[ The door closes behind him, untouched. The music is quiet, some old instrumental piece with heavy reliance on strings; the upbeat tempo is not comforting. The disarray of the room and the open drawers reveals some hidden and forgotten trinkets. On her desk, a set of curled white horns — the remnant of her time as a demon, made into a holy weapon as she exists now; the polished knives in the open drawer are likely Kurosaki's. A few sets of earrings on her dresser, some necklaces, an old pair of sunglasses. On the bookshelf, most have the bindings of published works, but the bottom shelf has only five spiral notebooks, several with slips of paper and improvised bookmarks sticking out from their pages. On her bedside table, two polished stones — chunks of amber, they look like, with small daisies laid to rest within their centers. They look strange: the amber is filled with little cracks that shimmer, like bolts of suspended lightning.
The door swings open. Yuzu crosses the threshold, not from the apartment hallway, but from a deep darkness, a stretch of black and electric light that seems to tunnel back eternally. She looks sick. The pallor of her skin, of her scales, the darkness around all four of her eyes — she'd barely seemed to be recovering from Kurosaki's disappearance when Yuya vanished, too, and the sickliness has clung to her like a cloak since then. The thinness of her face and limbs, the consequence of her self-imposed starvation, only worsens her appearance.
She is not well; she has not been well for a long time. Standing there against the deep black of that forbidden realm, anger in her eyes and twisting at her mouth, only seems to exaggerate her decline. ]
no subject
The door swings open. Yuzu crosses the threshold, not from the apartment hallway, but from a deep darkness, a stretch of black and electric light that seems to tunnel back eternally. She looks sick. The pallor of her skin, of her scales, the darkness around all four of her eyes — she'd barely seemed to be recovering from Kurosaki's disappearance when Yuya vanished, too, and the sickliness has clung to her like a cloak since then. The thinness of her face and limbs, the consequence of her self-imposed starvation, only worsens her appearance.
She is not well; she has not been well for a long time. Standing there against the deep black of that forbidden realm, anger in her eyes and twisting at her mouth, only seems to exaggerate her decline. ]
What do you want now?