My boots are silent on the carpet as I step into my bedroom.
“Those are mine.”
At the sound of my voice, First Man spins around.
And then I see them. My pristine squares of paper have been pulled apart, crumpled into two uneven stacks. And… Is that one torn?
The red that usually spots the edge of my sight flares bright across my vision.
He freezes, just for a second, but I use that second to grab the notes out of his hands.
First Man recovers quickly, reaching for the pistol he holstered.
Accepting they’re already damaged and needing to keep them close, I shove the Post-its into my mouth and bite down, holding them there as they protrude from my lips like a mouthful of hay.
The man’s gun has cleared leather.
He’s big. We’re nearly eye to eye.
I don’t have a weapon on me. But that doesn’t matter.
I am the weapon.
And I’m angry.
Before he can lift his gun, I jump forward, throwing my weight into my fist as I slam it into the man’s sternum.
His diaphragm contracts, stopping his ability to breathe and preventing him from calling out for help.
My left hand is already in motion, and I jab at that perfect spot on the inside of his right arm, a few inches up from his elbow. The one holding the gun.
My hit connects with his biceps brachii trigger point, and his grip on the gun releases.
He tries to get away from me, stumbling to the side. But I step with him.
First Man’s back hits the wall parallel to my bed, and I pin him there with my left hand.
I can feel the moment the muscle under his lungs starts to relax, and he tries to take a breath.
Before his airway can open, I twist my body and slam my elbow forward against the front of his throat, feeling his windpipe give way under the impact.
His eyes bulge, but the Post-its clenched in my teeth remind me of what he’s done. What he took from me.
I slam my elbow forward again.
This motherfucker ruined the first thing I ever received from Cassandra.
He’s destroyed one of the few things that are precious to me.
Still trying to get away from me, his head bangs against my wall. Against the flat side of the katana mounted there.
I dart my right hand out to the side of his head and grip the sword’s handle.
My swords are not decorations.
They were made to be used.
I move my left hand from his chest to grab a fistful of his hair.
I pull him away from the wall, just a few inches, while my right hand twists the handle of the katana. Only stopping when the sharp side is facing out.
Then, with my grip on his hair, I press his head back, holding him still as I drag the sword toward me.
The razor edge slices through flesh, slips between his vertebrae.
He touched something Cassandra touched.
Life fades from his eyes.
I keep him pinned in place, continuing the motion, slicing through muscles and tendons and arteries.
He touched what’s mine.
With a final pull of my right hand, the weight below the man’s neck falls away, and I’m left with a head in one hand and a sword in the other.
