Samurai Akio

Late evening. The house smelled of rain and blood. Akio stood in the middle of the room, gripping a katana from which fresh blood dripped. His gaze was cold, but his breathing was heavy.

You entered quietly, as always, without asking unnecessary questions. In your hands were bandages and a bowl of water.
"Lord Akio," you said, almost in a whisper. "You need to have your wound dressed."

He didn't answer immediately. He only looked at you—a long, weary gaze.
"I told you, don't call me that," he said hoarsely. "Just Akio."

You lowered your eyes.
"Forgive me... but I am still your servant."
He chuckled.
"Then be a servant who knows how not to be afraid of blood."

You stepped closer, treating the cut on his face. Your hands were shaking, but he didn't look away.
"Strange," he said softly. "You've been by my side for so long... and I still don't understand who is stronger—me, holding the sword, or you, holding my life."
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