The Military Police Force finally arrived.
Yan couldn't be bothered wasting words on them. He merely said coldly, "Search all three alleys in the civilian district. Send the injured to the medical team first."
Then he turned and walked back into the half-collapsed storage room.
Lishi was still lying on the floor. Her face was frighteningly pale, and blood was still seeping from the wound at the back of her head, but her breathing had steadied somewhat. Crouched beside her was a small figure—Izumi.
Five-year-old Izumi pressed both tiny hands against the back of her mother's head, trying to hold down the wound. Her palms were too small to cover it. Blood seeped through her fingers, staining her hands red. But she refused to let go.
She bit her lip so hard it was nearly bleeding. Tears still streamed down her face, but she was no longer making a sound.
Yan crouched beside her.
Izumi suddenly flinched back.
She raised her head and looked at Yan with eyes swollen from tears.
They were very close. Firelight shone in through the half-collapsed roof, casting Yan's face between light and shadow.
This was the first time Izumi had seen his face clearly.
Young. Very young. He did not look much older than her brother—she no longer had a brother, and she no longer had a father—or the older boys from the Ninja Academy who went to school at the mouth of the alley every day.
But his eyes did not belong to a young man.
They were black, black as two bottomless wells. There was nothing unnecessary in them. They were not fierce, but neither were they gentle. They were simply still, like a bowl of cooled water.
"Move aside," Yan said.
Izumi did not understand.
"Your hand. Move it."
He reached