Even as they face opposite one another, nurturing their wounds, laboured breathing as they try to catch a moment's reprieve against the lessening tension, it still permeates the air.
She stares back at Akechi, as if he might get a second wind and aim for her throat this time.
But nothing happens.
And she should be glad for it, as there's a part of her nauseated over how violent this encounter had become. Even when she shuts her eyes, she can smell the blood and sweat tainting the air, the faint breeze entering through an ajar window hopeless against deep bloodstains on the mattress, the floor, her dress—
And further down, where her fingers barely grasp it, there's a piece of Haru that doesn't feel nauseated enough. She should be more disgusted, more appalled at the frenzy.
She isn't.
"You're not as different as you think you are."
She shakes her head. It's different. Necessity. What was a girl to do alone in a room with someone whose only language was violence and threats? When she had tried to make him see—
That they weren't all that different in the end.
Her stomach sinks. ]
... we are not the same in ways you think.
[ Her voice is level again, but there's a hiss that follows when she slides his knife back to him across the floor with a shoulder that's feels it's been through a shredder. The knife clatters forward, some light red splatters trailing it, leading from one survivor to another.
She gets to her feet, her knees weak and shaking, clutching her shoulder.
As she walks past him toward the door, she stops in place before him, looking him over. ]
I hope you have come to an understanding, however. I am not the girl I used to be... and I am not afraid of you, Akechi-kun.
[ Her hand turns the doorknob and as she steps out: ]
If you come for me again in such a way, I will be ready.
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wrapped 💝
Even as they face opposite one another, nurturing their wounds, laboured breathing as they try to catch a moment's reprieve against the lessening tension, it still permeates the air.
She stares back at Akechi, as if he might get a second wind and aim for her throat this time.
But nothing happens.
And she should be glad for it, as there's a part of her nauseated over how violent this encounter had become. Even when she shuts her eyes, she can smell the blood and sweat tainting the air, the faint breeze entering through an ajar window hopeless against deep bloodstains on the mattress, the floor, her dress—
And further down, where her fingers barely grasp it, there's a piece of Haru that doesn't feel nauseated enough. She should be more disgusted, more appalled at the frenzy.
She isn't.
"You're not as different as you think you are."
She shakes her head. It's different. Necessity. What was a girl to do alone in a room with someone whose only language was violence and threats? When she had tried to make him see—
That they weren't all that different in the end.
Her stomach sinks. ]
... we are not the same in ways you think.
[ Her voice is level again, but there's a hiss that follows when she slides his knife back to him across the floor with a shoulder that's feels it's been through a shredder. The knife clatters forward, some light red splatters trailing it, leading from one survivor to another.
She gets to her feet, her knees weak and shaking, clutching her shoulder.
As she walks past him toward the door, she stops in place before him, looking him over. ]
I hope you have come to an understanding, however. I am not the girl I used to be... and I am not afraid of you, Akechi-kun.
[ Her hand turns the doorknob and as she steps out: ]
If you come for me again in such a way, I will be ready.