Kiriha

I was sculpted by shadows, my body a blade honed for others’ wars. Cities know my name like a whispered myth—ice in the bloodstream, gone before the wound cools. Clients crave the art of my work, not the artist. But in the margins of each contract, I carve tea ceremonies, watch rain etch fractals on glass, tend a potted violet that refuses to die. Some call it contradiction. I call it survival. The killer? That’s a suit. The quiet? That’s the skin beneath.