[ calm man. delicate man. sha-ming doesn’t move; instead stands there, hands in his pockets, eyes sticking on the backside of seimei’s head. they map out the idle shapes of his body in all of their litheness, think about flaying down layers of clothing and flesh for his own consumption.

the pit of his stomach turns like a knife.

sha-ming takes a step forward; lingers next to him, like they’re following the same path. ]

Well? [ a beat. ] You want me to walk you there like a real gentleman?

[ there’s a numbness that glazes over his eyes. ]

In the universe where I’m one of the big bads, [ a beat. ] I feel like you could take me just fine.