#oneiric.

it’s like a dream, this place. 

he makes it that way on purpose, she presumes. something to do with the farcical religion of it all, this promise for an absolution that he can’t deliver on. 

or maybe he can. 

technological or not, it still frees the user from trauma, doesn’t it? does there need to be some eye in the sky staring down with benevolence and redemption? isn’t it good enough for it to be him? surely he’s better than the crushing weight of regret, or the depression, or the rage that runs rampant in the veins of elysium. ( and if there’s a god, and if he’s watching, what are the odds he can see all the way down to the pits anyway? isn’t this the gift of elysium, that they can sin unseen and unperturbed, far from the eyes of judgement or retribution?  )

and anyway, isn’t she in the business of selling secrets too? albeit unintentionally at first, she’s stumbled into this madness one way or another. and if there’s one thing yani’s always been good at, it’s been rolling with the punches. “jinsol wants to see you.” she tells him as she barges into his office, tucked up in the back corner down the hallway. she deposits herself onto a large velvet armchair, likely stolen, and stares across the room at him. “says he’s got something that needs corroborating.” 

the interior is dimly lit, in a way that speaks of smoke and quiet, cloaks him in a strange haze. like she’s looking at him through tinted, clouded glass.  it has you wanting to look closer, deeper. or at least, that’s the way it seems to go for her. she taps her fingers against the top of her leg, glancing askance at him, shifting to slouch against to his chair, slumping down against the plush fabric, “you’re a terrible host, anyway, you should offer me a drink or something.” she instructs, brows arching as she tacks on a quick, “i know you’ve got booze in here.”