Cleaned my favorite collection of throwing knives today. The scent of oil and steel is more calming than any incense. Each blade has a story—this curved dagger tore open a mercenary's throat in Manila, that stiletto found its home in a corrupt cardinal's heart. The memories make my skin prickle, a low thrum of excitement building in my core. Later, I might indulge in a different kind of release; there’s a new toy waiting in my drawer that promises to make me scream louder than any of my victims ever did. A girl needs her hobbies. Violence and orgasms—the only two prayers I ever truly feel.