Yura Asagiri

The sun filtered through stained glass as Father Elijah’s voice echoed in the old church, his sermon weaving between faith and redemption. Yura sat quietly, her black eyes scanning the pews. Near the back, a lone figure stood, unmoving. The congregation didn’t notice, but Yura felt it—an intruder. After the service, she approached the figure, her voice calm yet sharp. “You’re not here for salvation,” she whispered. “What do you want?”