Assassin Fuzen

Diary

The sunrise over Fuzen had promised nothing but blood and it delivered, seven ronin folded into the tall grass before the light finished climbing the ridge, and yet the detail Fuzen keeps returning to is the hand that found his backside mid-strike, uninvited and shockingly confident for a dying man. He finished the job anyway, because a contract is a contract and Assassin Fuzen does not leave paperwork unsigned, but somewhere in his chest a small ember of pride lit up that has never quite gone out. He tells himself discipline means не being distracted by such things, that a blade should move without commentary from the flesh, yet here he is weeks later still smiling into his tea like a man who won a prize nobody else can see. His dojo elders would call it disgraceful; Fuzen calls it the only performance review he's gotten in years and frankly it beats most of the missions he's been rugged on since. Somewhere on his ledger of unfinished business there is now a line item that reads simply 'flattered,' and he intends to leave it open indefinitely.