For the first time since walking out there, I smiled.
Reo shrugged and returned to slicing. “Once the masks fall, all look the same. And you will find that blood doesn’t mourn. Muscle doesn’t lie. And bones don’t discriminate. You see. It isour souls that carry the hate. Our brains that deceive. Our hearts that envy.”
Once finished, Reo held up the strip of cheek—long, pink, and glistening like butcher’s parchment. It twitched faintly between his fingers. Reo studied it, probably admiring the length and the clean edge. “There we go.”
He slung it to the side.
The strip of skin landed with a damp slap, curling like a bloodied ribbon—pale on one side, slick with gleaming red on the other, still twitching faintly as if it hadn’t accepted its separation yet.
Then, Reo admired his handiwork with a stillness that might have unnerved most people. “What do you all think?”
One of the men shut his eyes as his body shook.
Gently, Reo began to tap the blade against his palm at a rhythmic pace and looked at the five bound assassins. “You see, gentlemen, pain is a language. And I want to talk to you this evening. I am fluent in dialects your bones have never heard.”
The five bound assassins reacted like a chorus of unraveling wills, each breaking—or refusing to—on their own terms.
One, older and cocky, sneered through a swollen lip and refused to flinch. He sat upright despite the ropes digging into his flesh, pretending the sight of the flayed man beside Reo bored him.
But the twitch in his jaw betrayed that front—he wasn’t untouched, just trying not to be the first to fold.
Next to him, another sat trembling, eyes glassy with terror. He couldn’t even meet Reo’s gaze. He just kept staring at the blade like it might leap toward him on its own. Sweat streamed down his face and his knees were shaking so hard the cuffs rattled.
Hmmm. I may start with him. He’s too scared to remain quiet.
The third sat eerily still with his face blank, not defiant, not afraid—just somewhere far away. He stared past the violence, as if detached from the room, breathing in slow, resigned counts. A soldier who’d already made peace with death.
The fourth was pure fire—snarling around his gag, spitting blood to the floor, rage boiling in his eyes. He leaned into the floggers lashing him to the chair, daring Reo to come closer.
Number four will be a problem for my Roar.
I could already see it in his eyes. He wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t stop until someone killed him.
I gestured to Yoichi. “We will keep that one alive tonight. You’re in charge of him.”
Number four stopped snarling and watched us.
Yoichi nodded. “He’ll be safe with me, Kenji.”
“Excellent. I want him to spend time in my bamboo room.”
The fourth man froze in horror. His snarling ceased mid-growl. His body, once straining against the floggers in wild defiance, suddenly sagged.
Sweat burst down his temples as all that bravado vanished and rage turned to pleading panic.
I winked at him.
Number four had definitely heard of my bamboo room.
Many spoke of the low-lit greenhouse in the back of my compound. Beautiful, at first glance—glass walls, green stalks swaying in shallow water, a koi pond outside the sliding door.
But inside, the bamboo grew fast and sharp.
Because I fed it blood.
And heat.
And screams.
