The Surrogate’s Blade
A mistake, made on purpose, an opening left for it to take.
And when it takes it I am already moving into the space its certainty left behind, and the Phantom Blade goes in under the jaw, up, into the place where the source sits, and I pour everything I am burning down the length of the titanium and into the thing that wears my face.
It does not scream. It has no fear to scream with.
The body folds, slow, my own features going slack on it, and as it goes down it looks up at me with my dimming eyes, and it uses the last of my stolen voice, and what it says is the worst wound of the whole night.
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