A/N: I wrote this from a scene that just popped into my head one morning, so I don't actually have a plot yet. I welcome any suggestions as well as any pointers ad constructive crit. Reviews are always good to receive, of course :) Please enjoy:


Within an hour of the assassination of the President of the CIA, a warrant for death was sent out for Assassin 666. No doubt was left in their minds as to who betrayed their association. He was a foreigner after all, and trained to be a deadly killer who made no ties from childhood; a devil in human form. He had even betrayed the very clan that raised him, no more than a few months ago.

Those who had mistrusted him from the beginning rested their cases. Those who had put some faith in him were left in shock. But the letter found in the red tinted office scene left no space for uncertainty, for it contained black sand. It was a tradition of the decimated Ozunu Clan. His clan.


Why did this happen to him? Will he ever stop running from enemies that sought to kill him?

Raizo pressed his foot down on the accelerator and heard the engine whine in response as he continued to swerve around the cars coming at him.

After freeing himself from the Ozunu, he had thought that he could stop killing, but that was a naïve thought on his part. He knew nothing about surviving in the normal society. He had no skills that could land him a well-paid job either and in the end, he had realised that shedding blood was the best – no, the only thing he was capable of doing. That had been a depressing thought.

So he had offered his services to the Americans. That was a mere two months ago.

And now they are chasing him down the highway, firing their guns at him. They wanted him dead, that he knew for sure when black-suited men started to shoot him as he attempted to enter the parking lot of the local CIA branch. But he did not know the why, and that frustrated him.

A screech of tires brought him out of his inner ponderings and he wrenched the wheel around just in time to avoid a crash and get on the off-ramp. He glanced in his rear-view mirror and was satisfied to see his last pursuer ram straight into the oncoming traffic. He had gone into the wrong lane on purpose after all, knowing that his reflexes would always be faster than those of the other officers and the plan had paid off just as he'd expected it to. He had lost them quite efficiently.

Now he just needed to find a motel for the night and sort everything out in his head before he tried to find the reasons for this sudden betrayal from the CIA.

~xXx~

It was late at night when he finally arrived at the door of his small motel room. It was just as he was about to enter the room that he felt a faint presence at the edge of his senses. He unlocked the door and let it swing open. The inside of the room was rather bare. A low coffee table stood in the middle of the room with a well-worn, beige sofa behind it was all the furniture in the room except for the neatly made bed that stood in the left corner, washed in the soft light of the moon that streamed in through the windows framed in the white walls.

The rest of the room was dark and Raizo stepped carefully into the room, well aware that his enemy could be anywhere in the shadows.

The faint presence amplified to a threatening one the minute his foot touched the floor, and on fighting instinct, he ducked. Raizo felt the edge of a blade pass over his head as he rolled away and blended into the shadows, glad that his habit of wearing black clothes never died. The presence was coming towards him again and he readied himself for a fight.

The swoosh of the weapon swinging towards him told him where to go and he spent the next few seconds dodging, moving around the unknown person, looking for an opening – a chance where he could disarm her.

He spun to the right as the blade came from overhead and he heard the splintering wood of a piece of furniture being cleaved in half. There, a chance. He immediately flashed towards the presence (who was much shorter than him, he noticed) and delivered a powerful strike to the face while twisting the sword out from the hands that held it. A feminine cry reached his ears.

He grabbed the woman by the throat before she could recover and pinned her against a moonlit wall, sword pointed at her heart.

"Who are you?" he demanded, voice as toneless as always.

Dark, defiant eyes glared back at him. He pulled her away from the wall and slammed her against it again.

"Who are you?" he repeated. Again he received no answer. He dug his fingers beneath the cloth of her mask. "What clan are you fro –"

Shock permeated his mind as he saw the face of his opponent and his grip relaxed, dropping the sword onto the wooden floor. The shock must've have shown on his face, for he found himself on the ground in the next second, the sword pointed at his throat.

His mind still numb, Raizo reached a hand toward her face, not quite touching it, no quite believing what he saw. It cannot be, he thought, and yet, it is. The same face that haunted his thoughts every now and then was right in front of him. "Kiriko..."

A strange gleam entered the woman's eyes at his murmur and the sword point that had been about to pierce his skin drew back.

"You know my sister?" she asked.