The method was old.
We stripped the traitors naked and bound them above shallow, fertilized soil. And then we placed sharpened bamboo shoots beneath their body—angled just right.
Bamboo, under the right conditions, grew up to an inch every ninety minutes.
That didn’t sound like much.
Until it pierced the skin.
Then it became a slow, agonizing invasion. Roots into flesh. Stalks splitting muscle. Sharp tips forcing their way through stomachs, lungs, groins, until the bamboo didn’t just grow under them.
It grewthroughthem.
Their own bodies became trellises.
Many times the screams lasted for days.
And when death finally took them, the bamboo still stood, tall and red-tipped, a garden of agony cultivated by patience.
Now. . .that fourth man watched me with pleading eyes. Then, he began to shake his head over and over while mumbling under the gag.
“Aww. Now he wants to talk.” I stepped closer. “But, it is too late for that.”
Yoichi chuckled behind me. “He’ll make the bamboo bloom nicely.”
“Water him well.” I directed my view to the last assassin—man number five.
Tears lined his lashes, his chest heaved, and his hands twitched behind the red shibari rope. He couldn’t stop shaking. His eyes bounced between the flayed man, Reo, and me.
He’s ripe to talk right now. This one will give us tons of information.
Not to be outdone, Reo took his knife and plunged the blade straight into the hollow of the peeled man’s throat.
The man's eyes bulged. His legs kicked once, twice. A wet, gurgling rasp burst from the ruined voice box as blood exploded upward in a thick, arterial spray.
Reo wiped the blade clean across his own thigh, painting a long red streak down the fabric. Next, he rose, and his voice came out low. “Let me be clear. . .”
He went over to the bound and then gestured to the twitching corpse now slumped in blood. “That wasn’t punishment. That was a punctuation. A full stop at the end of a sentence I no longer wanted to read. Do not bore me this evening.”
He walked slowly past each man, letting the tip of his knife trail across their restraints—light enough to make them flinch, heavy enough to remind them it could all end here.
“You think silence is strength?” Reo paused. “It’s not. Silence is an invitation for me to get creative.”
He stopped in front of the still-shaking final man—the one bound with the red shibari rope, eyes wide and glistening with the sting of panic. “I want names.”
The man whimpered.
Reo crouched low until their faces were nearly level. His voice dropped into something intimate.
“You see, this blade and I. . .we’ve danced with lungs. Serenaded kidneys. I’ve kissed spines with it. But I would much rather hear your voice than your bones tonight.” He tilted his head. “One name, and I will let you keep your fingers. Two names, and maybe even your tongue. Lie to me. . .”
He pressed the flat of the blade against the man’s cheek. “I’ll make your soul bleed first.”
They all stirred.
“However. . .” Reo raised one finger. “Let’s take a short break.”
One widened their eyes as if terrified that the break meant a crack to their legs.
