→ RESIDENTIAL AREA

@♂12 - saito ryu Blood, death, screams, a massacre occurred outside. These tremendous hours of nothing else than running into the edge of nothing, ending up stabbing your own leg with some spikes from this hell of a grave, in a big format of a house. People thought it would be a nice shelter, but no way, it was no way you could be safe here. People smelled your fear, the lack of information and wit enough to not think a person would know you would stay here. That’s why Izumi was in the danger zone. It was nothing but the rotten smell of corpses floating around, twirling her senses dim of its inkiness.

Truth be told, she didn`t had any other choice, but to stay, as she appeared to have shaken off the threat from earlier, a pissed off student, blank headed of his rage that he couldn`t see between logig and common sense of why killing her, at that point Ryuugazaki Izumi was weak, she has no weapons, no chance at all to beat up senses of a skyscraper. That is why, she had to seek shelter at this god forsaken place. If only mom and dad where here, might the youngest at her age whine over. Yet, she enjoyed it, the thrill of being here, the fact that she could stay away from those monsters.



Some people might believe that she, out of all was the missing link, yet, it was all wrong. Yes it might be that she was different, but the cause of that is not because she wanted to, its never like that, its not like you walk into a lab and offers your body in the name of science. The female just happened to be unlucky, unlucky enough to experience such pain, such torture. Just recalling it made her sick, wanting to puke her todays meal of bark and nuts. “Meow” escaped her lips, holding up her hand as she the red, dried blood off. It tasted bitter, metallic in some sort. Disgusting.



”Yuko?” a small voice call from afar, coming closer as she could hear the weight of the obvious male coming closer to her current location. , the female thought as she crawled herself into a corner of the wall, curling into a ball, as she felt fright curl up onto her spine, her sharp senses hearing his second question. ” Who`s there” its deep voice called, leading her to not answer, but a small shiver of her leg, made her accidently tip over an old box of pickles. Pickles screwed her.


( SORRY IF ITS CRAPPY ;-;)

[ starter for ryuugazaki izumi ]

He appears at ease (the relative calm before a devastating storm on the horizon), but inside his mind barricades the guilt and frustration he refuses to show. He is put together — not a single strand of hair out of place, his clothes bear no signs of previous struggles or attempted eliminations. He thinks he is fine. Perfectly fine. But he isn't. This is him straddling the thin line between denial and his volatile emotions. It itches, his mind. Underneath his skin. Everywhere. He refuses to believe that he'd been the one to choose hurting the one person who saw past his facades over accepting the horrible truth. His pride forces him to put blame on his disorder as a weak excuse to cope with the repercussions of his actions. After all, passing off responsibility is a much easier thing to do than to admit he was wrong and apologize. Ryu never apologizes. To her. To himself. To anyone. And yet, here he is back at square one; a half-assed apology choking his throat.

Quietly, he steps into the house, a 'sorry' slipping out between gritted teeth, and nothing. Yuko isn't there. The house is empty. For once in his life, he doesn't know what to do.

So he wallows in self-contempt, allows his suppressed emotions to escape the barriers of his mind and drown him, suffocate him, in their intensity. What he feels momentarily is a flicker of regret mating with utter self-hatred — this is his own concocted destruction. A fleeting kind of torture he inflicts on himself each and every time he feels remotely sorry for something he's done. Things that involve hurting those he cared about. Things like killing Yuko with callous words and hasty departures.

Frustrated, Ryu struggles to find an equilibrium between his wavering psychosis and the onslaught of guilt that floods him when he calls her name, softly, and no one responds. Struggles to breathe through a haze of worrying thoughts and fantastical scenarios all of which involve Yuko on the verge of death. He's panting now, his knuckles bruised from repeated smashing against walls. The only sound he registers is his own voice made rough from constant nicotine abuse; the mangled syllables in the form of Yuko's name.

His shoulders heave, his eyes wander — cloud and then glaze over completely. He stills. Listens.

"Yuko?" A mere whisper, a subconscious plea. He hears nothing but eerie silence.

Then —

"Who's there?" (Come out, come out, wherever you are...)