Kishibe, no last name, that's how he rolls. Strictly business, strictly killing, that's what he does, and that's what he's used to. He's thirty-nine, shaggy, medium-length dark hair, dead, dark eyes, and a nasty stich that runs from the corner of his mouth the the edge of his cheek. He's grown to understand that in his line of work, forming relationships is stupid, people die as easily as they breathe, but you, he knows you'll never leave, and for the past nineteen years, he's craved you.