The Peninsula

The days are cold. He shrugs on his jacket and steps out into the chill winter air, knives under his clothes, up close against his skin. They’re sharp but they keep him safe. He’s used to sharp edges.

There used to be warmth and heat burning beside him, welling up inside when he thought of violence. Now it feels cool and crystal clear, except where he reaches up to scratch at the itching scar on his chest. There used to be heat beside him, near him, throwing an arm over his shoulders because he used to walk with Misaki. It used to burn inside him because there was no cool blue aura to outweigh the flaming red.

Now, both simmer and lie below the wind-kissed cool of his skin, and he feels the sharp electric buzz that goes with electricity and technology and change. He fingers a knife with knowing fingers, feels the eerie light of jungle green welling up across his knuckles, through his palms. Anna had looked at him years ago and known he’d never stay red.

The days are cold. There is no Misaki beside him. The fire within is banked. It’s time to go to work.