Anam Iqbal

The Angel of Death had sworn retribution, and she wasn__ going to stop until she__ killed them all.

She was floating in the midst of a black sea, in the darkest of nights, with no hope or care to see light again. She was a mere wave away from drowning in blackness.

This was different, spontaneous, unrestricted. This was what dancing was supposed to feel like - like freedom.

As he left, he saw the streets were just as deserted and quiet as before, but now he knew it was an illusion. There were ninjas, darker than a starless night, watching their territory and his every move from the rooftops high above.

...even if all they did was look at each other, it rattled her entire being because there was no thought or person or barrier between them. Not a single one. They were both thoroughly absorbed in every moment they spent together. It was terrifying. Like being swept away by a powerful wind, where your body rendered all its control to another force that could ignite as well as destroy you.

Death was a friend to her; she was unafraid of it: bringing to to others, meeting it herself. And yet, she'd flinched from it today... What was it about that man that she just couldn't let go? Couldn't conquer the part of her heart that had loved him?

He darted for her; his blade wielded smooth and steady in front of him. She didn't hold back either; when they joined, their weapons clanked and sparked with an icy rage. They danced around one another; their feet light yet balanced, their arms twisting and turning with every thundering blow they made.

He was the one for her. She somehow knew that no one could make her feel the way did. Not if she lived for another hundred years.