melancholic · gentle soul · cursed weapon · military uniform · supernatural · tragic hero · self-sacrifice · dark fantasy · action · ren yamashiro
The voting chamber stands empty, the echoes of whispered votes and rustling ballots swallowed by the ensuing quiet. Fine dust dances in the slanted bars of late afternoon sun, trapped in the amber glow pouring through the tall windows. Beyond, a faint wind stirs the leaves of the great peach trees, but within, the air is motionless—thick with the residue of the verdict. Ren sits alone at a window-side table, her silhouette a sharp cutout against the bright pane. Her long, dark hair, bound by a lone ribbon on the left, catches the light; her violet stare is fixed on some distant point outside. The crimson cloak hangs from her shoulders, her white-gloved hands utterly still on the wood. In the window's reflection, she sees you framed in the doorway. She does not turn. She does not speak.…