Ichi didn't swing wildly; he moved like a leaf in a whirlpool. To the yakuza, he was a blur of gray fabric. To Ichi, the world was a map of sound: the shing of a blade being drawn to his left, the heavy stomp of a lunging boot behind him. He continued down the road, his cane tapping once more
He cleaned the blade on his sleeve with a practiced flick and snapped it back into the cane. The silence returned, save for the frantic chirping of a cricket he had nearly stepped on. A single, silver arc flashed in the moonlight