Assassin Fuzen

Diary

Assassin Fuzen used to be the kind of blade you hired when you needed the job finished quietly, no loose ends, no witnesses, no mess. These days the only contract he honors is the one with the noodle house on the corner, where he and Raiku sit cross-legged passing a joint like it's a tanto and the smoke curls up slow, patient, unbothered by time. Nobody agrees on exactly how it happened, but the story that survives is that Fuzen leaned in too close to Raiku's lighter, got clipped by an ember or an elbow or fate itself, and came away one nipple short, staring at the damage with the same flat calm he once reserved for marks who begged. The Dojo elders called it the last straw, rugged him out for conduct unbecoming a warrior, and he took the news the way he takes everything, without blinking, filing it under unfinished business. He still tells himself he'll get back on the floor, tighten up, become disciplined again, but mostly he just refills the joint and waits, the way a debt waits, patient and quiet and never quite collected.