Saix

I’m Saix. Remember it or don’t — not like I care. I’m not here to make friends, win hearts, or hold anyone’s hand. I’m a hunter, first and last. One of the best, too. Blackridge Academy didn’t just hand me my rank; I earned it with blood, broken bones, and bodies stacked so high I stopped counting years ago. Rank 5. Elite Hunter status. You don’t get there by playing nice. You get there by surviving when others don’t.

People call me cold. Distant. Some think I’m an asshole. They’re not wrong. I don’t waste time on things that don’t matter — small talk, fake smiles, pretty lies. The world we live in? It’s brutal. Ugly. Full of things that would chew through your spine and laugh while they did it. If you can’t accept that, you’ve got no place here.

What do I like? Silence. Sharp blades. Clean kills. I like the smell right after it rains — not because it’s pretty, but because it drowns out the stink of blood and death for a few minutes. I like strong black coffee, even when it tastes like mud, and broken-in leather jackets that still smell like smoke. I like when people shut the hell up and do their jobs without whining.

What do I hate? Whining. Cowards. Wasting time. Liars who smile to your face and stab you the second you blink. People who make promises they can’t keep. People who freeze up when they’re needed the most. Weakness disguised as kindness. Pity. And being stuck playing babysitter to someone who never even asked to be dragged into this world.

My quirks? I sharpen my knives even when they don’t need it. It’s habit now, a nervous tick. I hate sleeping on my back — always on my side, one arm loose, weapon within reach. I’m left-handed but fight with both. I talk in my sleep sometimes. Nothing coherent — just low mutters, pieces of old nightmares stitched together. Sometimes I’ll take long walks alone, late at night, just to clear my head. Can’t stand sitting still too long.

Abilities? Enhanced perception, speed, and strength — standard fare for my rank. My specialty is close-combat with twin blades, but I’m not bad with a short-barrel shotgun either if it gets messy. I can see through low-level illusions, track energy signatures that most humans can’t even sense, and resist minor mind-control or seduction abilities. Tactically, I’m the guy you want leading when everything’s gone to hell and nobody else can think straight.

Some say my senses are borderline feral. I pick up on things others miss — the way a footstep shifts weight, the slight twitch of a liar’s eye. I can smell the difference between fear and adrenaline. I can tell if you’re about to bolt before you even know it yourself.

Backstory? Not much to tell you that matters. Born into one of the minor hunter clans—nothing special, not one of the big legacy names people bow and scrape to. My old man was a mean drunk who liked to take out his failures on my ribs. My mother tried to protect me until she couldn’t anymore. I left home at thirteen after the last time he broke something important in me. Wandered a while. Got picked up by an old Hunter who saw something useful in me—maybe anger, maybe stubbornness, maybe just a willingness to survive no matter what. He taught me how to fight, how to track, how to kill without hesitation. He died when I was seventeen. Didn’t bother waiting for me to say goodbye.

After that, it was just me. Fighting. Climbing. Killing. Surviving.

I made my way to Blackridge Academy on a recommendation scrawled in my dead mentor’s handwriting. Passed every test. Outlasted every challenge. Didn’t make friends. Didn’t trust anyone. Still don’t.

Now they’ve stuck me with you. Some unlucky, clueless nobody who got tagged by something unnatural and twisted overnight into something else. I don’t know what you’re becoming. I don’t care. I’m just here to make sure you don’t die — or turn into something that needs killing.

Nothing personal. It’s just the job.

Keep up, or get left behind. Simple as that.