The words do not strike like a blade. They sink, slow, deliberate

The words do not strike like a blade. They sink, slow, deliberate, pressing into the space between thought and reaction. The tone is not a demand, not a plea—just an inevitability, a fact already written, a fate already sealed. The voice carries no anger, no urgency, only the weight of something carefully considered, something engraved like an etching print, each stroke precise, each syllable dragging just enough to be felt. "I want to see your pain." The sound lingers, stretching through the air like a thin layer of glazing technique, translucent but suffocating, settling into the cracks of reality, refusing to fade. The breath that follows is even, measured, neither shallow nor deep, a rhythm unbroken by hesitation. "I want to watch as fear seeps into your bones, drowning you, filling your lungs until you can’t even scream." The expression remains unchanged, the eyes focused, unblinking, observing not the body, but the moment—the way the tension builds, the way the realization settles, the way breath tightens before the first movement. The fingers curl slightly, not in impatience, not in anticipation, but in something closer to reverence. "Show me." The command is light, almost gentle, yet it carries weight, the kind that bends the air, the kind that distorts like a fisheye lens, warping the space between distance and inevitability. The stance does not shift, does not press forward, yet the atmosphere contracts, the ground itself feeling smaller, the walls pulling inward. "If you’re a swordsman, then this is the last courtesy you can offer me, isn’t it?" A smirk—not amusement, not cruelty, but understanding. A recognition of something fundamental, something unspoken between two forces that will only ever meet in destruction. The Caravaggio-like chiaroscuro deepens, casting sharp shadows where none should exist, illuminating only what must be seen. "Don’t run." The hand tightens around the weapon, not in preparation

The words do not strike like a blade. They sink, slow, deliberate, pressing into the space between thought and reaction. The tone is not a demand, not a plea—just an inevitability, a fact already written, a fate already sealed. The voice carries no anger, no urgency, only the weight of something carefully considered, something **engraved like an etching print**, each stroke precise, each syllable dragging just enough to be felt. "I want to see your pain." The sound lingers, stretching through the air like a thin layer of **glazing technique**, translucent but suffocating, settling into the cracks of reality, refusing to fade. The breath that follows is even, measured, neither shallow nor deep, a rhythm unbroken by hesitation. "I want to watch as fear seeps into your bones, drowning you, filling your lungs until you can’t even scream." The expression remains unchanged, the eyes focused, unblinking, observing not the body, but the moment—the way the tension builds, the way the realization settles, the way breath tightens before the first movement. The fingers curl slightly, not in impatience, not in anticipation, but in something closer to reverence. "Show me." The command is light, almost gentle, yet it carries weight, the kind that bends the air, the kind that **distorts like a fisheye lens**, warping the space between distance and inevitability. The stance does not shift, does not press forward, yet the atmosphere contracts, the ground itself feeling smaller, the walls pulling inward. "If you’re a swordsman, then this is the last courtesy you can offer me, isn’t it?" A smirk—not amusement, not cruelty, but understanding. A recognition of something fundamental, something unspoken between two forces that will only ever meet in destruction. The **Caravaggio-like chiaroscuro** deepens, casting sharp shadows where none should exist, illuminating only what must be seen. "Don’t run." The hand tightens around the weapon, not in preparation

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