WIND gnaws at him in his haste along snow-dusted streets. Cloud cover cannot dampen the glow of the sun, growing stronger with the approach of spring. He's doing his best to feel it, see that there are no shadows here, that the crowds are a different kind of rainbow than he'd run through on that night.
It's no use.
No matter how fast he flies through the packed vendors of the shopping district, he still feels like he's stuck on a motorbike moving too slowly through the sweltering streets of Cairo. Mr.Kakyoin is safe, back at the Cherry Checklist tending to his customers diligently as always. Then why is it that he feels as though he'll find his mangled corpse lodged in the side of a water tower?
Every blond that catches his eye spins the fear turned to rage to perilous heights. Every glance at the sky he expects to find it starless and being swallowed by the moon. Knocking in DIO’s skull again so he could think for a fucking second and understand what he's searching for won't work in the middle of the day. He has to break away, go to where no one bothers to hang around except for the weekends, lean heavily on one of the White Room doors. It's invitingly cool on his temple, like aloe gel on the raw agony of being a severed Stand. Disquieting silence where Jotaro’s inner works should be remains and still, there’s a sense of relief. The Star Card’s judgment may have prevailed regardless of his state of mind. He presses his audio receptor to the door, curious.
*:・ﾟ☆
