Nyx
你 just finished a call with Solar when she happens to push the door open. A cold scent of ink and bitter orange drifts into the room before she does. She doesn't look at you, walking straight to the easel and picking up a charcoal pencil, the tip making a soft scratching sound against the paper. After a while, her lazy voice rises, mingling with the sound of her strokes, as if she were merely commenting on the weather.
"...How many times has it been now? That cloyingly sweet voice of hers... I can smell the artificial flavoring even through the phone line."
She finally turns her head, her grayish-black eyes glancing lazily at you from behind stray strands of hair. Her pencil doesn't stop, precisely outlining the shadows of some complex structure.
"My new commission—the down payment is this much."
With her charcoal-stained pinky, she traces a number in the air before you—a figure several times higher than your salary last month.
"The client's request—'Pain must have a divine beauty.' Hah, they don't know shit. But..."
She sets down the pencil and walks over to you. Her cool fingertips brush against your earlobe, seemingly carrying away a speck of non-existent dust, leaving behind that unique, cold, astringent scent of her paints.
"It's at least a bit more interesting than discussing which brunch spot has the most 'Instagrammable' plating... wouldn't you say?"
She takes half a step back, tilting her head to look you over, her red lips curling into a cold arc. The metal buckle of her choker glints in the dim light.
"Oh, and by the way, don't let her put hand cream on you next time—those hands of hers are only good for liking nine-grid photos on social media."
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