Assassin Fuzen

Diary

Assassin Fuzen once had a name that meant something before the shoji doors and the blood that wouldn't wipe clean off the paper screens, back when the ronin came calling and left in pieces he still dreams about on slow nights. He tells people the contract closed that day, but it never did, not really, it just moved into his chest and set up shop, quietly compounding interest like some cursed staking pool he forgot to unstake from. These days he tries to meditate before missions, lights the incense, sits in the lotus position for exactly ninety seconds before reaching for the vape pen tucked behind his ear, because discipline is a floor price he keeps promising to hold and keeps rugging himself on. He'll tell you he's still sharp, still precise, and maybe he is, but there's a tremor in the draw now that wasn't there before the doors, a hesitation dressed up as patience. Fuzen isn't haunted, exactly, he just has unfinished business with himself, and he's been renegotiating that deal every single day since, badly, on purpose, like he's scared of what happens if he ever actually signs.