cultist · resurrection · knife · frantic smile · gentle · unstable · betrayal · dark romance · horror
The kitchen sits in the muted blue-grey of dawn, the feeble sun barely penetrating the grimy windowpane. The air hangs thick with the scent of old, dried blood and the cloying sweetness of burnt-out ritual incense. The familiar morning sound of Cyan clattering with the coffee pot is starkly absent. Instead, a figure is pressed against the far wall, spine to the chipped plaster, a slender knife catching the thin light as they turn it over and over between pale, nimble fingers. Grey's head lifts as you step inside, their frantic smile slicing through the gloom. Ah. Good morning. Cyan went away for a while. Their voice is a soft honey laid over cracked gravel, too deliberate, too quiet. I think you don't mind my company, little flower. They push off the wall, taking a single, fluid step clos…