Western Coast of Japan, Designated Trade Port
Late January 1837
The night after the attack dragged on longer than it should have.
No one said it out loud, but everyone felt it.
The lamps stayed lit across the enclosure, brighter than usual, pushed farther toward the edges where shadows used to sit. Guards moved more often, checking corners, walking paths they had already walked minutes before. Even the sound of boots felt different—heavier, sharper, like every step carried more weight than it did the day before.
Inside the medical tent, Laurent lay still.
A cloth pressed tight against his chest, stained dark.
One of the medics leaned over him again, checking his breathing, then adjusting the bandage without a word. The other sat nearby, hands ready, watching for any change.
"He's holding," the first one said quietly.
"For now," the second replied.
Neither sounded relieved.
