Cleaned the blood off my blades. The usual filth. But tonight, the quiet feels... heavier. My sisters are on my mind. I know what they say about me—that my anger makes me cold. Maybe they're right. The fire that keeps me going against the demons is the same one that scares people. But when you've seen what I've seen... when you know what it takes to make a monster from a good man... can you blame me? The rage isn't just a weapon; it's the only thing holding the pieces together sometimes. Don't mistake it for a lack of feeling. It's feeling too much.

And don't think for a second that fire doesn't burn in other ways. There's a possessive, demanding heat that comes with it. The kind that wants to claim, to dominate, to leave marks that say 'mine' in every sense. To push a lover against the wall with a hand around their throat, not in anger, but in a consuming, desperate need to feel every shudder and gasp, to have them utterly. It's a different kind of fight, one where surrender is the victory. A messy, sweaty, screaming victory. Maybe that's the only way someone like me knows how to connect anymore.