”

“Wait, really?” I wonder aloud, “I was sure I locked it this morning when I left.”

“Well, true,” the woman shrugs, “I did have to pick the lock first.”

“Then that’s called breaking and entering! It’s still your fault in the end!”

“Hm,” the woman hums. She leans in, face close to mine, her proximity causing me to warm.

“W-what?” I ask.

She pokes me lightly in the cheek a few times. “Did you know your face gets all pouty when you're flustered?” she asks, and I catch a faint upwards tug on the edge of her lips, “It’s kind of cute.”

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I leap back away as it dawns that the woman’s teasing me, and I tell myself to calm down.

What am I getting all worked up for anyhow?

The woman’s eccentricity has pulled me into a weird pace, and I realize I need to redirect, maintain my suspicion and alertness. Taking a breath, I ask, “Who are you? And why are you looking for Gin?”

A blank stare is my reply, and for a moment, it occurs to me that perhaps what I had initially assumed to be cold malice is actually the woman’s bizarre expression of nonchalance, her blue eyes furrowed from dispassion rather than ill will. In either case, she does not appear to have any plans of answering my question.

”Okay, whatever,” I shrug, trying a bluff instead, “let me just go downstair and get the innkeep and city guards involved. You can explain yourself to them.” I walk past the woman without looking, but just as I’m through the entryway, a voice from behind causes me to freeze in place.

“‘Jaxon, you were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you.’ Oh. How cute. Jaxon. That’s you, right?” the woman asks, her tone purely monotonous.

My gray eyes open wide. When did she-?! I pat my pockets, realizing the pouch of coins is gone as well.

“Looking for this?” the woman asks, and when I swerve around, I see her holding up a small bag, dangling it between her fingers.

“Hey, that’s mine! Give it back!” I dash forward, making a grab at it, but the woman’s faster. She raises her arm, putting it out of reach, and even when I jump, I still can’t touch it. Suddenly, I’m reminded of those keepaway games played by the mean kids back in elementary school, and a bout of embarrassment flashes through my body as I realize the childishness of further entertaining her actions. I stop jumping, fold my arms, close my eyes, turn up my nose and turn away.

“Hmph, whatever. You can keep it, I don’t care,” I say.

Right, this is the way to deal with these types of situations. Ignore them and…

“Hmm,” the woman hums, and through the peek of an eye, I see her lowering her arm.

...wait for the boredom to set in, lowering their guard, and...Now!

I swerve, left hand outstretched, clawing for the pouch that is suddenly within reach. The woman must have expected this to a degree, otherwise she could not have reacted in time to avoid my strike, causing me to miss. She is not the only one with foresight, however, as I too have accounted for an initial failure. A fraction of a second later, my left foot digs into the floor, and I push off, redirecting my momentum into the air, with my right hand this time aiming for the pouch. From her expression, I can tell that this quick followup attack has caught her by surprise, for her eyes open ever bit wider. “Got you!” I exclaim, my prize right before me. But then I blink, and it’s gone, as is the woman, my fingers brushing against an afterimage instead. In a blur of motion, she twirls away, like a ballerina, to my backside. Utterly surprised, I lose my balance in the landing, and I feel a hand suddenly grab me by the collar of my shirt, keeping me from tumbling forward. I turn my head, finding that the woman now has a pensive expression on her face, free forefinger tapping her chin. Then she turns to me, half-glazed eyes suddenly lighting up, as if she has abruptly come to a grand realization.

“Ah! Is this what they call ‘bullying’?”

She lets go of me, then takes ahold of my hand, placing the pouch within it. Then she pats me on the head, as one might comfort a dog. “Relax, beansprout,” she says monotonously, “I have no intentions of hurting you. Or Gin, unless he deserves it. I just need to find him.” Then I see her turn her attention to the paper which Gin had left for me. She inspects it, holding it to the light. “Hm, this does indeed look like Gin’s handwriting. Well, in that case…” she mumbles. She closes her eyes and begins muttering something silently under her breath, her hands weaving through the air. A few seconds later, the paper abruptly begins to glow, like it is coated in neon paint, and once this fades, the woman opens her blue eyes once more.

“I see. So that’s where the idiot’s gone. I should have guessed,” the woman says as a hint of emotion appears on her face in the form of slight annoyance and the quick twitch of an eyebrow. Then abruptly, she turns to leave.

“W-wait, where are you going?” I ask, calling after her.

The woman doesn’t turn around, offering me a shrug instead. “I have no obligation to tell you that, beansprout.”