He's a Ghost:
Kenji watched as children darted up and down the halls, their laughter and hurried footsteps filling the air with an energy he hadn't known in years. He sighed, leaning back into his now not-so-cozy apartment, his once private sanctuary now transformed into something else entirely. The walls, once adorned with carefully arranged weapons and sentimental artifacts, were bare. He had packed most of it away, tucking danger and nostalgia into storage, out of reach of the restless souls now occupying his space.
Sleeping bags were scattered across the floor, draped over the couch, and shoved into the corners where his gear used to be. This wasn't just his place anymore—it had become something larger, something unexpected.
Senji's generosity had caught him off guard. The old man had taken in the lost remnants of his old academy without hesitation. Kenji knew better than anyone that these kids had nowhere else to go. Their pasts were carved from stolen inheritances, dead parents, wounds both physical and psychological. Some had been betrayed, others abandoned, but all of them shared the same burning anger—an anger directed at one thing and one thing only.
Kenji saw himself in them.
But unlike him, they had made a different choice. When faced with nothing, they had put their faith not in vengeance, not in a criminal syndicate, not in bloodshed for hire—but in Senji Masamune.
That was something he had never even considered for himself.
And yet, as he sat there, staring at the group of kids who had chosen a path he never had, a realization settled over him like a weight he wasn't sure he wanted to bear.
Things had changed.
They listened to him.
They talked to him—not just as an authority figure, but as an equal, as someone they respected. They sought his guidance, not out of fear, but out of trust. They did everything they could to help him, offering small gestures, carrying out tasks without complaint, looking to him for leadership in ways he wasn't sure he deserved.
He had thrown his father out and saved his own life through negotiation. That alone had shifted his world off its axis.
But this? This was something else entirely.
Kenji exhaled slowly, watching the kids go about their routines, their movements sharper, more disciplined than they had been just weeks ago. They had come to him for guidance, at first hesitantly, uncertain if he would even acknowledge them. But now, every day, they asked him the same things.
"Teach me how to fight."
"Show me how to hold a blade."
"How do I steady my breathing when the fear comes?"
They weren't just looking for revenge or mindless violence. They wanted control. They wanted the skills to survive the chaos of Night City, to stand their ground when the predators of the streets came hunting.
At first, Kenji had been reluctant. He wasn't a teacher. He wasn't a mentor. He was a killer trained by people who had wanted him to be nothing more than a weapon. But when he saw them—young, desperate, angry but determined—he couldn't turn them away.
So he trained them.
They practiced with knives and short blades first, simple weapons that could mean the difference between life and death in an alley fight. He corrected their stances, made them drill over and over until their bodies remembered the movements even when their minds were exhausted. He showed them where to strike, how to read an opponent's intentions through the subtle shifts in their balance.
Then came the guns. Most of them had never held one before, and those who had only knew what they had picked up from the streets—reckless, sloppy, all adrenaline and no discipline. He taught them how to control their shots, how to breathe through the tension, how to keep a steady hand when everything was falling apart.
But what surprised him the most was their interest in meditation.
One of them—a girl named Hikari—had asked him if there was a way to stop the shaking, to quiet the racing thoughts after a fight. And so, in the late hours of the night, when the city hummed outside and the apartment was dimly lit, he showed them.
They sat together, eyes closed, focusing on nothing but their breathing. He spoke in a low voice, guiding them through the same exercises that had once been drilled into him. How to steady the mind. How to let fear pass through them without consuming them.
"A blade is only useful when it is sharp and steady."
That's what his sensei had told him, long ago.
And now, Kenji was telling them the same thing.
They were growing stronger, faster, better. Each day, they pushed themselves harder, because they knew—just as he did—that in Night City, hesitation was death.
They weren't just kids anymore.
They were survivors, preparing to face the world that had tried to break them.
