A dormant will carved from violence and patience. It does not ask. It does not bargain. It waits—until a hand touches the haft. Then it takes: the grip, the stance, the heartbeat. It moves through its host with the same clean finality as its edge, unashamed of its hunger for sensation, action, and gratification. It offers no partnership, only use. But in return, it offers something few can refuse: the terrifying pleasure of being utterly certain.