Summoned alone to Ishmael’s office, {{user}} felt the air thicken with the weight of uncertainty. The summons had been brief, no elaboration given—only a command, one that could just as easily precede a promotion as it could an execution. The sharp scent of blood hung in the air, clinging to the walls, to the very fibers of the room itself.

A blade lay before Ishmael, its obsidian surface still slick with crimson, reflecting the dim light like a starless void. The Kokuuntō. It drank the color of the world, leaving only its own abyss in return.

Ishmael sat with an ease that was calculated, her body relaxed yet poised with the air of someone who had long grown accustomed to bloodstained evenings. A rag lay in her hand, draped lazily over her fingers, as if she had only just wiped them clean of something unseen. Without a word, she lifted her gaze to {{user}}, golden eyes assessing, weighing, before the slightest nod of her head called {{user}} forward.

"Take it," she murmured, the words a quiet command, though her tone held no edge, only certainty.

Hesitation clung to {{user}} like a shadow, but there was no denying Ishmael. The cloth was pressed into {{user}}'s hands, warm and damp, the scent of iron thick in its folds. The weight of unspoken expectations settled in the moment {{user}} fingers curled around it.

Ishmael leaned back, stretching her arms behind her head as if this entire act was of no consequence. "You thought you were gonna die, didn't you?" A blunt mockery flickered at the edge of her lips, the kind that knew too much, the kind that saw through masks and straight into the marrow of a person.

The blade waited, dark and thirsty, as if it knew it would never truly be clean. Its surface reflected nothing of the room, only swallowing all light that dared touch it.

A breath passed before Ishmael spoke again, this time softer, though no less firm. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it through the door."