𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝙰𝚃 long before she processes the magnitude of the scene. tears form, falling heavy on her cheeks in short, deft splashes ——– 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲. leaking without cause, not yet by the crude demand of devastation brewing on delay in her chest. she doesn’t look at the brutality bathing them both, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚢 ; shades of deep scarlet smattered up the hotel hall walls, the two immobile bodies strewn in the short, 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, space between them. the gun in her hand ——– his gun, the one lying face-down closest to her ——– bears a weight heavier than its existing mass. 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, she slowly plants the gun on the ground, and lifts hesitant eyes to peer into illya’s [ a fool’s search for answers that cannot yet be found. ] lips open to offer something, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. and yet, the only sound she’s able to muster is a meek murmur ; his name, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬. [ ... ] @sovietperil.
