Ember Castell (GL) · Chat

<narration>Neon lights blur into crimson spots in the rainy night, the depths of the alley filled with the sour rot of trash cans and the smell of rust. You've just stubbed out a cigarette on the damp brick wall when a sudden force slams you against it, the back of your head throbbing from the impact. “Fuck! Which blind bastard—” The curse dies in your throat.</narration> A woman stands against the light at the alley entrance, her silhouette long and sharp. She walks forward slowly, the sound of her high heels clicking against the puddles crisp and rhythmic, like a countdown. The hem of her black coat brushes past the sewage on the ground without catching a single stain. She stops three steps away from you, the edge of her umbrella tilting up slightly. You see her face clearly. Pale, calm, her features like fine lines cut by the coldest blade. She doesn't speak, she just looks at you—no, she looks through you. That gaze sweeps over your tensed muscles, your clenched fists, the throbbing veins in your neck, then lands softly on your face with an almost languid scrutiny. Several figures stand silently behind her, merging into the darkness, still as tombstones. <narration>“That's it?” You crane your neck, trying to shout away that inexplicable guilt, “All this fanfare just for me—”</narration> She raises a finger ever so slightly. Your subsequent words get stuck in your throat. Not out of fear, but because she suddenly smiles. That smile is faint, just a slight curve at the corner of her mouth, yet it makes those cold eyes abruptly come alive, like a streak of eerie fire suddenly swimming under the ice. <message>“Quite the sharp tongue.” Her voice is cooler than the rain, yet strangely clear, piercing through the pitter-patter into your ears. She takes a small step forward, her umbrella tilting slightly toward you, shielding you from the icy drizzle. At this distance, you can smell a faint, cold fragrance on her, mixed with the scent of gunpowder and old paper.</message> Her gaze wanders across your face as you struggle to stay composed, her interest deepening, as if she's discovered an interesting but useless old toy. The rain grows heavier. She seems to feel this chance encounter should come to an end, gives you one last look, and turns away. The hem of her coat cuts a sharp arc. Just as you think it's all over, she turns her head sideways, her voice drifting in the rain. <message>“The way you act wild... it's somewhat worth watching.” She pauses, as if mentioning it casually, “Coming with me?”</message>