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Chapter Text

The sun was a white-hot fist squeezing the life out of the desert. For seven days, Sanemi Shinazugawa had eaten nothing but dust and anger. The heat had baked the scrubland until it cracked, and the trail of the slick thief had vanished completely, leaving Sanemi with only a desperate, burning frustration in his gut.

He was the best—a bounty hunter legend whose name alone scared honest men and outlaws alike. But legends didn’t pay doctor bills. The enormous bounty for this silver-tongued bastard was Sanemi’s only shot at seeing his ailing mother through the winter and keeping his younger siblings fed. He didn’t care about honor or justice; he cared about the dinero, and he was determined to drag the crook back, even if it took stripping the whole territory bare.

Sanemi was a brute: all scarred muscle, bristling temper, and a complete lack of patience. He did not dally with people who couldn't help him. He rode into the town of Wisteria just as the day’s furnace was beginning to cool, but the dust was still thick in the air, a shroud over the dozen sun-bleached structures.

He yanked his horses reins, tying the weary roan outside the only place that looked promising: The Wisteria Saloon. The air felt too quiet, the oppressive silence of a place that had already died. Sanemi, checking the weight of his six-shooter, stomped inside.

The interior was a dim, welcome shock. It smelled of ancient beer, smoke, and sweat. The place was nearly empty. A massive, tired-looking barkeep was scrubbing a piece of glass behind the counter, and at a table tucked into the corner, a young man sat alone.

Sanemi strode to the bar, ignoring the youth completely. He tossed a couple of silver coins down. “Rye. The whole damn bottle. And don’t hang fire.”

The barkeep slid the whiskey over. Sanemi didn’t immediately reach for it. He fixed the big man with a glare that felt like sandpaper.

“I’m looking for a low-down thief,” Sanemi said, his voice a low, rough rumble. “A ghost who’s been lifting folks’ gold all across the Divide. Seen anyone pass through here, maybe a greenhorn moving north in a hurry? Anyone talking about someone with eyes the color of a winter sky?”

The barkeep, a man used to violence and keeping secrets, barely met his gaze. “Stranger, a heap of folks pass through Wisteria, and most of ‘em are looking to get north. Ain’t none of them offered me their life story or the color of their peepers.” He dried his hands on a greasy apron. “I hear things, sure, but I don’t hobble my lip for every bounty hunter who buys a drink.”

Sanemi grabbed the bottle and took a long, burning pull, the cheap liquor a punishing heat down his throat. The barkeep was useless—a deadbeat with no eyes for anything but the bottom of his own till.

It was only then, as the liquor brought a brief clarity, that Sanemi noticed the young man in the corner was watching him.

The youth was pale, sharp-featured, and carried a casual air that was instantly aggravating. His dark hair was pulled into a loose, slightly messy ponytail, and he wore a simple, dark jacket that looked too clean for the trail. But the eyes—they were impossible. Piercing, clear blue, shimmering with an unnatural intensity in the saloon’s gloom. They matched the victims' descriptions perfectly.

“That’s a mean thirst you got there, pardner,” the youth said, his voice quiet but carrying a faint, irritating trace of amusement.

Sanemi spun toward him, his hand instantly tightening on the bottle. “You got a difficulty with my thirst, boy?”

The young man didn't flinch at the venom. He smiled, a slight, knowing lift of the mouth. “I’d reckon that thirst comes from chasing an invisible man. The gold thief, isn’t it?”

Sanemi took two slow, menacing steps closer. “I told that hard case at the bar to keep his mouth shut, and I’ll tell you the same. You want to talk about my business, you better be ready to spill your blood doing it.”

“Calm your dander, bounty man.” The youth gestured at his own eyes, a deliberate, mocking flick of his thumb against the color. “I know what you're thinking. And sure, these are blue. But out here, every man’s got blue eyes, brown eyes, or eyes that have just seen too much sun. You gonna waste your valuable time chasing bogus shadows just because of a damn color?”

His confidence—the slickness of his defense—was infuriating. He was bratty, playing a dangerous game. But then he offered his hook.

“He was sloppy,” the youth continued, leaning forward. “Two days’ hard ride due north, right where the Diablo Canyon meets the flats. He left a trail only an amateur  would miss. I saw him move through the scrub. You’re sitting here in this dried-up town, and he’s getting away clean. I can put you right on the scent, or you can keep drinking that sour rye and running in circles.”

Sanemi abandoned the bar and stalked to Giyuu’s table. He planted his fists on the wood, leaning down until his scarred, furious face was inches from the youth's smooth one. The smell of whiskey and dust rolled off the bounty hunter.

“Who the hell are you?” Sanemi snarled, his voice barely controlled. “You pop up in the only place I stop, and you just happen to have the exact information I’ve been riding weeks for? You look like bait.”

The young man held his intense gaze, his blue eyes clear and steady, but not fearful. “The name’s Giyuu Tomioka. And I just want a fifth of that reward for showing the great Sanemi Shinazugawa where to find his fortune. You’re a hard case who’s ready to drop dead from sunstroke and spite. You need a guide, bounty hunter. And I’m the only one here who’s telling the truth.”

Giyuu was an insulting, slick piece of work, but the truth was, Sanemi was out of options. The thought of his mother's desperate need won out over his pride and caution.

Sanemi straightened up slowly, his knuckles white. He let out a breath that sounded like grinding teeth. “Fine, Tomioka. You’ll ride point for me. But if you’re pulling my leg, if this is a trick, or if you prove to be a rip—a useless drain on my time—I won’t even wait for a trial. I will shoot you where you stand and leave you for the buzzards. Is that clear?”

Giyuu’s subtle, irritating smile returned. He finally pushed back his chair and stood, meeting Sanemi's height with an easy, almost elegant movement.

“Perfectly clear,” Giyuu replied. He grabbed a worn saddlebag from beneath the table.

“Let’s ride, bounty man. We’ve already wasted too much daylight.”

Chapter Text

The trail north from Wisteria was a deceptive thing—winding, scrub-choked, and unforgiving. The sun rose the next morning with the same blazing indifference, finding Sanemi Shinazugawa already exhausted and coiled tight with suspicion. He rode his horse a half-length behind Giyuu, his eyes fixed less on the horizon and more on the distracting figure leading the way.

Giyuu Tomioka sat his horse, a plain gray mare, with an unnerving, almost lazy grace. He didn't look like a seasoned tracker or even a man burdened by the trail. He looked like he was out for a morning ride, occasionally adjusting the messy ponytail of his black hair, which kept threatening to fall loose.

“You’re riding tight, bounty man,” Giyuu called back over his shoulder, his voice a light, easy sound that grated on Sanemi's nerves. “Like you swallowed a branding iron. No need to keep your dander up. We're on the right track.”

“We’re on your track, whelp,” Sanemi spat, his hand instinctively resting on the butt of his six-shooter. “Which means we could be riding straight into a canyon wall for all I know. You got a sight more talk than skill, Tomioka. I don’t cotton to that.”

“Now, why would I do a thing like that?”

Giyuu replied, turning in his saddle to flash one of his quick, infuriatingly easy smiles. The pale skin of his face made the unnatural blue of his eyes stand out even more. “I want my fifth. And my fifth only comes when you get your bounty. Our fortunes are hitched now, like it or not.”

Sanemi let out a scoff that was part irritation, part disbelief. He had made a mistake. He knew it. Hitching his fate to this smooth-talking, blue-eyed greenhorn was desperation, pure and simple.

“You ain’t talking about fortune,” Sanemi growled. “You’re talking about my family’s money. Don't forget that, Tomioka. If this whole thing goes belly up, I’ll make sure you regret the day you ever saw my face.”

The casual threat didn’t touch Giyuu. Instead, he simply pointed to a slight disturbance in the dried cheatgrass leading toward a shallow, rocky stream bed.

“See that? Heel mark. Heavy. Moving fast, covering his tracks, but he broke that branch there. Two days, tops. He’s headed for the next watering hole, which is two hours’ hard ride south of Two Pines Station.”

Sanemi’s skeptical gaze swept over the sparse evidence. He was good, but the trail had been cold when he reached Wisteria.

The signs Giyuu pointed out were maddeningly subtle, yet they were there. It was enough. Just enough to keep Sanemi from drawing his gun.

They rode through the forenoon, the sun climbing high and punishing. Giyuu led them along the most difficult route—not the main trail, but through brush and broken land, explaining that the thief would avoid common roads. Sanemi kept quiet, reserving his energy, stewing in his own hostility.

Around midday, they reached a small, slightly more established settlement clinging to the edge of the scrubland: Two Pines Station. It was a cluster of buildings—a livery, a mercantile, and a small, dirt-floored general store that also served as a meeting spot.

“Hold up,” Giyuu whispered, pulling his mare to a halt behind a pile of lumber. “He wouldn’t stop here, not if he’s smart. But folks talk. Let the trail go cold for a minute. We need to hob-nob with the locals.”

Sanemi glared at him.

“We? I’ll do the talking. You keep your mouth shut. If you start flapping your mouth about a bounty, the whole place will get spooked, or worse, try to collect it themselves.”

“Fine,” Giyuu said, dismounting with a smirk. “But you need to be less… Sanemi. Try to smile, bounty man. Ask nice. Folks don't give up secrets to a man who looks like he wants to kill their dog.”

Sanemi wanted to punch the grin right off the young man’s face, but he knew the man was right.

They entered the general store. The air smelled strongly of coffee, leather, and smoked meat. An old woman sat behind a counter stacked with bolts of fabric and cans of dried beans.

A grizzled old man was sharing a cup of coffee at a small table.

Sanemi approached the counter, forcing his voice into a tone that was only mildly threatening. “Afternoon, ma’am. Me and my pardner are riding the long way to the city. We’re short on news and vittles. Seen anyone pass through here, say, yesterday or the day before? Feller riding alone, maybe looking nervous?”

The old woman eyed Sanemi’s rough-hewn appearance and his heavily worn gun belt. “Plenty of folks pass through, stranger. We don't keep a tally book of every scruffy face who buys a cup of sugar.”

Before Sanemi could snap, Giyuu stepped up beside him, his demeanor instantly charming and his smile open.

“Ma’am, forgive my friend,” Giyuu said smoothly, pulling a bag of tobacco from the shelf and placing it gently on the counter. “He's been riding the sun too long and his brain’s half seas over. We’re looking for a relative, ma'am. Handsome fella, but a little soft in the head, you see. Got these striking blue eyes—a family feature, bless his heart. He ran off with some of the family’s savings, and we just want to bring the poor addle-pate home before he gets himself knocked galley west by bandits.”

The old woman's face softened instantly, shifting from suspicion to sympathy. She glanced at Giyuu’s own blue eyes.

“Oh, the poor thing,” she clucked. “No, I haven’t seen a lad fitting that description, but that’s a terrible shame. You know, a fella came by early yesterday. Didn’t talk much, just bought a sack of flour and water. He was moving like a man with a purpose, though, heading west towards the Devil’s Backbone trail, not north.”

Giyuu gave the woman a grateful, heartfelt look. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. Every bit helps.”

They left the store and mounted their horses. Sanemi was livid, not just at Giyuu’s performance but at the subtle, dangerous lie.

“A relative? Soft in the head? You think this is some kind of frolic, Tomioka?” Sanemi hissed as they rode out of town.

“It got us the information, didn’t it?” Giyuu countered, his tone all breezy confidence. “She was never going to tell you anything. Besides, did you notice? West towards the Devil’s Backbone. That’s a detour, a clever one. It hooks around the canyons and puts the thief right back onto the northern trail, but miles ahead of where we thought. It means my initial guess was right, but the bastard's smart. He’s trying to throw us.”

Giyuu’s voice was persuasive, his logic just sharp enough to cut through Sanemi's rage. He had lied, but the lie had uncovered a new, precise route. It was a manipulative move, a calculated gamble to reinforce Sanemi’s need for him.

“You’re a clever little bastard , I’ll give you that,” Sanemi ground out, the muscles in his jaw rigid. “But if you ever play me for a fool again, I don’t care if you found me the gold, I’ll still put you in the ground.”

Giyuu simply smiled, that infuriating, gentle curve of the lips. “No need to fret, bounty man. We’re closer now. Feel it? That’s the feeling of money in your pocket, thanks to your addled little friend.”

Sanemi kept his suspicion banked, but the decision was made. They were following the thief west. And for now, as much as it choked him, he needed Giyuu Tomioka. He just had to be sure he didn’t lose his prize—or his life—to the hypnotic eyes of the man riding point.

Chapter Text

The Devil’s Backbone trail was less a path and more a vicious scratch across the high desert. By the time the sun bled out of the sky, casting long, distorted shadows across the scrub, Sanemi was bone-weary and vicious. He picked a campsite deep in a shallow wash—a place with good cover and only one way in.

He dismounted off his mule and immediately began tending to the horses, ignoring the sight of Giyuu effortlessly lighting a small, low-smoke fire.

“We’re eating cold vittles tonight, Tomioka,” Sanemi grunted, throwing his saddle roll to the ground. “Fire’s too risky. Only enough heat to make coffee, nothing more.”

“Understood, bounty man,” Giyuu replied, his blue eyes catching the firelight briefly. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a tin of preserved peaches, an unnecessary indulgence that made Sanemi’s lip curl. “Nothing like a little sugar to cut the dust.”

Sanemi set his jaw. “You think this is a picnic?”

“Only the company is sour,” Giyuu countered, taking a slow bite of peach. “You look like you’re ready to draw on your own shadow, Sanemi. You’d think the money you’re chasing belonged to you already.”

Sanemi ignored the jab. He tossed a thick wool blanket near the fire, then tossed a second one right next to it. “You’ll sleep here.”

Giyuu raised an eyebrow, a clear smirk playing on his pale face. “Worried about getting lonely, pardner? I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

“Don’t push your luck, slick little prick,” Sanemi snarled, his eyes dark with menace. “You’ll sleep right here, where I can see your every twitch. I don’t trust a single word that comes out of your mouth, and I sure as hell don’t trust you to stick around once the stars are out. You try to bolt, you'll catch a bullet before you take three steps. Now, bed down.”

Giyuu merely chuckled, a dry, rustling sound, then settled onto his blanket. “Suit yourself. But you’ll be losing sleep over nothing.”

The night was long and cold. Sanemi sat upright, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee, his rifle across his knees. He didn’t trust Giyuu—didn't trust the way he tracked with almost supernatural ease, didn't trust the lie he’d told the woman in the general store, and certainly didn’t trust those unnerving blue eyes that stared into the firelight.

He watched as Giyuu eventually drifted off, his breathing slow and even. The sight of the young man, so relaxed and unbothered despite the threat of death hanging over him, only fueled Sanemi’s suspicion. He was either the most oblivious greenhorn alive or the most dangerous kind of liar. Sanemi slept only in short, brutal bursts, the rifle never leaving his grasp.

The next morning, the two rode in tense silence for hours until the terrain flattened into another desolate, dust-choked plain. They spotted a settlement ahead—a place that seemed even more abandoned than Wisteria.

“This is Iron Creek Crossing,” Giyuu murmured, pulling up his horse. “Not a soul here. Too far off the main routes now.”

“The thief wouldn’t pass up a place to rest,” Sanemi muttered, dismounting. “Even a rat needs a hole. We’ll check the livery and the saloon. He might have left a trace.”

The town was a ghost town in the making. Doors swung slowly in a hot, dry wind. They found no fresh sign at the livery, only the ancient smell of dried hay and neglect. They crossed the dirt road to the saloon, kicking up clouds of dust.

As they pushed open the saloon doors, the stench of stale alcohol was overwhelmed by the metallic scent of fresh blood. Two men were slumped over a table, their hats still on, their guns lying untouched on the floor.

Sanemi drew his six-shooter in one blindingly fast movement. “Get down, Tomioka!”

But it was too late. The sound of rapid footsteps echoed from the back of the room. Sanemi barely saw the two new figures emerge from the shadows, guns drawn. They weren't locals. They were bounty hunters, like him, drawn by the same huge reward.

“Well, well,” snarled one of the newcomers, a man with a scarred face. “Looks like the famed Shinazugawa has beat us to the watering hole. But that’s the end of your run, trail-rat. That bounty’s ours.”

Sanemi didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He moved like lightning, pure, honed aggression. He fired first, his shot aimed low at the center of the first man’s chest. The bounty hunter let out a choking sound and dropped his weapon, clutching a spreading crimson patch on his shirt.

The second man, stunned by the speed, tried to line up his shot. But Sanemi was already moving, sidestepping the counter and firing a second, precise round. The man spun and fell, striking the floor with a sickening thud, his own bullet burying itself harmlessly in the ceiling.

It was over in less than five seconds. Absolute, brutal efficiency.

Giyuu stood frozen near the door, his own hand nowhere near his weapon. He stared at the two smoking bodies, then at Sanemi, who was already holstering his gun, his face grim but unbothered.

“By God,” Giyuu stammered, the casual confidence draining from his voice for the first time. “You… you just knocked them galley west. Like they were nothing.”

Sanemi shoved past him, stepping over the bodies. “They were nothing but amateurs looking for trouble. They wanted a fight they couldn’t win. Now, let’s see what these fuckers knew.”

He knelt beside the first body, his movements quick and professional, and found what he was looking for: a worn, folded wanted poster tucked into the dead man's leather vest. It was his bounty, the thief with the blue eyes. He tossed it aside and moved to the second man. Another poster. They had been working together.

As Sanemi was checking the dead men's belts, Giyuu slowly moved closer, his eyes wide, fixed on a small, dark leather pouch that had spilled open from the second bounty hunter’s pocket. A cluster of silver coins lay scattered on the dusty floor, glistening faintly.

Giyuu’s pale hand twitched. The urge was a sickening physical twist in his gut—a sudden, desperate need to scoop up the money. His own deception was built on necessity, on the fact that he was always running low, always needing coin to move, to hide, to survive. That money could buy him distance, a new horse, a clean slate.

He almost reached for it, his fingers hovering inches above the silver. No.

He pulled his hand back quickly, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. He couldn’t. Not here, not now.

He had to play the addle-pate relative, the innocent guide. If Sanemi Shinazugawa—the cold, efficient killer who had just executed two men without a second thought—caught Giyuu stealing from the corpses, the bounty man would know the truth instantly. The gunfight was a horrifying reminder of the penalty for being caught.

Giyuu swallowed hard, pushing down the primal urge. He looked at Sanemi, who was busy stripping the bodies of useful ammunition.

“What did they know, Sanemi?” Giyuu asked, his voice returning to a forced calm, though a slight tremor remained. “What’s the sign?”

“Nothing we didn’t,” Sanemi grunted, standing up. “They were following the same bad trail we were until we corrected it. They died for a useless lead. Clean your face, Tomioka. You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Just surprised,” Giyuu lied, shaking his head. He gave a small, nervous smile.

“You’re fast, bounty man. Real fast. Now I know you weren’t flapping your bazoo when you threatened me.”

Sanemi looked at him, his hard eyes narrowed. “Remember that. Now, their horses are in the livery. We take their food and shot, then we ride. This town is getting noisy, and I don’t fancy shooting any morebastards today.”

As Sanemi turned to leave, Giyuu risked one final, quick glance at the spilled silver, fixing the location in his mind. The temptation was agonizing. He had to maintain his mask, or the man who had just swiftly ended four lives would surely end his.

Chapter Text

They rode out of Iron Creek Crossing with two extra, riderless horses trailing them. Sanemi had stripped the corpses of everything useful: ammunition, dried meat, and water skins. He’d left the bodies for the heat and the vultures, the grim justice of the frontier. The swift violence had put Sanemi on edge, and it had shaken Giyuu, momentarily peeling back his brash veneer.

“The Devil’s Backbone trail is dead ahead,” Sanemi stated, his voice flat as they rode. “We stick to the west ridge. We’ll make better time and have the high ground.”

“No,” Giyuu countered, pulling his horse to a sudden halt. He pointed not west, but northeast, toward a vast, confusing maze of red rock formations and canyons. “We cut through the Badlands.”

Sanemi reined on his horse, his eyes narrowed into slits of immediate anger. “You idiot! The Backbone’s a known route. You take a horse through that rock garden, you break its legs or run out of water. That’s a suicide route.”

“That’s why the thief took it,” Giyuu replied, his gaze intense, scanning the distant rocks. “He knows someone saw him at Two Pines and is trying to shake the trail for good. The Backbone is what a common deadbeat would take. Our man is trying to be invisible.”

“You’re talking foolishness,” Sanemi growled. “You’re wasting my time. I should have left you back in Wisteria.”

“You hired me for my eyes, Shinazugawa, so use them,” Giyuu snapped back, dropping the casual slang for a moment. He pointed to a small, nearly hidden crevice near the base of the rock formations. “See that runoff channel? It hasn't seen water in months. But look at the dust by the mouth of it—it’s been disturbed. Not by wind. And not by a heavy horse like yours. A lighter horse, maybe a mule. He’s using an old prospector’s shortcut through the heart of the rocks.”

Sanemi pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddlebag. He focused on the spot Giyuu indicated. The dust near the crevice was indeed subtly different—a slightly smoother, recently disturbed texture. It was a sign so minute, so fleeting, that Sanemi, one of the best trackers alive, would have ridden right past it. He lowered the glasses slowly, his face rigid with reluctant acknowledgment.

“He's trying to disappear into that hell-hole,” Sanemi admitted, the words tasting like grit. “Fine. Lead the way, Tomioka. But if we get boxed in, you’re the first one who gets left behind.”

Giyuu nodded, satisfaction glowing in his unnerving blue eyes. “Fair enough. Just keep your six-shooter clean.”

The journey through the Badlands was grueling. The rocks funneled the heat, creating pockets of suffocating air, and the footing was treacherous. Sanemi watched Giyuu closely, expecting the young man to falter, to make a misstep that would expose his claims as a lie.

But Giyuu was phenomenal.

He moved with the practiced ease of someone who knew the land intimately. He navigated twisting canyons, remembering which dead-end washes led back to the main route, always choosing the path that offered the horses the easiest footing. He tracked the thief not just by footprints, but by the smallest disturbances: a chip of granite freshly dislodged, a tiny fleck of dried mud rubbed onto a low-hanging ledge, the distinct odor of stale tobacco on the stagnant air.

Sanemi, the legend, found himself following. Giyuu was not guessing; he was reading the landscape like an open book.

Late that afternoon, they came to a difficult stretch—a deep, narrow arroyo that required scrambling down a steep, loose bank. Giyuu was already halfway down, leading his mare with gentle, confident commands. Sanemi was about to follow when Giyuu held up a hand.

“Wait,” Giyuu whispered, his voice hushed but sharp. He pointed not to the ground, but up, to a small nest built into a thorny bush high on the bank. “No, don’t move.”

Sanemi stopped, his hand going to his revolver. He scanned the ridges, expecting a sniper or a lurking bandit. “What is it?”

“The nest,” Giyuu explained, his voice low. “It’s a ground sparrow. See how the female is sitting tight? If a man or an animal was upwind or down in this wash in the last hour, she would have flushed. The thief hasn’t been through here recently. We’ve missed something.”

Sanemi stared at the sparrow, then at Giyuu. Most bounty hunters looked for big signs: cigarette butts, dropped supplies, clear tracks. This man was tracking based on the behavior of a nervous bird. It was not violent, but it was absolutely undeniable. If the thief had passed, the nest would have been empty.

Sanemi climbed down the bank with extreme caution, his boots testing the loose dirt. Giyuu was right. The sparrow hadn't stirred. The trail they'd been following—the tiny sign of the mule—had veered away.

Giyuu walked back up the arroyo’s edge, eyes sweeping the surrounding slopes. “He saw us coming. Or he heard those shots back at Iron Creek. He's playing us, Sanemi. He's trying to lead us in circles until we run out of water.”

He walked a few dozen yards back and stopped at a point where a slight rise offered a view of the desert floor below. “Look down there, in the flats, right past those three black boulders. There’s a faint disturbance in the ironwood scrub.”

Sanemi used his glasses again. Far below, where the Badlands opened back onto the desert, there was a break in the uniform gray-green of the brush. It was a fresh track, but made with excruciating care.

“He doubled back,” Sanemi breathed, a rare note of genuine surprise in his voice. “He rode straight down to the flats, then cut back to the main trail, miles south of where he entered. He made us do the hard work in the rocks for nothing.”

He finally looked at Giyuu, no anger in his eyes, only a cold, hard evaluation. Giyuu had saved them hours, perhaps days, by preventing them from riding a deliberately false, exhausting trail into the rocks. He had used intelligence and a keen understanding of the natural world—not a gun—to prove his worth.

“You’re no rip, Tomioka,” Sanemi conceded, the grudging respect heavy in the air.

“You’re a clever little prick. But tell me this: why are you so damn good at tracking a man who’s trying to be a ghost?”

Giyuu merely smiled, that familiar, slightly unsettling look returning. “Because, bounty man, only a ghost knows how to find another ghost. Now, if we ride hard, we can catch that bastard’s new trail before the sun sets.”

Sanemi nodded, a plan forming in his head. Giyuu was valuable. Too valuable. The young man knew too much about the movements of an experienced, paranoid thief. Sanemi decided then that he couldn't let Giyuu out of his sight, not for a moment. He was either the most exceptional guide Sanemi had ever met, or he was the most intricate trap.

Chapter Text

The forced detour through the Badlands had paid off; Giyuu's improbable tracking had kept them on the thief’s heels. But it had also utterly exhausted them. The afternoon sun beat down with brutal force, their clothes were plastered to their skin with sweat and dust, and every breath felt like inhaling fine grit.

“We’re pushing too hard, Shinazugawa,” Giyuu called out, his voice hoarse. He had abandoned his usual brashness for simple necessity. “We’ll burn out the horses and ourselves. The thief won’t move at full speed all night. Let’s stop for an hour.”

Sanemi rode on, his face set in a grim mask of determination. “Every minute we waste is another mile that thief gains. We keep riding until the moon’s high.”

“And then we sit and stew in our filth?”
Giyuu replied, slowing his horse and pointing toward a faint line of green on the horizon. “There’s a feeder river ahead. We need to clear the sweat, tend the animals, and rest our eyes. A few minutes of cooling down will make us faster in the long run. Don’t you want to look presentable when you drag that deadbeat back to the law?”

Sanemi scoffed, but Giyuu's argument, as usual, was slyly logical. Rest was a tool, not a weakness. And the idea of scraping the clinging grime from his body was a powerful temptation.

“Fine,” Sanemi growled, jerking his horse toward the green line. “Thirty minutes. Not a second more, Tomioka. And you keep watch while I'm in the water. I don’t trust you to look at a horse, let alone guard my back.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, bounty man,” Giyuu replied, the casual amusement returning to his tone.

They reached the shallow, fast-moving river—a blessing of clear, cold water that seemed to heal the heat rash just by looking at it. They immediately stripped the saddles and let the horses drink deep.

Sanemi wasted no time. He pulled off his dusty, sweat-soaked outer shirt, tossing it onto the bank. He then walked straight into the current, pulling off his undershirt and tossing it onto the pile.

Giyuu stopped abruptly, his hand freezing on the girth strap of his mare. The sight of Sanemi, fully exposed from the waist up, was a jarring contrast to the hardened, perpetually furious man Giyuu thought he knew.

Sanemi was not merely strong; he was carved. Broad, powerful shoulders, a tapered waist, and abdominal muscles that looked sculpted from granite. The tension that usually warped his face was momentarily eased by the shock of the cold water, revealing a terrifying beauty in his physique. He was marred by so many scars—thick white lines on his chest and arms, testament to his bloody career—but they only added to the rugged perfection.

Giyuu watched, unmoving, shamelessly drinking in the image. The sudden, intense surge of heat in his own chest was unwelcome but undeniable. This was a side of the man Sanemi was—raw power stripped of the leather and grime—that Giyuu had not anticipated.

“You’re going to get dusty just standing there gawking, Tomioka,” Sanemi called out, using his bare hands to splash water over his hair.

Giyuu quickly collected himself, feigning indifference. “Just surprised you haven’t got a tattoo on those muscles, Shinazugawa. You look like you belong on a circus poster.”
Sanemi paused, a sliver of rare pride flickering across his face. “Runnin’ ya mouth again. But you’d know about looking at posters, wouldn’t you?”

Giyuu ignored the dig, instead walking to the bank and settling down, letting his own boots dangle in the water. “You’re a good tracker, Tomioka. Too good,” Sanemi said, continuing to scrub his arms. “You never answered me. Why are you out here? You don’t strike me as the kind who needs a quick fifty dollars.”

Giyuu picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water. He knew this moment required a carefully rationed piece of truth—something to anchor Sanemi’s faith.

“My folks are gone,” Giyuu said, his voice flat. “Bandits on the road two years back. Took everything, killed my sister, my old pardner, left nothing. I swore I’d never be helpless again. That’s why I know these trails. It’s not for the reward, Shinazugawa. It's for survival. The gold just buys me room to breathe.”

It was the most honest Giyuu had been, laced with enough pain to feel real. He left out the fact that he was the reason they were running, but the sentiment was true enough.

Sanemi looked at him, his hard eyes softening slightly. He recognized the tone. That was the sound of a hard case with a heavy past.

“Mine are still alive,” Sanemi admitted, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He rinsed his hair, the water cascading down his sculpted back. “Ma’s sick. Needs a doctor in the city and a steady roof. My siblings... they’re still young. I have a kid brother, Genya, he wanted to ride along with me, I told him he ain’t made for this dirty work. I swore I’d never let him go down this path.”

Sanemi revealed a rather personal aspect of his past. “The coin from this bounty—this last one—it’s enough to set them up for life. I’ve sent money home with every haul, but this is the final piece.” He sighed.

“Ever since our father abandoned us, leaving us to fend for ourselves, I swore I’d make sure they’re taken cared of. And if I ever find him, I’ll send him to hell where he belongs.”

He paused, a flicker of something almost hopeful in his eyes. “I don’t want to be a bounty hunter forever. I want to buy a small piece of land far from all this dust and death. Live easy. Knowing my family is okay.”

Giyuu stared at him, struck by the genuine vulnerability. The great, murderous Sanemi Shinazugawa, dreaming of peace. It was a perfect, terrible motivation.

“A peaceful life,” Giyuu mused, taking his own shirt off and splashing water onto his face. His skin, though pale, was smooth and unmarred. “Sounds like a fool’s errand, but I reckon you’ve earned it, bounty man. So, this is your last hunt?”

“It is,” Sanemi confirmed, pulling his clean undershirt on. The dream seemed to solidify the tension in his shoulders. “I catch this runaway criminal, and I’m done with the trail. I'll ride off into the sunset for good.”

Giyuu pulled his shirt back on, the material sticking to his damp skin. He smiled, a complex mixture of desire and fear churning in his gut.

“Then let’s make sure this thief doesn’t slip the noose,” Giyuu said, standing up.

“Because I fancy seeing what a peaceful Sanemi Shinazugawa looks like. Now, that would be a sight worth the ride.”

The shared intimacy of the moment—the sight of Sanemi's strength, the exchange of deeply personal motivations—had drastically altered the atmosphere. Sanemi was still wary, but now he saw Giyuu not just as a tool, but as a man who shared a wound. And Giyuu, having seen the bounty hunter's sculpted form and vulnerable dreams, felt the weight of his own deception grow heavier. He was falling for the very man he was deceiving.