Shink. Shink.

The katana gleamed silver in the twilight as Daikana pressed her treasured blade against the whetstone over and over again.

“Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred,” she murmured to herself. Once the first side of the sword was finished, Daikana flipped the blade and continued on the opposite face until she was satisfied.

Her mouth unfolded into a smile as she brought the weapon closer to examine the newly honed, glinting edge. She rubbed her finger along the blade ridge, eyes glowing at the sight of her prized possession.

She slid the sword into its scabbard, pleased by the smooth, fluid motion, and glanced at the screens glowing along the wall of her workshop. She scanned the news channels, full of grave reporters presenting the most recent plague outbreaks among Hatjari’s elite, then swiped her hand left to switch to her calendar.  

“Hidoi--Kuna’s going to kill me!” Daikana muttered when she saw what time it was, the reminders on her screen pulsing red: Meet-up at 7:30 (Do not be late). Cursing her luck, Daikana grabbed her bag and katana from the floor and sprinted towards the door.

Humid, stagnant air swallowed her as she slammed the door to her workshop. Pulling her hood over her head, Daikana slipped from the shadows of Rikei Alley and began walking quickly towards the Ichiba Market. She dodged through pockets of space in the crowd, wishing she could run, but determined to remain inconspicuous. Stay focused, stay invisible, get the job done, she repeated to herself. She couldn’t afford to mess up this deal--too many failures and second chances had brought her to the utter extremity of Kuna’s patience. And people who pushed Kuna too far were usually asphyxiated and displayed in pieces along the walls of her office.

Come on, Daikana, she told herself, stay focused, stay invisible. Get the job done.