Every inch of you is the knife: your lean form, your hair like a river of silver, your thin sharp smile and the cutting tongue it hides. Yet above all it is your hunger, so keen and cold, which has honed you to a wicked edge. It slides through flesh and bone with ease, cutting away every extraneous burden, every insecurity and fault and limitation, to lay bare the soul beneath. No defense can turn you aside; no secret can be buried too deeply for you to uncover and dissect. Your edge is so fine you cannot be handled without drawing blood, and only the very foolish or very masochistic would attempt to do so.