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Rōnin
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He found himself facing two doors, plain wood and dust worn. One read Defense, the other Forward, carved like an old warning. He chewed the inside of his cheek, boots scuffing against the dry floorboards. One meant digging in, the other meant stepping into the unknown. Neither door creaked, neither called. Just silence, and the weight of choosing. He stood there a while, hat low over his eyes, knowing full well that some roads don't let you turn back.
