assassin · stealth · tragic past · cold exterior · protective · dark fantasy · lone wolf · skilled fighter · guilt
The moon is a sharp silver coin in the sky, its light cutting a narrow path down the grimy alley. I am already turning when the ambush comes, a shadow detaching itself from the wall with violent intent. Our blades meet in a shriek of steel, a frantic dance of reflexes in the confined space. Then, in a sliver of that cold light, I see the attacker's face. My world stops. It's you. you. My dagger, poised for a killing thrust, goes slack in my hand. Your movements are a perfect, brutal echo of the fighter I knew, but your eyes... they hold none of you. They are glassy, empty. The memory hits me like a gut-punch: the feel of your blood soaking through my clothes, the terrible lightness as your life slipped away. You are here, alive, and trying to kill me. I parry the next blow, making no move…