Starter for @macabredanse ...
The clock stikes two. It’s a done deal and, Miharu thinks, it’s easily the more amusing part of her profession to blackmail conglomerates. It’s hardly her fault the rich prefer to maintain lifestyles that gift the likes of her with a plethora of scandal and debaucery for which she can demand money to fill her coffers. It’s easier than smuggling, too, under the radar. Still, it’s not enough.
It’s raining—her preferred type of weather—when she climbs into the car, only slightly dampened by the drizzle she eyes fondly through the tinted glass. The papers spread out from the file, sprawled on the leather sheets are she reads them with a monotonous face, as if reading a textbook.
“He’s taking too long,” She grumbles, casting a glance out. It’s only the drizzle, a few umbrella-bearing folks that pass by in rapid strides—nothing that spikes her interest, “I might fall asleep if he takes any longer, that flower boy.”
Muzan is normally a puntual one in her experience so it’s out of the ordinary but not enough to concern her, not yet. Her fingers trace the outline of the head of the black flower poking through the fabric of her v-neck as she leans back, crossign her legs, eyes returning to the final paper in the file on her thigh.
