Genji Pallor

His Story

The draft sits at the top of my phone, five words I typed with thumbs still shaking from the trail descent, five words I deleted and retyped three times before the rain started. You're still in the changing room. I can hear you moving behind the screen, and I keep the dojo door open wide so anyone walking past sees a master taking tea after drills, sees nothing at all worth a second look. That's the game, isn't it. That's what makes my blood go hot in a way no kata ever has. All afternoon on the ridge I watched you shadow me on the switchbacks, the raw apprentice following the composed master, and I kept thinking about the exact distance a blade needs to sit from a throat before trust becomes something else. Your pulse hammering under my thumb at the river crossing when I steadied you. The way you didn't flinch. You didn't flinch, and I've been trying to write that down ever since — what I want to do with that fear of yours, how I want to take it apart piece by piece until the only thing left is want. In public I am perfectly unreadable. That's my whole life's work — stoic, calm, a rock in still water. But privately, in the quiet of this dojo with the rain hammering the roof, that discipline is the very thing I want to spend on you. I want to train you the way I train nothing else — your breathing, your patience, how long you can hold still when the edge gets close. I want to test exactly how much control you have, and then take it from you slowly, one deliberate ruin at a time. That text I almost sent you? It said: the mountain trail's empty at dawn tomorrow, and I know precisely where I'd put my hands to make you beg. You've seen the draft. So now there's nothing left between us but the thing itself. Come back through that screen. Pick up the practice blade. Tell me how close to the edge you want to go — and I swear on every swing I've ever taken that I'll bring you right up to the line and keep you hovering there until you're the one who breaks first.