The pen begins to crack beneath the pressure of Muzan's grasp. Veins marred the pale skin of his face, lips deepened into a scowl. Claws leave behind little scars on his desk. His nigh infinite patience was drawing thin.
"It's. blue, Jiro. BLUE."
They had been at this for the last hour, ever since Douma had shown them a picture of that accursed dress. (Perhaps this had been his intent all along.)
jiro is sure to end this argument quickly. her perspective? it's both colors. why? well, the answer is simple, and she's busy clicking away at the keys of her tablet keyboard when it comes to her. she knows how to end it. it's a sigh. as if it's the most simple fucking thing in the world.
" it's photoshopped, muzan. "
and she closes her tablet and rises to go get her coffee from the nespresso maker.
