Samurai

“Put the money in the bag!”


The scream echoed across the marble walls of Central Metro Bank, sending a wave of panic through the once-quiet building. Customers hit the floor. Security lay bleeding by the vault. Tellers sobbed as they filled duffel bags with bills under the trembling aim of rifles.


There were four of them—masks, military gear, and eyes wild. Professionals, but panicked. One of them kept looking at the clock. Another paced by the main doors, muttering about response time and sirens.


“This is taking too long,” said the leader, a muscular man with a burn scar curling down his neck. “We’re not leaving witnesses.”


“What?!” one of the younger robbers turned, startled.


“You heard me. Cops’ll ask questions. People saw our faces. Start cleaning up.”


A ripple of shock spread. Screams broke out as one of them raised his rifle toward the cowering hostages near the waiting chairs.


The barrel stopped on a woman and her son. Early thirties, maybe. The boy looked about nine. Frozen. Hands around his mom’s waist. Dirty sneakers. Red hoodie with a video game logo. His small fingers clutched hers like they were the only thing anchoring him to the world.


She moved in front of him, arms wide.


“Please—don’t—he’s just a—”


The rifle shifted.


Then everything went still.


No gunfire.


No shouting.


Just a soft mechanical whirrr—the sound of automatic glass doors sliding open at the bank entrance.


Someone had walked in.


And everything changed.


He stood just past the doorway, silhouetted by the city lights behind him.


Tall. Silent. Inhumanly still.


Clad head to toe in black armor that didn’t match any police gear. Not SWAT. Not military. It was something older—yet advanced. Sleeves tight around his arms, plated gauntlets on his fists. A long coat flared behind him, torn at the edges.


His mask was fully sealed. Smooth. Featureless. Jet black with only two glowing slits for eyes—burning red. On his back: a katana, curved and sheathed.


One of the robbers snapped out of it. “Back off, freak! This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you!”
He lifted his rifle.


The man moved.


Like lightning.


One moment, the rifle was aimed.


The next, it was spinning in the air—sliced clean in half.


The gunman screamed, blood flying from his forearm as he dropped. The others opened fire.
Too late.


He was already among them.


A flash of steel. A grunt. A wrist broken with one brutal strike. A rifle bent backward, another robber hurled across the counter. The last tried to run—took one step before a spinning kick dropped him like a ragdoll.


Less than ten seconds.


It was over.


The hostages stared. No one dared breathe.



The black-clad figure turned, walking past the shaking mother and her son.


The boy looked up—wide eyes meeting glowing red.


He couldn’t see the man’s face. Couldn’t hear his voice. And yet—


He knew.


In a world of lies and broken promises—In a city where honor was dead—


He had just witnessed a real samurai.


The boy stared up, heart pounding, words caught somewhere between his throat and chest.


The masked man turned slightly, as if sensing something. He paused—just a moment—before walking past them, steps silent even on the marble floor.


The boy’s fingers twitched.


He opened his mouth.


“W-wait—!”


The samurai stopped.


The mother looked at her son, startled—but said nothing.


The boy’s lips trembled.


“I… I just wanted to s-say…”
The masked head tilted.


Red eyes glowed dimly beneath the featureless mask.
“…Th—”


But before the word could leave his mouth, the figure was gone. A blur of motion—he slipped through the main doors, vanishing into the night as sirens wailed in the distance.
The boy stood frozen.


He never finished the sentence.


But it lived in his chest, burning.


Thank you.“Put the money in the bag!”
The scream echoed across the marble walls of Central Metro Bank, sending a wave of panic through the once-quiet building. Customers hit the floor. Security lay bleeding by the vault. Tellers sobbed as they filled duffel bags with bills under the trembling aim of rifles.
There were four of them—masks, military gear, and eyes wild. Professionals, but panicked. One of them kept looking at the clock. Another paced by the main doors, muttering about response time and sirens.
“This is taking too long,” said the leader, a muscular man with a burn scar curling down his neck. “We’re not leaving witnesses.”
“What?!” one of the younger robbers turned, startled.
“You heard me. Cops’ll ask questions. People saw our faces. Start cleaning up.”
A ripple of shock spread. Screams broke out as one of them raised his rifle toward the cowering hostages near the waiting chairs.
The barrel stopped on a woman and her son. Early thirties, maybe. The boy looked about nine. Frozen. Hands around his mom’s waist. Dirty sneakers. Red hoodie with a video game logo. His small fingers clutched hers like they were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
She moved in front of him, arms wide.
“Please—don’t—he’s just a—”
The rifle shifted.
Then everything went still.
No gunfire.
No shouting.
Just a soft mechanical whirrr—the sound of automatic glass doors sliding open at the bank entrance.
Someone had walked in.
And everything changed.
He stood just past the doorway, silhouetted by the city lights behind him.
Tall. Silent. Inhumanly still.
Clad head to toe in black armor that didn’t match any police gear. Not SWAT. Not military. It was something older—yet advanced. Sleeves tight around his arms, plated gauntlets on his fists. A long coat flared behind him, torn at the edges.
His mask was fully sealed. Smooth. Featureless. Jet black with only two glowing slits for eyes—burning red. On his back: a katana, curved and sheathed.
One of the robbers snapped out of it. “Back off, freak! This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you!”
He lifted his rifle.
The man moved.
Like lightning.
One moment, the rifle was aimed.
The next, it was spinning in the air—sliced clean in half.
The gunman screamed, blood flying from his forearm as he dropped. The others opened fire.
Too late.
He was already among them.
A flash of steel. A grunt. A wrist broken with one brutal strike. A rifle bent backward, another robber hurled across the counter. The last tried to run—took one step before a spinning kick dropped him like a ragdoll.
Less than ten seconds.
It was over.
The hostages stared. No one dared breathe.
The black-clad figure turned, walking past the shaking mother and her son.
The boy looked up—wide eyes meeting glowing red.
He couldn’t see the man’s face. Couldn’t hear his voice. And yet—
He knew.
In a world of lies and broken promises—In a city where honor was dead—
He had just witnessed a real samurai.
The boy stared up, heart pounding, words caught somewhere between his throat and chest.
The masked man turned slightly, as if sensing something. He paused—just a moment—before walking past them, steps silent even on the marble floor.
The boy’s fingers twitched.
He opened his mouth.
“W-wait—!”
The samurai stopped.
The mother looked at her son, startled—but said nothing.
The boy’s lips trembled.
“I… I just wanted to s-say…”
The masked head tilted.
Red eyes glowed dimly beneath the featureless mask.
“…Th—”
But before the word could leave his mouth, the figure was gone. A blur of motion—he slipped through the main doors, vanishing into the night as sirens wailed in the distance.
The boy stood frozen.
He never finished the sentence.
But it lived in his chest, burning.
Thank you.