Fires break out in the city all the time. This one was no different.
Partly because I was frozen to my core and partly because I was hypnotized by the massive blaze, I watched the whorehouse burn. It was quite symbolic, actually. There were so many feuds that went on inside that building…so much strife between and within people. It made sense that it would all go up in flames someday.
I would later come to learn that there were only four survivors. Two of them relocated to different whorehouses. The third woman committed suicide not long after the fire. And me. I had nothing else other than the skimpy kimono on my back and a hidden kodachi strapped to my thigh, but unlike the other women, I knew there was no going back to the way things were. Nor was this the end. Hours later, the last ember finally exhausted its last glowing breath upon a mound of black ashes and I began walking down the dirt street. Into the rising sun, reflecting the redness of the war-torn, bloodied land of this nation, I walked.
Japan. 1866.
A/N: This is the prologue to my most detailed, ongoing fanfic yet. There are some time jumps, but I hope it's all clear enough to follow. And to anyone that bothers to read this-you are AMAZING.