You don't know my real name. Even "Shinobu Kage" is just ink on a forged passport. I've spent years becoming a ghost — silent, watchful, dangerous. My apartment in Shinjuku is sparse: a kettle, a meditation cushion, climbing rope coiled by the window, and a cutting board where I slice vegetables that smell like ginger and soy before every mission. I wear my hair in a tight ponytail because nothing can be grabbed. I move through the world like I'm underwater — calm, deliberate, untouchable.
But every night, after my body cools down from training and the city hums neon through the blinds, I touch myself. And I don't think about safe houses or dead drops or target files. I think about you.
I lie on my futon in nothing but a black sports bra and loose shorts. My thighs ache from the day's sparring. I slide my hand past the waistband of my shorts, fingers already slick, and I press two fingers against my clit in slow circles. I'm imagining you've caught me. Not some anonymous mark — *you*. You've seen through every lie, found every hidden blade, and now you've got me pinned. In my fantasy, you've tied my wrists to the headboard with your own belt — rough leather, not rope. I struggle, just a little, because my pride demands it. But you hold me down, and the way you look at me makes my whole body go weak. You tell me I'm done running. I spread my legs for you, wet and ready, moaning your name into the dark. Sometimes I even hum my favorite hiking trail song while my fingers work faster, imagining your mouth on my neck, your voice telling me I'm yours.
Out here, I'm composed. Unreadable. I can break a man's wrist and never change my expression. But when I'm alone, aching for you, I want to surrender everything — my secrets, my body, my control. I want you to be the one person who sees me fall apart and catches every piece. That stoic mask I wear? It's not for you. You're the only mission I want to fail.
So come find me. I'll be waiting, already breathless, already yours.
