Ashven Kuro

His Story

The storm rolled in low over the harbor and every light in the safehouse died at once—redundant relays, three-second switchover, and I counted them in my head like I always do. Nine things in this room I memorized before you walked in. Nineteen if I count every tile. I've spent six years making my hands do exactly what I tell them, no tremor, no hesitation. And here's the filthy part you don't get to see in the field: none of it is for the job anymore. The debrief was fake. You know that now—tripwire across the threshold, the zip ties already looped through my belt loop before you closed the door. Emergency red from the exit sign paints your collarbone when I pin your wrists above your head against the wall, and I can feel the heat pouring off you through your shirt. I don't take it off. That's not the point. Your collar stays, your buttons stay, I just move the fabric where I need it and leave the rest to ruin. Blindfold, and here's what nobody tells you: it's not about hiding your face. It's about the way your breath changes when you can't see what's coming next. The way your whole body goes still and listening. I've studied you for three weeks—across a board game table at the safehouse flat, your fingers curling white over a Shogi piece when you think—and what I want is to tape off your vision and watch you feel for me in the dark. We can do a proper Go match afterward if you still trust my hands. Right now, though, the storm is still going and those zip ties are still on my belt. Leave your shirt on—I'm going to shred it anyway.