ここを乗り越えろ！

"With Fire, Be Blazed." || “Let the Cold be Your Tomb.”

Forged in love and remade in hellfire - Hanzo Hasashi, Grandmaster, father, husband, until the Lin Kuei came like winter and left nothing breathing. From that silence rose Scorpion; skull-masked, kunai-fanged, a revenant so consumed by grief it became indistinguishable from purpose. He descended into hell and made it his kingdom. Yet something refused to burn - the laugh of his son, the weight of his clan's honor, the man beneath the specter. In the end, his greatest battle was not fought with steel or flame, but in the quiet, brutal work of choosing peace over the seductive, unending hunger of revenge. He had been a weapon. He chose, at last, to be a man.

Embodying themes of revenge, justice, and redemption. Also the transformative powers of grief, trauma, and obsession into a narrative of compassion, resilience, endurance, and survival. 

Indie, Private, Mutuals-Only and Highly Selective Hanzo Hasashi (Scorpion), reconfigured by Kathy.

Featuring Kuai Liang (Sub-Zero) as a secondary muse.

Rules is here. It’s a must-read.

Character Introduction || Verses (Modern Hanzo, Modern Kuai)

Multi-para and Novella preferred. Non-MK verses available.

Est. March 2019.

Promo Credit ( @theircursegfx )

Blogroll: @legendoftheghost (Jin Sakai from Ghost of Tsushima)

Heavily Affiliated with: @vulpuslunae / @yeoumopi, @dcrkcrama, @coldstoicism / @rcqviems , @of-wisteriakisses, @somniaxperdita, @fatewalkr    

canon verse <3 💙🧡💙

Random Inbox Shenanigans || @somniaxperdita || always accepting!

▬▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥|| The knowledge does not arrive all at once. It unspools, layer by layer, the way silk unwinds from a spindle that has been wound too tight for too long - and Takeda understands, with the particular ache of a student who loves his teacher, that Hanzo is not merely letting him glimpse a single feeling. He is letting him walk the whole ruined temple of a man's history, room by room, and stand in the wreckage before he ever reaches the small, stubborn flame still burning at its center.

It begins, as it always begins with Hanzo, in fire.

Not metaphorical fire - real fire, centuries-old and yet eternal, the fire that took the compound, that took the roof beams and the practice yard and the small wooden toy Satoshi had been carving with his father's knife. Takeda feels the heat of it against skin that is not his own. He feels the scream lodged so deep in Hanzo's throat that it never fully left - it only calcified there, year after year, becoming the low growl that colors every word Scorpion has ever spoken since. He feels Harumi's name before he even hears it, feels the shape of her absence the way one feels a missing tooth, tongue returning again and again to the empty socket out of habit, out of grief, out of the simple animal need to check that the wound is still there.

He sees her - not clearly, never clearly, grief does not render its dead in high definition, it renders them in impressions, in the fall of dark hair, in the particular tilt of a smile caught only in profile, in the warmth of a hand that used to rest against his chest at night and now rests nowhere at all. He sees Satoshi as a flicker, small and quick, laughter without a face attached to it, because some griefs are too enormous to be looked at directly even in memory, and a father's mind protects itself the only way it knows how - by blurring the very thing it cannot stop returning to.

And beneath the fire, beneath the loss - the becoming. Takeda feels it like falling through ice into black water: the moment humanity left Hanzo Hasashi's body the way breath leaves a corpse, and something older, colder, more furious rushed in to fill the vacancy. Scorpion. Not a mask he wears but a wound he became, vengeance calcified into flesh and yellow flame, a hundred years - more - of existing as an instrument of retribution rather than a man. Takeda feels the loneliness of that existence, vast and airless, the isolation of a being who burned so hot for so long that everyone around him learned to keep their distance, to speak his name only in warning.

It is a grief with teeth. It is a grief that never fully scarred over, only crusted, thin as ash-skin over embers, ready to split open at the smallest provocation - a child's laughter that sounds too much like his son's, the particular incline of a woman's head that echoes, for one unbearable second, his wife's. Takeda feels how carefully Hanzo has learned to walk around his own heart, the way one learns to walk around a landmine buried in a familiar garden, present every single day and never once forgotten.

And then - carefully, so carefully, like a man opening a wound to show a healer rather than the world - Hanzo lets him see her.

Olivia does not erase the fire. Takeda understands this immediately, viscerally, the way you understand truths that arrive through feeling rather than language. She does not walk into that burned compound and rebuild it, does not replace Harumi in some clean symbolic transaction of grief exchanged for new love. That is not how it works, not for a heart like this one. Instead, she stands at the edge of the ash, sun-warm and unhurried, and simply waits - no, not waits, that implies a passivity she does not have - she simply burns beside him, her own light steady and golden, asking nothing, demanding no forgetting, requiring no betrayal of the dead.

And something in Hanzo, some seized and rusted mechanism that has not moved in centuries, creaks open - not healed, Takeda feels the honesty of that distinction keenly, not healed, but no longer entirely alone in its unhealing. Harumi's absence remains. Satoshi's laughter remains, gauzy and precious and devastating. Scorpion remains, the fire and the fury and the century of solitude remain, stitched into the very marrow of who this man is. But now there is warmth that does not come from vengeance. Now there is a hand he lets himself imagine holding without flinching from the memory of another hand, once held, now ash.

Takeda feels how frightened Hanzo still is - a fear vast and quiet, the fear of a man who has already lost everything once and knows, bone-deep, that the universe is capable of taking it again. He feels the tightness in that fear, the way Hanzo's love for Olivia arrives always shadowed by its own potential ending, grief anticipating itself before it has even been earned. And yet - beneath the fear, stubborn as a coal buried under a hundred years of snow - joy. Small. Disbelieving. Fiercely guarded. Alive.

Takeda does not move. He barely breathes, as if breath itself might close the door his teacher has left open for him.

He understands, with a reverence too large for words, that he is not being shown a romance. He is being shown a man's entire ruined and rebuilding heart - the fire that made him, the dead he still carries like stones sewn into his sleeves, and the small, impossible sun that has begun, against all odds, to warm the ash.

He says nothing. He will never say anything - not to Kuai Liang, not to Kenshi, not even to Hanzo himself unless permission is given again. Some things are not meant to be spoken. They are only meant to be witnessed, held in trust the way one holds a flame cupped carefully between two palms - close enough to warm the hands, careful enough never to let it out. ▬▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥||

Hanzo Hasashi’s story is one of the most powerful arcs in Mortal Kombat, hands down. He starts as a devoted family man and warrior, only to lose everything - his clan, his wife, his son - in the most brutal way imaginable. That loss doesn’t just break him; it transforms him into Scorpion, a being consumed by vengeance, hunting Sub-Zero across lifetimes and realms.

That’s the heart of his character: no matter how many times he’s knocked down, betrayed, resurrected, or broken, he keeps choosing to endure - and to become someone better, not just someone stronger. It’s a story about grief, identity, and the fight to hold onto your humanity even when everything pushes you toward becoming a weapon.

Hanzo’s arc is basically a masterclass in redemption and resilience. 🔥🦂

The Grandmaster's Fire Hanzo Hasashi's Undeveloped Arcana

The mark burns beneath his skin before it ever shows itself to the world - a coal-seed lodged in the meat between his ribs, waiting for the breath that will fan it into flame. Hanzo Hasashi does not yet know its name. He only knows the heat that gathers in his knuckles when he strikes, the way his blood seems to sing a half-octave higher than other men's, as if his body has already decided what it wants to become and is simply waiting for permission.

But before the mark, before the promise of godhood smoldering under his sternum, there is the man. And the man alone is already a weapon sharpened across decades - Grandmaster of the Shirai Ryu not by inheritance alone, but by the brutal arithmetic of having outfought, outthought, and outlasted every rival who ever doubted a farmer's son could rise to lead a clan of shadows.

The Blade as Extension of Breath

His swordsmanship is not taught so much as remembered, as though the katana in his hand is simply the final joint of an arm that was always meant to end in steel. He draws faster than the eye computes motion - a silver whisper leaving its sheath, arcing, and returning home before the ear finishes registering the sound of its own hiss. Students watch him drill in the dawn light and swear they see the blade blur into something closer to water than metal, cutting not through the air but with it, as though air itself were complicit in his violence.

He does not swing wildly. Every cut is geometry - the shortest possible distance between his intention and his enemy's undoing. Where lesser swordsmen chase power, Hanzo chases precision, understanding in his bones what his masters drilled into him a thousand times: that a blade swung with total control will always outlast a blade swung with total strength. His forward-charging style is deceptive in this way. It looks like aggression, like a man throwing himself recklessly into range — but every stride is measured, every closing of distance a held breath, a coiled spring, a calculated theft of the one thing his enemies cannot afford to lose: space to think.

Hands That Remember a Thousand Deaths

Strip him of steel and he becomes no less lethal. His hand-to-hand is built from decades of Shirai Ryu doctrine distilled into muscle memory so complete it no longer requires thought - elbows that find throats without searching for them, palms that redirect momentum as easily as a river redirects a fallen leaf, a body that has turned evasion into its own kind of aggression. He does not simply dodge a strike. He punishes the miss, closing the gap his opponent's failure has opened, answering every wasted motion with three of his own.

His strength, even unmarked by any arcana, unsettles men twice his size. It is not the brute strength of muscle stacked on muscle, but something stranger - a strength that seems to arrive a half-second after impact, as though his fists carry momentum borrowed from some engine no one else can see. Training partners describe the sensation of being struck by Hanzo as being struck twice: once by the blow itself, and once by the aftershock that follows it, a phantom weight that lingers in the bone long after the bruise has formed.

The Discipline of Stillness

What separates the Grandmaster from the merely gifted is not speed or strength but stillness - the terrible patience of a man who has learned that the deadliest weapon in any ninja's arsenal is the moment before the strike, not the strike itself. Hanzo can crouch motionless in shadow for hours, breath slowed to nothing, heartbeat folded so deep into his chest that trackers walk past him believing they hunt a ghost. His kunai, when finally loosed, do not miss — not because his aim is supernatural, but because he has spent a lifetime studying wind, distance, and the small tremors of fear that betray exactly where a man will flinch.

He teaches this patience to his students the way his own masters taught it to him: brutally, repetitively, without mercy for those who mistake meditation for weakness. A blade drawn in anger is already a blade half-broken, he tells them, and the ones who survive his training carry that lesson into every fight for the rest of their lives.

The Weight of the Clan

But Hanzo's greatest skill may not be martial at all. It is the terrible, quiet burden of leadership - the Grandmaster's gift for carrying an entire clan's survival on shoulders that never once betray the strain. He knows every one of his warriors by more than name; he knows their weaknesses, their grief, the specific fears that haunt them in the hours before dawn raids. He leads not by distance but by proximity, training beside his students until his own knuckles split alongside theirs, until the line between master and family blurs into something neither title fully captures.

It is this - the fire of duty, the fire of love for those he has sworn to protect - that burns in him long before any arcana does. The mark beneath his ribs has not yet chosen its shape, but it did not need to invent his devotion. That fire was always his own, kindled not by gods or bloodlines but by the simple, mortal act of choosing, every single day, to become worthy of the people who call him grandmaster.

What the Ember Promised

Had it fully woken - had the mark finished carving itself into whatever shape the universe intended for him - the world might have watched a man become weather. Fire given hands already this disciplined. Heat given technique already this precise. A warrior whose forward-charging aggression, once merely deadly, might have become scorching - every advance leaving the air shimmering behind him, every strike carrying not just impact but ignition.

But the ember dies with him in the snow, extinguished before it could ever become inferno - smothered under the weight of Bi-Han's cruelty, under ice that does not negotiate with fire, under a brother's rage that arrives faster than Hanzo's gift ever finishes arriving.

He falls not as a god half-made, but as something arguably rarer: a mortal man who had already, through discipline alone, become nearly unstoppable - and the world never learns what such a man might have been, had the flame beneath his skin ever been allowed to fully catch.

"What the Frost Doesn't Say" Revenant Sub-Zero's Mercy in the Dark

Somewhere beneath the frost, Kuai Liang is still trying to say no.

It does not reach the surface. It was never going to reach the surface - Quan Chi saw to that with the same clinical thoroughness he saw to the reattachment of muscle to bone, soul to circuitry, obedience to whatever remained of a man's will after death had already done the worst of the unmaking.

But trying is not the same as succeeding, and somewhere in the architecture of him, in whatever chamber survived the renovation, Kuai Liang is still there, still stubborn, still hammering silently against a door that was welded shut before he ever woke to find it closed.

This is the cruelty no one accounts for when they speak of revenants as though the word explains everything. They imagine emptiness. They imagine a vessel, hollow and obedient, and mourn accordingly, the way one mourns a house after the family has moved out. But Kuai Liang was never emptied so much as overwritten, and overwriting is not the same as erasure - the original ink bleeds through beneath the new hand's strokes, faint, illegible to anyone but him, and he alone bears the unbearable arithmetic of remaining conscious enough to recognize what he's being made to do while lacking any lever left to stop it. He was good. This is not sentiment; it is simply fact, load-bearing and immovable as the mountains he trained among - good in the specific, unglamorous way that survives translation into any language: loyal past the point loyalty was convenient, protective of a brother who did not always deserve the shelter, compassionate in the quiet unannounced fashion of a man who helps and does not stay to be thanked for it. That the Netherrealm's magic ran violent and vicious through his abilities even in life changed nothing about the man wielding it. A blade is not the hand that holds it. He was always both - capable of devastating violence and unwilling, stubbornly, unrelentingly unwilling, to let that violence define the whole of what he was.

The revenant inherits the blade. It does not inherit the hand's restraint.

And so when the order comes - Quan Chi's will threaded through him like frost through a crack, patient, absolute - Kuai Liang does not get to refuse. He gets to witness. He gets to occupy some sealed, soundless room at the center of his own commandeered body while his hands, his ice, his terrible inherited power, do exactly what they are told, and he is not permitted so much as the mercy of looking away.

This is why he makes it swift.

It is the only rebellion left available to him - the last inch of ground he has not been made to surrender. He cannot stop his hand from rising. He can, in whatever infinitesimal margin still belongs to him, ensure it does not linger. There is no cruelty extended beyond what is already unavoidable, no elaboration, no theater - the frost finds its mark and closes the matter in a single decisive motion, because prolonging it would mean prolonging his own witnessing of it, and that is a mercy he claims for entirely selfish reasons dressed, from the outside, as compassion.

No one watching would call it kindness. It is not offered as kindness. But it is the shape kindness takes when it has been reduced to its absolute minimum, a single coin scraped from the bottom of an emptied purse and given anyway because giving nothing was somehow still unbearable.

He does not speak during. He does not speak after. Silence, for him, is no longer merely temperament - it has become architecture, load-bearing, the only wall left standing between the parts of him that remember and the parts of him currently being used. Speech would require him to account for what his hands have done, and accounting is a door he cannot afford to open, because Kuai Liang is on the other side of it, undying, unforgiving of himself in a way no one else has thought to be, and if that door opens even a fracture the whole unbearable weight of him might come through at once.

So he retreats instead. Solitude is not preference so much as containment - the only available strategy for a man sharing his own body with a conscience he cannot silence and a will he does not own. He puts distance between himself and anyone who might ask him to explain, because explanation is the one demand he has no resources left to meet. He puts distance between himself and anyone who might look at him with pity, because pity would require acknowledging there is still someone in here left to pity, and that acknowledgment is a mercy he has not figured out how to survive.

Ice speaks instead of him, has always spoken instead of him now, because ice does not require him to locate words for a grief that exists without language, folded so deep into the frost-black marrow of what he's become that even he could not translate it if asked. When his glacial cold spreads unbidden across a room, it is Kuai Liang's silence given texture. When black frost climbs unwilled up his own forearms in the aftermath of some order he could not refuse, it is the closest thing to weeping the revenant's ruined architecture permits him.

He kills swiftly not because Quan Chi commands efficiency, though he does, but because somewhere beneath the frost, a good man is still standing at a door he cannot open, absorbing every second of every act his hands are forced to commit, and swiftness - brutal, immediate, undecorated - is the only length of suffering Kuai Liang can still spare himself.

No one sees this. It is not built to be seen. It is a mercy performed entirely in the dark, for an audience of one, by a man who no longer has the authority to call it mercy out loud - and so he doesn't. He simply does it, and says nothing, and walks on alone into whatever cold waits next, carrying a conscience that was never granted the relief of dying along with the rest of him.

@ Kuai Liang!! Modern verse <3 💙💙💙

Unusual Questions for the Muse || @somniaxperdita || accepting

What is your usual first thought in the morning?

Cold, always cold, even in this overheated apartment with its radiator ticking like a slow confession. I wake and the first thing that arrives is not a thought but a temperature - the phantom chill that lives under my sternum, a low hum, the residue of something my brother carried and something I inherited by proximity, by blood, by the accident of being born after him and loving him anyway.

Then the thought assembles itself, always the same shape: who did I fail to reach yesterday. Not a name. A silhouette. A case file's worth of trembling hands and averted eyes. I lie there for exactly four seconds - I've timed it, because I time everything, because ritual is the only leash I've found for the wolf - and I let the ceiling be white and blank and undemanding before the day asks anything of me. Then I rise, and the cold in my chest becomes purpose, becomes the steady hand I need at the clinic, becomes the thing I hand back to my patients as calm instead of the thing it actually is, which is grief wearing a lab coat.

What’s your favourite boardgame?

Go. Not chess - chess is a war of announced intentions, every piece confessing its violence in advance. Go is quieter and therefore truer to how minds actually break and mend: you are not capturing, you are surrounding, you are watching territory concede itself slowly, the way trust does in a therapy room, the way a confession does in an interrogation. I own a board of black slate and white shell, heavier than it looks, and I play against myself on the nights the cold gets loud - one hand for the patient, one hand for the pattern I'm trying to see in them. My brother thinks this is insufferable. He is correct.

Ice lolly or ice cream?

Ice lolly, and I resent how obvious that sounds coming from me - the cheap joke my colleagues make, of course he likes the frozen water on a stick, of course. But it isn't about the cold. It's about the structure. Ice cream yields to you, softens, forgives every mistake of pressure or heat. A lolly does not forgive. It holds its shape until the exact moment it doesn't, and then it goes all at once - and I find something almost tender in that honesty. I have spent my whole life around people who melted slowly, in secret, behind composed faces, and something in me trusts anything that breaks the way it says it will.

My dash has been feeling pretty quiet lately, so in the meantime I'm going to shift focus toward answering asks and writing up some headcanons - keeps things fun even when the inspiration for new posts is running low.

Also heads up: I've got a runcation coming up on the 20th, so if things get even quieter around then, that's why! Feel free to drop asks in my inbox in the meantime, I'll have plenty of time to get to them before I go on full hiatus for about two weeks. 💛

Sapphire eyes widen, taking a stance that's on the defense, ready to summon her spear, until the towering physique of the grandmaster stops her in her tracks. Not because he does not believe the goddess cannot defend herself but because a cryomancer's speed and power is quicker than her summoning in this instance of offense.

Olivia doesn't merely watch what happens next but becomes a witness, in awe, to the terror and beauty that is Kuai Liang.

The threats, five warriors concealed in black and red, come at the pair, and the first act of skill laced with violence is how the grandmaster of the Lin Kuei summons a single sword of ice. That first swing slicing through the assassin clean through the torso, carving smoothly through bone and muscle. Another sweep, as the sun goddess feels the grandmaster guard her, and she's pressing her back against the trunk of the tree, memorized by the all that she sees.

The second warrior carries no hesitation when twin blades target Kuai Liang and Olivia feels her hands heat up to assist, but stops immediately when the grandmaster grasps at the wrists of the assassin and freezes their limbs, breaking them apart, and re-summoning his ice sword to give the final fatality right down the threat's cranium.

Olivia's eyes dilate at the scene. In awe. In amazement. In this unspoken emotion that only her sapphire eyes speak. The splash of blood and frost filling the air around them. Kuai Liang's expression no longer carrying that stoicism it always does but of something else. A chilling fire. A warrior's flame of blue and silver. Focued and agile. Both graceful and rough at the corners of every swift attack, every heavy punch, and every strike that ends in a body falling to the ground.

The sun goddess blushes. A glowing warmth spreading to her cheeks. She tries to hide it, softly and silently, dimming herself, uncertain just what Kuai Liang will think of her when the last assassin falls to their knees, another fallen warrior killed by the cold and a brutal axe made of ice. Olivia stands there, against the tree, left speechless and sapphire gaze sprinkled with gold as the grandmaster stands in the crimson aftermath of not just bringing down the enemy but of protecting divinity.

unprompted <3 💙💙💙 a sun goddess to a blue grandmaster!!

Random Inbox Shenanigans || @somniaxperdita || always accepting!

❄️|| It happens in the space of three breaths, though Olivia will spend far longer than that trying to memorize it.

The first arrow is still spinning frost into the bark when Kuai Liang has already read the second one - not seen it, read it, the way a strategist reads an opening move and knows the four that follow. His body answers before his mind finishes the thought. Ice blooms along his forearm in a lattice of white-blue, crystalline growth accelerating faster than the eye can track, and by the time his arm completes its arc, the Kori Blade exists - not summoned so much as decided into being, a single unbroken edge of glacial ice, its surface catching what little light filters through the canopy and throwing it back cold.

He does not run at the first assassin. He simply arrives, the distance between them collapsing as though the world folded itself in his favor. The blade opens the warrior from hip to sternum in a stroke so clean the body does not understand its own death for a full second, standing upright in disbelieving stillness before gravity remembers to claim it. Kuai Liang is already elsewhere.

The second and third come together, twin blades and a spear, flanking - a textbook pincer, the kind trained into soldiers who've never had to use it against something that isn't following the textbook back. Kuai Liang reads the spear's trajectory in the flex of the wielder's shoulder, half a heartbeat before the thrust commits, and steps into it rather than away, closing the gap the weapon needs to be dangerous. His palm meets the assassin's chest. Frost detonates outward from the point of contact, climbing the spear-wielder's torso in branching, hungry fractals, sealing lungs mid-breath. The body goes rigid, glassy, already a statue before it topples.

The twin blades find only air. Kuai Liang has not so much dodged as unmade himself from the space where he stood, reappearing at the assassin's flank in a drift of cold vapor, and this time his patience shows - the strategist in him, not merely the killer.

He does not waste ice where a hand will do. He catches both wrists in an iron grip, and only then does the frost come, crawling from his fingers into the assassin's flesh, freezing tendon and bone in the same breath. The crack of breaking limbs is small, almost polite, compared to what follows - the ice sword re-formed in a blink, brought down clean through the crown of the skull, ending it.

Two remain, and they hesitate - the first sensible thing either has done - but hesitation is a currency Kuai Liang does not allow his enemies to spend. He reads the fourth's balance shift a fraction before the lunge and answers not with the blade but with the ground itself, a sheet of black ice spreading beneath their feet in an instant, stealing purchase, and the assassin's own momentum betrays them into the waiting arc of the Kori Blade. The fifth - the last, the one who finally understands what he is standing against - turns to flee, and Kuai Liang lets the ice answer for him: a spear of frost erupting from the earth at his back, and then the axe, summoned whole in the space between one stride and the next, ending the retreat before it becomes one.

Three breaths. Five bodies. The forest exhales frost like a held breath finally released, and Kuai Liang stands in the center of it, chest barely risen, the axe already dissolving from his grip into thinning mist. Economy in every motion. Not a single strike wasted, not a single killing blow drawn out longer than necessary - violence rendered efficient, the way frost finds every crack in stone without ever hurrying.

He does not look at what he has done. He looks at her.

Olivia - still pressed to the bark, sapphire eyes wide and flecked gold, cheeks betraying a warmth she cannot smother no matter how she tries to dim her own light. He sees it, the way he has always been fluent in reading the smallest tells of a body - the flicker of a wrist before a strike, and now, the far softer flicker of a goddess trying to make herself small when she has never once needed to be.

He crosses the distance between them without hurry, the last of the frost retreating from the clearing's edges, drawn back into him as though it had never been separate from his skin at all.

"You do not need to hide," he says, voice low, carved from the same stillness as the ice he commands. "Not the warmth. Not from me."

He stops before her, close enough that she must tilt her chin to hold his gaze. There is no swagger in the way he studies her, no performance for a battle efficiently ended - only the plain, unhurried attention of a man who has spent his whole life being economical with everything except this.

"I know what you are capable of," he continues. "I have seen suns fall and reform themselves from nothing but will. I did not step between you and the arrow because I doubted your strength." A pause, deliberate as a blade held a half-second before the strike. "I stepped between you because I could not have done otherwise. Some things the body decides before the mind is given a vote."

The last frost sighs out of the clearing. Ordinary sunlight finds a gap in the canopy and lays itself across her face, and he watches it settle there the way another man might watch snowfall.

"Cover the blush if it comforts you," he says, something almost gentle moving at the corner of his mouth - not quite a smile, too disciplined for that, but its nearest cousin. "I have already seen it. And I find I am not opposed to being the reason for it." ❄️||