RWBY: Moon Reflection

The doctor stepped out from the small house, his movements hurried and nervous. His eyes darted toward Crimson, and for a brief moment, his face betrayed fear. Without a word, he turned and bolted away, the sound of his steps echoing in the distance. Crimson didn't react. His gaze was fixed on the ground, his thoughts pulling him deeper into a silent abyss. The world around him felt distant, the faint cries from inside the house barely registering in his mind.

Minutes turned to hours, and time seemed to stretch endlessly until the door creaked open once more. This time, it was the father who emerged. He was cradling a small bundle wrapped in a soft, worn blanket. Behind him, the two boys followed, their eyes wide with curiosity and awe. The father's face was a mix of exhaustion and relief, his voice steady as he approached Crimson.

"It's a girl," he said, his words filled with quiet pride. "She's safe and sound, thanks to you."

Crimson looked up, his crimson eyes locking onto the father's. He gave a small nod but said nothing. His expression remained unreadable, though a faint flicker of something softer passed through his features. The father, emboldened, stepped closer.

"Here," he said, gently holding out the newborn toward Crimson. Confusion flashed across Crimson's face as he hesitated, unsure of what to do.

"We talked about it," the father continued, his voice warm but firm. "My wife and I... we want you to name her. It would mean the world to us if our benefactor could bless her with a name."

Crimson stared at the father, his mind racing. He hadn't expected this. He had come to help, nothing more. To be asked to name a child felt... foreign, almost too intimate. He glanced down at the tiny life in his hands, her eyes closed, her breathing soft and steady. For a long moment, he said nothing, the weight of the request settling heavily on him.

The father seemed to sense his hesitation. "Please," he said quietly. "You saved her life. You've given us more than we could ever repay. A name from you would be an honor."

Crimson looked at the newborn again. Her fragility, her innocence—it was almost overwhelming. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "Summer," he said, his tone carrying a faint but unmistakable note of reverence. "Summer was the name of the woman who gave birth to me. If it is a suitable name, I would like to name her after her. In hope she will grow as strong... and as kind."

The father's face broke into a wide smile, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Summer," he repeated, nodding. "It's a beautiful name. Thank you."

From that moment on, the small family of four became five. Summer had entered their lives, a bright new presence that brought hope and joy to their home. Crimson spent the night with them, sitting quietly by the fire as the family exchanged stories and laughter. For once, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lighten, if only slightly.

The next morning, Crimson prepared to leave. The father, stood by the doorway with his wife, still weak but smiling warmly. "If you're ever passing through, please visit," the father said earnestly.

His wife nodded, holding Summer close. "You'll always be welcome here," she added softly.

The father then pulled out a cloak and handed it to Crimson and said "You are heading south, it is rainy there. Hope this will help you"

Crimson hesitated for a moment before thanking the man and turning around to leave. But as Crimson stepped outside, the two boys ran up to him. Their youthful energy was palpable as one of them spoke eagerly. "We want to be like you! Strong and free, traveling the world. We'll do anything to become like you!"

Crimson crouched down, meeting their eyes. His expression was serious but not unkind. "Chasing the shadow of someone you admire will only leave you lost in their footsteps," he said, his voice calm but firm. "True strength lies in cherishing the present, standing firm for those you love, and finding your own path to protect what matters most."

The boys stared at him, their youthful excitement dimmed by the weight of his words. Crimson stood and glanced at the family one last time. "Remember," he said, his voice quieter now, "there are treasures in this world no power can reclaim once lost. Hold them close while you still can."

The boys looked to their father, confused by Crimson's words but sensing their importance. The father's expression turned somber as he watched Crimson walk away, heading south.

"What did he mean?" one of the boys asked.

The father sighed, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I think he's lost someone... or something... that meant everything to him."

The family stood in silence, watching until Crimson disappeared from view. His words lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of the fragility of the things they held dear.

________________________

Ten days later, Crimson reached the city of Kuchinashi. The journey had been long and arduous, with little more than the rain and his own thoughts for company. As he stood at the edge of the city, his cloak damp from the persistent drizzle, he recalled Qrow's stories of this place. A city where the worst of criminals gathered, where crime empires were born and flourished in the shadows of corruption.

Kuchinashi was nestled within the open mouth of the surrounding mountains, earning its local nickname: "The egg in a viper's nest." From his vantage point, Crimson could see the neon lights piercing through the perpetual fog and rain, casting an eerie glow over the ancient city. The weather systems trapped by the mountains created an oppressive, wet atmosphere, amplifying the unease that clung to the place. Anti-air artillery bristled on the outskirts as a stark reminder of the city's defenses, and distant wails of sirens echoed through the valleys, their mournful tones carrying far.

Crimson entered the city, keeping his head low beneath his hood. The streets were a chaotic maze of Eastern-style architecture lit by garish neon signs advertising every vice imaginable. The contrasting blend of old and modern created an unsettling harmony, as if the city itself couldn't decide whether to preserve its traditions or fully succumb to its corruption.

He moved steadily toward the Central Strip, the heart of the city, recalling Qrow's description of it. This was where public business and clandestine deals intertwined seamlessly. The Strip was dominated by The Hedges, a sprawling, cacophonous marketplace connected to the criminal underworld. As he waded through the crowd, Crimson observed the spectrum of activity: vendors hawking wares loudly, Dust dealers showcasing their products with dramatic displays, and shadowy figures slipping into the eastern corners where drugs and other illicit goods exchanged hands.

The Central Strip also housed key landmarks: a local hospital, a blacksmith shop, and the Sheriff's Office, now commandeered by The Wave, a growing crime syndicate. Crimson noted the Lightning Dust-reinforced cells in the jail—a grim necessity in a city where even Huntsmen couldn't be fully trusted.

His destination lay ahead: The Skillful, a tavern infamous for its Huntsman activity and the power plays orchestrated within its walls. Qrow's stories had painted it as a hive of opportunity for those seeking work, danger, or both. Crimson needed money, and extermination missions—the kind that involved clearing out Grimm infestations or putting down dangerous individuals—offered a chance to earn it quickly.

Two burly guards flanked the entrance to The Skillful. As Crimson approached, one stepped forward, blocking his path with a hand. "Huntsman license?" he demanded. The other guard smirked, arms crossed, eyeing Crimson with suspicion.

Crimson's brow furrowed. "Don't have one."

The first guard laughed harshly. "No license, no entry. Tavern rules. Doesn't matter if it's active or stolen, you need one to get in."

Crimson stared at him for a long moment before acting. In a blur, his fist connected with the guard's jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground unconscious. The second guard cursed, drawing a weapon, but Crimson calmly held up the first guard's license. "This good enough?"

The remaining guard blinked in surprise before narrowing his eyes. "You're dead—"

He lunged, but Crimson sidestepped effortlessly, disarming him with a swift motion and knocking him out cold. He adjusted his cloak and stepped over their prone forms, pushing open the tavern doors.

Inside, the atmosphere was alive with chatter, laughter, and the occasional raised voice. The scent of alcohol and smoke hung heavy in the air. Crimson's entrance turned heads, but most quickly returned to their drinks, recognizing the kind of trouble that had just walked in.

Behind the bar stood an older woman with a sharp gaze and a smirk that suggested she'd seen everything this city had to offer. Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her movements were efficient as she poured drinks and barked orders at her staff. She looked up as Crimson approached, her eyes narrowing.

"You realize what you just did out there?" she asked, her voice low but carrying weight.

Crimson shrugged. "Needed a license. Got one. The second guard didn't know what was good for him."

The woman's smirk widened. "Name's Opal. I run this place. And you have got guts, I will give you that. Now, what do you want?"

"Work," Crimson replied. "Something that pays."

Opal nodded slowly, studying him. "You've got the look of someone who can handle themselves. Bounty work or Grimm extermination?"

"Bounty," Crimson said without hesitation.

Opal reached beneath the bar, pulling out a few papers. "This one's high-risk," she said, sliding a particular posting toward him. "Dangerous target, but the pay's worth it. Think you can handle it?"

Crimson glanced at the paper, committing the details to memory. "I can handle it."

Opal chuckled softly. "We will see about that. Good luck, kid."

Tucking the paper into his cloak, Crimson turned and headed back into the rain-soaked streets.