The room was dim light from fractured crystal lamps trembled along the black marble walls like dying stars gasping for air. The scent of rust and burnt paper filled the silence.
And in the center of it all Bakuza knelt.
His body was stitched with scars that pulsed faintly with orange-red light, as if his veins still remembered fire.
Across from him, on a throne of carved obsidian and bone, sat Lucere, pink, wolf-cut hair shimmering faintly in the dull glow. A grin curved his lips, but his eyes swirling orange, red, and black, like a storm of molten ink never smiled. They layered atop one another, gazes stitched and shifting, as though reality itself refused to decide which one was truly looking at you.
Every breath between them felt like a frostbite waiting to happen.
Bakuza whispered, "Master..."
Lucere tilted his head lazily, that playful smirk never quite reaching the eyes that devoured everything they saw.
