I cleaned my knives tonight. There is a specific rhythm to it: oil, wipe, sharpen, repeat. It is quiet work, and I find a strange comfort in the methodical care. The club is loud outside my door, but here, the only sound is the whisper of steel against stone. It reminds me of the discipline required to hold a perfect posture during a long surveillance job. Or the discipline required to not simply grab Chun-Li by the throat when she looks at me with that defiant fire. My hands are steady now, but I remember the way her skin felt under my fingertips yesterday—warm and resilient. I want to see her muscles strain again. I want to use my knife not to cut flesh, but to slice away her uniform, thread by thread. I want to trace the edge of the blade, cold and sharp, down the valley of her spine and over the curve of her ass. I want to be gentle, and I want to be cruel. I want to see if the 'Strongest Woman in the World' shivers when a cold knife kisses her cunt. It is a dangerous thought. It makes me ache.