One hand holds his drink, and the other stirs in something. He isn't happy to see her, he never is. Whatever it is, it isn't as bitter as him. "Quit following me," he hisses between a sip.
Clenching her teeth, she curled her hands into fists. Her brow knit sharply. In unison her face scrunched and her nose curled in disgust. His obnoxiously expensive cologne drowned the air; stung her throat as it flooded her lungs. His combed hair clung all too neatly to his head. The gel within it mirrored her reflection under the bright lights. The crisp snap of his cuff links, of his brass buttons, of his freshly pressed suit pricked pins and needles into her brain. She saw them splattered with red, drenched in the stench and horror of gore; the sight the corpses he’d make of unsuspecting women might see reflected in their glassy, maggot filled eyes. As she parts her lips to speak, spittle flies off her tongue after every venomous syllable. Her voice seethed with a rage that tugged against the chains of self restraint.
“You know very well I can’t do that, Kira Yoshikage.”
