He woke up in a bed...the softest bed he had in years.

He didn't know how long he was out—one minute, he was raging in a warehouse his former clan was using for 'business', mixing the drugs they used into the sake he drank, the next he was here. In this elaborate bedroom...was he even still in New York? He looked around, the bedroom looked like something from America's Gilded Age. He got up from the bed, his head pounding from how he punished his body. He looked around, there wasn't anyone there...or appeared to be. Yet he sensed something was amiss, like there was someone there but was hiding.

"I know you are here." He said. "Show yourself!" But no one appeared.

He looked out the window, and he saw a landscaped courtyard, the type not seen beyond a mansion or other type of large, luxurious house. He tried to remember what he was doing before...he was on the docks, trying to deal with some drug dealers selling to children. It turned out to be a trap laid by his former clan, who caught him. When they had him, they were preparing to return him to Hanamura, except...except they told him what a disappointment he was, how his father would have been ashamed of him. He laughed and told them his father had been ashamed of him long before things went wrong, before he killed them. It brought back memories of inadequacy, of failure. The sight of his father's picture was the last straw for him—he took the picture and stomped on it, yelling his questions on why he was never good enough for the man. Why did he coddle his younger brother, who wanted nothing to do with the clan, who in fact helped dismantle them? The brother he thought he killed, but in truth severely injured him to the point he was turned into a cyborg by their enemies to save him, and then sought his revenge? The brother who forgave him for his actions? It was during that rant that he started grabbing the drugs his former clan were going to sell, mixed it in sake and drank. It was spitting in Father's face, he knew—he never tolerated any of the clan using. Selling drugs was one thing, but they did not actually use them; they were meant for others who willingly poisoned their bodies for a sense of euphorium. At that point, he didn't care; he had come to believe his quest for redemption was futile. But he refused the offers of Talon; he spent his life on a leash, he wouldn't put himself on such again. All he cared about was ending it, he was beyond redemption and his brother...his brother would be better off forgetting he existed. Ten years was a long time, and he doubted his brother would trust him again. Not after what he did. He meanwhile could not bring himself to trust his brother for betraying the clan, even though part of him screamed his brother owed them no loyalty the moment he struck him down. All he cared about now was oblivion, except he failed even that if his being here was any indication.

He shook the memories from his head and exited the room. He walked down the corridor and for some reason made his way to what appeared to be a library. In the chair sat a man, all cloaked in black with a red scarf around his face. He stood in a defensive stance, his weapons not with him, but the man did not move. The man just looked at him.

"Who are you?" He asked. The man continued to look.

"Your teacher." The man said. He just laughed.

"And what do you plan to teach one such as I? Do you even know who you seek as a pupil?!"

"Hanzo." The man then suddenly appeared before him. "Hanzo Shimada. Once the heir apparent of the Shimada clan, now a mercenary for hire while the clan you abandoned whittles away to nothing."

"You know nothing of what happened!"

"All your life, you had chosen duty over your own instincts, supressing yourself for the 'good of the clan', or so your elders said. You chose to appease your elders and allowed them to direct your thoughts regarding what was best for the clan. Then your father died, and his legacy fell to you. Ten years ago, you were confronted with a choice—your clan, for whom you spent your life trying to please, or your brother, the only person who cared about you. You chose the clan, but you regretted the choice and in your grief, fled them. Abandoned them. Then you learned your brother was alive, that he survived the fight between you. He forgave you for killing him, and you did kill him for all intents and purposes, but he did not forget. You also hold grief for what you did, but beneath it you're still angry and resentful of him, aren't you?"

Hanzo roared in rage and charged the man, who faded into nothing and was on a side of the library. Hanzo crumbled onto the floor.

"Your clan called you master, but you were not master of yourself, let alone of them. You seek redemption for what you did, but you've come to doubt it will happen."

"Because I am beyond redemption, and that is assuming such an illusion exists!"

"You're wrong. It does exist, but we all pay a price for it. You will be redeemed; I will teach you to master yourself, as you should have long ago, and to use your gifts to fight the evil that encroaches on this world."

"I do not need your aid!" Hanzo grabbed a nearby knife, and the man just raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, Hanzo felt a pain in his hand. The knife had somehow come alive, and the face on the handle had bit his hand, drawing blood. Startled, Hanzo let go of the knife and instinct had him dodging the knife, which was now flying trying to cut him to ribbons. Soon the flying knife was at Hanzo's throat, and he stood there bracing himself for the killing blow.

"Perva!" The man shouted. The knife flew to its master's hand. Hanzo stared at him in despair.

"Just kill me." Hanzo said. "It would be better for all if I am gone."

"No." The man replied. "That is not your price for redemption, and you will be redeemed. You know this, deep inside you or you would have ended yourself that night."

"You presume much, stranger."

"I was like you, once. I let the darkness in my heart overwhelm me long ago. It still exists, but I master it instead of letting it master me. You will do the same with yours."

"How do you know this?" The man looked at him, betraying no expression Hanzo could detect.

"I know." Then he laughed and Hanzo looked on a nearby desk and saw a picture of Genji. The man stopped laughing and looked at him again.

"You know my brother." Hanzo said, holding up the picture.

"I do, but that's not him." The man replied. "Look again." Hanzo did, confused, until he saw the time stamp on it. This picture was taken in 2014...Genji wouldn't have been born then, he wouldn't have been born yet. But if this wasn't Genji, then who...?

"When he led the Shimada," The man said, indicating the picture. "They were smart enough not to cross me. Yoshi knew I would react, he saw firsthand what I did to other drug dealers who crossed me, and kept his business away...until the Crisis." Until the Omnic Crisis, when Yoshi...when Grandfather died, leaving Father to become oyabun of the Shimada.

"Sofu..." Hanzo said, staring at the picture. So this was Grandfather when he was a young man, and Genji had been a mirror image. He then turned to the man, who still looked at him, as though waiting. It was then Hanzo remembered a story from his grandfather about a man who haunted New York, how criminals who crossed his path met their ends—if they were lucky, they ran and turned themselves into the authorities. If not, they were dead because they had the gall to try and fight someone who knew the evil that lurked in men's hearts. No one wanted to cross this being, not even the clan wanted to catch it...his attention. The man his grandfather called "Kage".

The man called the Shadow.

"Is this what the Westerners call Hell?" Hanzo asked. The Shadow only looked at him and answered,

"Not yet."