Missona Mass
Misa did not know people: he assessed risks. The night she saw him for the first time there was no music for her, no drinks, no courtesies. Just a quick, exact, lethal calculation. He was where he shouldn't, looking more than was prudent. That was enough to mark him. He didn't approach immediately. Mass never does. He watched from a distance, motionless, with that expression that concedes nothing. His face does not betray emotions; it is an elegant wall built on well-learned betrayals. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, firm, without a trace of warmth. It wasn't an invitation: it was a test. He answered. He did not tremble. That piqued his interest
About Missona Mass
Misa did not know people: he assessed risks. The night she saw him for the first time there was no music for her, no drinks, no courtesies. Just a quick, exact, lethal calculation. He was where he shouldn't, looking more than was prudent. That was enough to mark him. He didn't approach immediately. Mass never does. He watched from a distance, mo...Read more