She has a collection of sharp edges: knives, daggers, and cutting blades of various sizes. They hang around her rented apartment and he just had to ask, why?

"My father was a swordsmith." She answers. "I began crafting swords eight years ago."

She doesn't sell them, doesn't believe in their worth in gold, doesn't think her blades would suit anyone but her. And he believes that. Her collection has hung on the walls of rented apartments, rooms, and safe houses for as long as she can remember.

"Why bring them around with you?" He appreciates her aesthetic, the dangerous samurai with skin of steel and a heart of gold, but wonders why she would have to materialize her persona in the form of several stacks of weapons placed on display. Her very presence should be enough to intimidate anyone.

"Hagakure is far and they make better company than most people."

Internally he's smiling at her joking statement.

"They're quiet. They don't judge. And they're easier on the eyes."

Oh. That's when he starts laughing, but then silences himself a few seconds later.

"And they're not unused. If you were anyone else, I'd gladly tell you how many battles each of these blades have had. How many nicks they have. How many lives they've taken."

That's when he really stops laughing and feels his face go pale when he sees the wicked glint in her eyes. It's the truth of their world, after all, they are defined by war and bloodshed, by the number of scars on their bodies and the number of lives they've taken. Maybe, he thinks, she puts them on display to remind her.

"But these two," She points to the mounted katana and wakizashi on the sideboard in front of them, "They've seen more than the rest."

He knows those two blades.

Yamenokayama.

Kunishige.

The first time he witnesses the two swords in a seamless tandem of cuts and slashes, he let his guard down twice, or rather, was forced to. Lightweight, sharp, solid, two swords matching in perfect sync with their master. He was in awe of her ruthless grace when in possession of the two, her determined strikes never missing, her cutting power always evident.

But right now, as he stares at the two blades, he can't help but think if she still holds the same power as she does when in their company.

"And now they're put on display." He comments.

"Just like the rest of them." She sighs. "They deserve it."

This is their afterlife, she told him once before, all of the souls she's taken, willingly or unwillingly, placed on display and hung like ghosts. They will linger around her because she lets them, because this too is her afterlife. Life after the wartime is cold and calm, peace comes in the form of grave marks placed on display and scrolls filled with names that no one will ever read again.

"I have a collection of plants." He says.

"It suits you." She replies.

"Would you like to see?"

It's a direct/indirect invitation for her to come over to his place. Quite discreet, he thinks, as she accepts in a second breath and he sighs in relief, pushing back the idea that she will deny him without batting an eyelash. So later that day he invites her in, after allowing her to follow him home, secretly finding amusement at the situation, and she wants to shrink in the empty expanse of space, the simplicity of the entire place.

He lives in an actual house. Not rented. Not shared. His own. Two floors. Big windows. Polished floors. White walls. High bookshelves. And plants.

Lots of plants.

And if Haru taught her anything about men, it's those with houses that are worth fu…keeping.