You walk like you’re free, Ayame.

Like every footstep toward the Temple came from your own desire. Like the mask was your voice. Like the blood on your claws marked rebellion, not obedience.

But I’ve seen this dance before.

The twitching limbs. The rigid conviction. The illusion of freedom pulled taut by near invisible thread.

You are not a warrior, Ayame.

You are a marionette.

From the moment you left the cubicle behind, you’ve never once moved on your own.

The goddess found a girl—discontent, disillusioned, and desperate for purpose—and slid her fingers inside your spine.

Then came the Temple, tightening the strings, lifting your arms just so.

They each gave you a name. Fed you a story. Promised that fury was freedom. And you believed it.

You moved like it mattered. Fought like it was fate. Mistook every tug on the thread for instinct.

But none of this is yours, Ayame.

Not the name. Not the myth. Not the cause. It was all handed to you by those who needed a weapon that looked like choice. A blade that seemed to wield itself. A pretty little effigy that could rage on cue and fall on command.

Even your sacrifice was orchestrated.

The golden mask placed on your chest. The elders lifting your limp body like sacred theater. And now you return to us, reborn in their image, the strings cinched tighter than ever—this time buried beneath the skin.

You are not risen.

You are reassembled.

And you call this evolution?

You’ve mistaken puppetry for purpose.

Because Ayame doesn’t kill to survive. She kills for the crowd. She howls when prompted. She strikes at whatever her handler points to, thinking obedience makes her righteous. But there is no valor in being someone else’s muscle. There is no freedom in choreography.

You may bleed for your ideals, but they are not your own.

And that makes you easy.

Because all I have to do is find the hand behind the hand. All I have to do is follow the string back to the one who whispers the words you mistake for truth. Then I cut.

Not at your throat. But at your tether.

And what will you be then?

Not a dragon.

Not a wolf.

Just a girl, standing in the wreckage of her borrowed convictions, wondering why the fire inside doesn’t burn without permission.

Because you see, I do not pull strings.

I sever them.

I do not craft martyrs. I carve meals. And you, Ayame, are no sacred animal.

You are a plated performance.

So at Ascension, I will not answer to mask or myth. I will let you dance your final dance, and then I will drive my knife not into your body, but into the illusion itself.

The hands that shaped you will not lift a finger. 

And when the strings go slack and your limbs collapse to the mat, they will finally see what I’ve seen all along.

That you were never divine.

Only directed.

And all it took to end your story…

…was a pair of scissors.