As I stare out the window, I try not to think too much about the past I’ve left behind, the ‘family’ I’ve forfeited. The trees and buildings move by in a blur, like my memories as I’m unfortunately left going over them again, and the terrible night that moved me to get on this train in the first place.

The train stopped, and I, among a crowd of complete strangers, step out, awkwardly holding my swords by their scabbards; they didn’t agree with sitting on a train car seat for hours on end. I walk along, down the concrete paths to a bathroom, stepping inside to find nobody else occupying it. Passing by a mirror above the sinks where I caught a glimpse of my own eyes, which were slightly to the darker side of gray, I step into the largest stall I could find and pause, realizing that there was nowhere I could put the swords without it feeling wrong.

I prop up the katana hilt-up against the wall and hold the wakizashi’s scabbard in my mouth as I slide my rather large sling bag around to the other side of myself, extracting a sanitizer wipe and my belt from the bag before sliding it back to its normal position. I then put on the belt, a custom-made style with three layers and a prominent buckle, temporarily leaving the wipe in my pocket to free my hands. I let the wakizashi out of my mouth and slide it into my belt between the inner and middle layers opening the wipe’s packet and pulling it out, discarding the wrapper neatly. I wipe my katana where it touched the bathroom—the tsuba and the tip of the saya—and throw the wipe away, stuffing my katana into my belt and adjusting it against my wakizashi.

The whole process felt so incredibly vain and frivolous that part of me was laughing at the rest of myself already, but this is my favorite set of swords, and it just felt wrong to have them touching a public bathroom floor, like I was somehow insulting them. Finally satisfied with treating my swords well, I readjust their positions in my scabbard one last time and look them over. There was no doubt that it would make me look like a freak, like an urchin, or some sort of cosplayer, but the familiarity of the daisho resting at my waist is what I really need right now.

I step out, my swords awkwardly bumping against the stall walls before my hands go to my scabbards, pulling them out of place temporarily as I exit the bathroom and walk down to the streets below the train platform. I stare in wonder in how… urban, this place is. It’s so different from what I was used to, and wondrous, but somehow the sharp angles of the buildings, and more particularly all the alleyways around, have a sort of alien and dangerous quality to them. I feel as if I’d have to be careful as to not get lost, and to not end up finding the wrong things. First things first, I grabbed a pamphlet from the nearby kiosk, opening it to find a map contained within, competing for space with a list of tourist attractions. I also pull a small notebook from my pocket, one I had scrawled with notes regarding rumors of a nearby swordsmanship school—the Haracrein, as they were called. They were, apparently, secretive and hid their locations behind street poetry. That alone, though, would not do me any good, because I need to find the damn street poetry first.

Before I get to work, though, I decide to take a short walk down the main streets, just to take in the sights. I noted how the people here often wear unusually fancy (and in some cases, somewhat antiquated) clothing, and a few of them even have pocketwatches, for some reason. I couldn’t help but take in how clean and pretty and unique everything looked out here on the main streets, like an ideal city that was caught somewhere in between now and the industrial revolution-and indeed, the general architecture reflected this juxtaposition, with brick buildings and sophisticated window designs being the norm. I open the pamphlet I grabbed and looked through it. Perhaps unsurprisingly, these streets were among the most referenced in the pamphlet.

Finally satisfied with my sightseeing, I walk back down the street, looking at alley walls which are far closer to being in disrepair than the main streets referenced in the pamphlet, searching for the poetry. I made notes here and there, but nothing made very much sense to me. Am I just an idiot?

I find myself pounding the pavement for hours, scribbling together varying scraps, some sounding moderately salient, others just pieces that may be a mad hobo’s ramblings for all I know. As I gathered more notes, I realized most of those notes were nonsensical trash and red herrings, but not knowing which was which I had to keep track of them all. To make matters worse, I not only had to deal with a practically byzantine set of clues, but I also had to deal with a city whose streets and alleys almost feel like a labyrinth in itself. As the sun goes down, reality finally hits me and I realize I’m going to have to sleep eventually, but a hotel is a bit too expensive for me right now. I try and think of another way out, but there’s no escaping it: I’ll be sleeping outside tonight, probably on the stones of the streets, with my luck.

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Doing another pass of the area around me, I stop by a dumpster. It would be embarrassing as hell, but nobody would think to look into a dumpster for a helpless victim, right? I open the dumpster, take one whiff of the contents, and-revolted and coughing-strike that idea down from my internal list… and then drop it into a paper-shredder for good measure. So, that idea was out. What next?

I turn my sights up to the fire escapes adorning the walls of some of the apartment buildings. They’re actually an extremely attractive alternative, as it would put me firmly out of range of the vast majority of the urban jungle’s threats, but only if I can find a route of my own to get up to them. That, of course, was a pretty big if, an if I could not make a reality in any accessible way, from my brief assessment of the area around those apartments.

So, that leaves the stones laid on the floors of the twists and turns of the alleys; unfortunate, but unavoidable tonight. After doing some searching, I settle for camping out at a dead end at an offshoot of a larger alley. It’s probably a terrible idea, but given its positioning it would at least be relatively off the beaten path, so it would theoretically give me a chance of getting decent sleep tonight.

Though the temperature would go down tonight, my outfit gave me reasonable protection from the cold, but it might get uncomfortable even in my jacket. Not like I had much of a choice, as I look at the hard floor, making sure I wasn’t going to end up on top of spent syringes or broken bottles. Satisfied (as much as I can be sleeping on the streets), I pull my bag off and use it as my makeshift pillow, throwing my hood up for extra padding, and I settle down on my side, pulling my katana from my belt and cradling it in my arms as I, facing the street, try to sleep… with my ears open, of course.

At various parts of the night, I heard faint echoes subconsciously, lulling me slightly but never quite pulling me all the way from my sleep. A few times, I hear the footsteps get slightly closer… and then go away again. There was the time, of course, when the footsteps got closer, and in my personal stupor, I wait for them to go away… but then it just gets even closer, as my mind starts rationalizing it as a dream, with someone, someone far too familiar with white hair, closing in, a specter of the past pursuing me. My eyes snap open and I pull the scabbard off my katana, looking up at the figure, all dressed up in a hoodie and sweatpants and wielding a suspicious-looking rag. My tail stands straight up, pressing against the back of my jacket. I sweep myself to my feet, my footwork slightly off as the rest of my mind tries to catch up with my instincts.

“Why don’t you come quietly now?” He draws a knife from his pocket, with the rag in the other hand. “I’m sure you don’t intend to actually be using that sword, do you?” he tilts his head, and I realize his voice, his mannerisms are all… wrong. Not that my mental fog is helping me, but I can’t figure out just what the man had planned for me, only that it was something terrible.

Something within screams and claws at the edges of my mind, with a singular urge to cut him down where he stands, remove him from the cycle. ‘No mercy, no hesitation, for he is unworthy’; those are the words it chanted between its screams. I don’t like whatever that is, either, because it reminds me too much of one of the worst parts of my past. I exhale and force myself to swallow it, under pain of fighting myself and the creepy bastard in front of me at the same time. “You wanna bet?” The words come out shaky, as I fight a war on two fronts.

“Now, I’m sure we can just come to an agreement...” He approaches, slowly at first, and for a terrifyingly dangerous moment my focus slackens a little, almost wanting to believe his words. Then he lunges, and I scramble backwards, avoiding his rag and hitting the wall behind me as I counter-cut, though my sword moves too late to tear into his arm with much more than the tip. For what little blade actually cut him, the amount of blood that splatters is surprising.

“My, my.” The voice sounds subtly angered, as he looks over his forearm, flinching slightly. “How naughty of you. I guess I’ll have to find you another time.” He slowly backs up and walks away, down the road, the same voice within pleading for me to eviscerate him even as his back was turned to me. With a shaking hand, I brush the blood off my sword with my blood rag before seeing it back into its scabbard, hesitating to make sure I didn’t cut myself. I sigh, my tail finally relaxing as I walk back over and drop to the floor, staring at my katana’s hilt, thinking to myself.

Not that he wouldn’t have deserved it—I’m sure he would’ve, even if I didn’t have his exact rap sheet in front of me—but that urge, that voice reminded me of exactly what I wanted to leave behind when I boarded the train. Swallowing down that shard of shame, I inhale, exhale, and try to sleep the rest of my way through the night, but sleep was elusive and fleeting.