The snow had started to melt, turning the dirt yard into cold, dark mud.
The village's isolation kept the modern world far away, no phone signal, no internet, just the occasional buzz of old power lines crackling in the mountain wind.
Nyra stood in the middle of the yard.
In her hands, there was no Kaburami, only a broken hoe handle she had sanded down to mimic the weight of a katana.
She moved like a blur.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Crack.
The wood cut through the cold air. Nyra spun, her bare foot sinking into the mud, and struck the trunk of a dead tree with a horizontal slash. The wood vibrated in her hands, sending a painful shock up her still-healing shoulders.
It wasn't enough.
The weight was wrong. The balance was wrong.
Without steel, she felt like a dancer without music.
Breathless and sweating despite the freezing three-degree morning, she finally stopped. Steam rose from her pale skin, glowing under the gray daylight.
She wore one of Eijiro's old tank tops and a pair of loose sweatpants, modern clothes that looked almost ridiculous on someone who moved like an ancient warrior.
And then she felt it.
The stare, his stare, before she even saw him.
Eijiro was sitting on the wooden porch, fixing a beat-up radio from the 90s. Screwdrivers and colorful wires were spread around him, a strange modern contrast to the raw brutality of her training.
But he wasn't looking at the radio.
He was looking at her.
Nyra didn't hide herself. She let him look, let him see the flex of her back muscles, the sweat clinging to the fabric, the scars. There was honesty in that. They were two animals living in the same den.
"Your left side is open," Eijiro said, his deep voice blending with the quiet static of the radio.
Nyra twirled the wooden handle, pointing it at him.
"Then come close it."
The challenge hung in the air, thick, heavy.
Not a call to fight.
A call to touch.
Their sexual tension wasn't made of flowers or sweet words — it was pure adrenaline. A rope ready to snap.
Eijiro put down the screwdriver.
He stood, wiping his hands on his worn-out jeans.
Slowly, he walked toward her, stepping into her space.
He stopped just inches from the wooden tip.
He lifted his hand and pushed the staff aside. Slowly. Until nothing stood between them.
"You fight like you're trying to die," he said, eyes locked on hers. "Every strike is a suicide."
"It's the only way to kill what's coming," Nyra answered, breath unsteady.
They were too close.
Nyra could feel the heat rolling off him like a living furnace against the mountain cold.
His scent, machine oil and cheap tobacco, mixed with the metallic scent of her sweat.
For one second, she thought about dropping the wooden handle and touching his chest, feeling his heart under the black T-shirt.
Eijiro held her gaze, pupils dilated.
He saw her hunger.
Not food, life. Sensation.
"The radio will play some music tonight," he said, voice rough, breaking the spell.
And he stepped back before the gravity between them became unavoidable.
Night brought silence and with silence came demons.
Nyra slept on the futon, the yellow lamp swaying with the draft.
In her dream, the ceiling wasn't wood, it was bone.
The floor was blood.
Dracula sat on his throne, smiling, holding the daughter she never had.
"Mine," he said. "You are my slave."
The chains tightened, burning, choking—
"NO!"
Nyra woke with a scream that tore at her throat.
Reality came back in shards.
She wasn't in hell.
She was in Japan.
But panic didn't care about geography.
Adrenaline exploded in her chest.
She leapt to her feet, shaking, half-blind with terror.
Her hand knocked the small table.
The radio Eijiro had fixed flew against the wall, shattering in a burst of plastic and metal.
"Get out of my head!" she screamed, punching the wooden wall.
Pain shot through her knuckles, good pain. Real pain.
"Get OUT!"
She grabbed a wooden chair and hurled it. The crash was deafening in the tiny room. She was destroying the sanctuary that had sheltered her, but she couldn't stop. The energy had nowhere to go. She had to release it or she would explode.
The door to Eijiro's room swung open.
He entered — not running, but with heavy, urgent steps.
He saw the chaos.
The broken radio, the chair on the floor, Nyra standing in the middle of the mess, chest heaving, blue eyes wide and feral, her fangs just starting to show.
"Nyra!" he barked, sharp as a whip.
She turned to him, ready to attack.
"Don't come closer! I'm dangerous! I'm—"
Eijiro ignored the warning.
He stepped through the wreckage and reached her in two long strides.
He grabbed her wrists before she could strike.
His strength was overwhelming—steady, immovable.
"Look at me!" he ordered, shaking her lightly.
"You're here. You're in Hokkaido. You're with me."
Nyra fought against his grip, thrashing.
"Let go! I'll hurt you! I ruin everything I touch!"
"Then ruin me," Eijiro growled, pulling her closer, destroying the distance.
"But stop fighting ghosts. I'm real. This is real."
The force of his words stunned her.
She went still, trembling violently against him.
She looked up.
His face was inches from hers—blurred by worry and raw intensity.
Silence fell again, heavy—but now filled with something else.
Nyra looked at his mouth.
Need slammed into her like a wave.
She didn't want comfort or soft words.
She wanted something that would drown out fear and memory.
She wanted to feel alive.
She wanted him.
"Eijiro…" she whispered, the name breaking out of her like a plea.
She tore her wrists free and, instead of stepping back, she moved in.
Her hands cupped his face, fingers brushing the rough stubble.
The kiss wasn't gentle.
It was a crash.
Nyra pressed her mouth to his, hungry, desperate.
There was the taste of blood, she had bitten her lip during the nightmare and the taste of his smoke.
Eijiro froze for a fraction of a second, shocked by the ferocity and then he gave in.
His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground, pulling her against him with enough force to break weaker ribs.
There was nothing cinematic about it.
There were teeth, frantic tongues, breaths that sounded like sobs.
A kiss of survivors.
Nyra trying to anchor her soul to his body, using passion to burn the trauma out.
She buried her fingers in his hair, pulling hard, moaning into his mouth, a sound that vibrated in both of them.
And there, in the wreckage of a broken radio and a shattered chair, under the flickering light of a cheap bulb, they weren't strangers or monsters.
They were just flesh, heat
and two desperate souls refusing to be alone.