The water was cold. Not because of the temperature, but because of the silence it brought.
Each drop that slid down his skin carried the weight of a life stolen, a whisper of a night painted in blood, and the silence of a man who had long stopped asking for forgiveness.
Mu Jin stood in the middle of the wooden bathhouse, steam curling around his body like ghosts too scared to touch him. His silver hair, soaked and clinging to his back, shimmered under the flickering lantern light. His fingers—long, precise, built for death—moved slowly over his chest, tracing the scars like reading braille from another life.
His eyes opened.
Snake-like pupils, crimson and black, cut through the steam.
Not human.
Not anymore.
Survive. Adapt. Cut the weakness before it festers.
That was all he knew. That was all that mattered.
Hours Later – The Bar
The wooden tavern creaked under the weight of rain and conversation. The kind of place that forgot names and served drinks strong enough to erase memory.
He sat in the far corner, where the candlelight didn't dare reach. Wrapped in black, his cloak hung like a shadow draped over the world. The silver strands of his hair spilled over his shoulder, untamed yet deliberate—too elegant to be wild, too dangerous to be dismissed.
The child sat beside him. Barely ten. Eyes wide with wonder, clinging to the hem of Mu Jin's cloak like it was the only safe thing in this cruel, unfamiliar land.
"Are you really not from this world, mister?" the child whispered.
Mu Jin didn't look at her.
"I'm from somewhere colder," he said, voice like a blade against stone.
She fell silent again, sipping the cheap stew in front of her, as if the presence of this man—this living phantom—kept the world from swallowing her whole.
Then the door opened. Rain poured in before it was shut.
A man stepped through—older, worn, eyes scanning the tavern until they locked onto the child. He rushed over, relief crashing into his features.
"Lira!" he breathed. "You're safe!"
The man knelt, hugging the child. Mu Jin remained still, hand wrapped around his cup, eyes unfazed.
"She was going to be sold," Mu Jin finally said, voice flat. "By your own village."
The father's face turned white.
"I— I didn't know—"
"You didn't want to know."
Mu Jin stood up. The sound of his boots on the wood echoed louder than any scream.
For the first time, the father truly looked at him. The man's breath caught. The sight of Mu Jin up close was something not easily forgotten.
Tall, lean like a honed weapon. His face—sharp, symmetrical, haunting. Eyes that didn't blink, didn't waver. Hair silver as moonlight, flowing down past his back like silk woven from the night itself.
But it was the way he moved that unsettled men.
Every step was too precise, too silent. Like a predator who had already killed you, and was only walking closer to watch you realize it.
The man bowed low, trembling.
"I… thank you."
Mu Jin walked past him.
Good men apologize. Dead men don't get the chance.
He was neither.
Outside
The rain didn't touch him.
It slid around him as if the world itself was afraid to mark him.
He walked with no destination. Just the endless instinct of survival guiding his steps.
This world was not his.
Its sun was too warm.
Its sky too open.
Its people too loud.
But death? Death was the same.
And so long as death existed—so would he.