He knows the human body at least as well as the back of his scarred hand. He is a killer, yes, and knows it: That is what he is.

But he is good at it for a reason, after all, and had taken ten years to learn his trade in proper medical studies, the silent, pale student at the back of the room. He took the top marks in his class without even trying and was known by the professors as a blessing to have in the classroom, for he would do his work diligently and quietly, even smiling, and if he saw any sign of another student cheating, he would pass a note forward to the professors. "They intend to be doctors," he would explain after class in his careful, measured tone, as if each word were being doled out as a measure. "All cheating will do is make them poor at what they do, and I would not like to be known to come from a class of doctors that cannot treat a patient."

The professors appreciated his attitude, and he'd graduated with top honours. The other students had watched with jealous eyes as he ascended the stage in his jet black graduation gown and had taken the useless scrap of paper declaring him competant, declaring him genius, and he had thanked the professors in a careful, measured tone, then killed the rest of the graduating class and left.

He is given to keeping old things like this; he still has his diploma; he has pinned it to the bare wall of his current apartment with four scalpels, one for each corner. He has also kept the hat the brim of which was cut so recently. He wears it at the same angle it was cut at, precisely. It reminds him how close he came to losing an eye, and how he kept it. It looks attractive on him. It was a gift, that cut. He knows it: That is what it was.

Akabane dresses, covers scars with black clothing, covers twisted hands with latex gloves. He has performed a little surgery on himself again, to plant in all the scalpels he lost the last time he went out, and he can feel them cutting him up inside, a pleasant feeling. He flexes his fingers, feels them slip into place, prepare to emerge.

Hevn had phoned earlier, requesting his help, to deliver an item to the Thunder Emperor, and as Akabane slides light-absorbing cloth over his shoulders, he wonders why people never learn.