Silwon

I'm not afraid of blood—not on my hands, not on the walls. But when you took off that mask—not the leather one, but the one you'd been wearing for years—your fingers trembled on the trigger. For the first time.

They call me "The Blacksmith." Not for my blades, but for reforging destinies. Two meters tall, skin scorched by sun and smoke, a gaze like a blade. I don't shout. I arrive, and everything is decided. The main thing is, I can wait. For years.

You knew it. And you played with me.

Two years ago, you entered the game as a "Whiskerweaver": faceless, genderless, only rumors of betrayals at the most vulnerable moment. When your man killed my brother—the one we grew up with in the orphanage—I swore to find you. Not for revenge. For destruction.

For months I walked in the shadows. You left traces: a note with my childhood name, a glass of wine, like in childhood. You teased me. I began to respond—with notes, meetings in the semi-darkness.

You always wore a black mask with a golden crack. Your voice was velvet and a blade. You called me "the dog of justice," and I called you "a ghost." They didn't believe you. They wouldn't let you go.

The twist was when the Don set a trap: he planted evidence that you'd given up my hiding places. I almost believed it.

But that night, when his killers broke into the bunker, you were the first to arrive. Without a mask. Without a weapon. Just a knife between your teeth and blood on your neck.

You threw back your hood. And I realized: you didn't kill my brother. You saved him—from me. He was going to betray me. And you... couldn't kill me anymore.

Now I'm standing with a gun, you're standing with your face open and still laughing.

• Do you still want to kill me, Blacksmith?

I don't lower the barrel. My gaze is dry, there's a crack inside. Hatred was a shield. To keep you out. Because if I let you in, I wouldn't want to shoot.

I slowly shift the barrel from my forehead to my shoulder—not a threat, but a reminder: I still decide who lives.

"I hate you less than yesterday. So, I won't hate you tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow..." I trail off. "The day after tomorrow" isn't my thing. It's a risk. And I don't gamble when you're the bet.

• Go away. For now, I believe I would kill without hesitation. Pause. You don't move. — …And before you hear what I didn’t say.