the-bitter-truth

[the-bitter-truth]

"Your blood tastes of bourbon. Have you been drinking? Good choice." Despite human vices tasting like chalk, it is the enjoyment of it that brings out the true flavor in blood. It is the only way Lestat can remember his humanity. "Aged, refined. Just like I and you."

One hand checks his spiking pulse, a thrum that beats too vivid under an open wound. "I like a nightcap. Just like you and I."

Gripping Lestat's tie away to make sure his visitor practiced moderation, Gallagher sighs softly, the stupor of whatever devilish magic deposited itself in his veins. With the eyes of a man seeking through a dream, he pulls their faces together, licking his own blood off curved lips and an ivory thorn. "Not bad. How 'bout I get a taste of you next?"

[the-bitter-truth]

Hellooo I know I talk about it in my pinned and stuff but I really am grateful people don't mind my low activity. I'm getting ready for certifications and I don't plan on skipping a thing here! Thanks for the patience!

[the-bitter-truth]

"i’m already in too deep."

Prompt

Gallagher laughs, left guessing on bounty troubles the ranger tonight. By the syrups in Boothill's second glass, he assumes it is nothing small enough to fit on priced parchment. "Never too deep to swim. You're resourceful, aint'cha? You'll find a find a way to walk with the tide." In between the time of simulated midnight and dawn comes a quiet, an achievement for children and a night gone wrong for anyone still awake to watch the sky light in real time. It's a time much too sad for drinking, even for those that glorify their dedication to a deep cup. Softly, the jukebox plays, adding a tinge of teal and pink and the golden glow of dimmed bar lights. "And if you don't think so, maybe a friend could pull you up."

[the-bitter-truth]

"I   dare   you   to   try." // from aventurine 👀👀

If he were a betting man, Gallagher would catch the broken limits of Adventurine's wager and fold. What he is, is a man who listens. His hand hovers over a lacquered box, his prize of their latest bet sat inside on plush velvet. In another, a precious fragment pulses, a dream distilled to crystalize. "You don't think I can find somethin' better?" Rubies glint and turn towards a gloved hand, watching the fine leather crease as a thumb is bent and a token is flipped. Before it lands, Gallagher catches it midair and slaps the covered chip over Adventurine's wrist.

He grins, leaning his face inches from the gambler's, dwarfing the lithe man and all his peacocked layers. "Alright then. How about a double or nothin'?"

[the-bitter-truth]

Hii I got occupied. I have some art commissions I wanna tackle first and then i'll finish my drafts. As always I write at leisure but I wanted to post this so yall know i am Biting at the bars of these threads

[the-bitter-truth]

Elysium is her name. An old nightclub built into the graffiti-covered corner of 7th Avenue, the vintage two-story building is woven with a thin layer of illusion, allowing only those touched by the heavens or hell to see its name in cursive neon, casting all who enter the intricately gilded double doors in a pink light. 

Those who entered to socialize and club without the need for stuffy disguises were shown to the first floor, a spacious rectangular room with the dance floor on one side and a bar on the other. Those with a letter, returning VIPs, or a friend in high places were shown to the second floor, where the center was hollow, allowing patrons above to lean over the railings and look down at the people below. Shaking the floors are stereos that thrum bass straight to the heart and deafen all the conversations above. The hostess typically denies anyone who comes looking for the owner, but this guest comes with a name and horns typical of the kind who are too good to be seen in a place like this. Pushing up her bedazzled frames, her pointed tail tugs out her phone, raising a forefinger to Dan Heng as she dials a contact. A fantastic thing about the second floor is that invisible threads weaved by Arachne manage to silence the crowd below in return. With only a slow record under the antique gramophone’s needle, Gallagher hears his phone easily, picking it up to cinch between his cheek and a raised shoulder.

“Galla? Someone’s asking for you by name. A dragon.” The reply is audible through her phone. “Lily? Ah. Yea, yea, this one. Send him up, I’m just about to switch swifts.”

The devil smiles, tugging at the edges of her eyes. “To the second floor, honored guest. Have fun in there.”

Forked at the edge like a serpent’s tongue, the crimson carpet lining the curved stairway up is stitched of red wool and golden silk, setting alight the shock of color amidst a dark and golden interior. The banister leading up is doubled at the first steps, curving into rounded fangs, creating the illusion of stepping into a maw. The environment changes completely when Dan Heng rises. Only ten or so people occupy the second floor: A bartender with a broken disc of light behind her head, a masked attendant walking around with canapés atop a tray, and several patrons gossiping among themselves.

Waiting for his guest to ascend is Gallagher, a tall man dressed provocatively. A silken inner shirt with silver hound-head buttons is clasped low, covering just an inch above his navel. Thrown lazily over his shoulder is a leather jacket with studded cuffs, the silver matching the hound-head buckle on his bordeaux-wine belt, securing dark fitted pants that stop just shy of leather dress boots. His brown hair is streaked with gray, layered strands coming loose from his ponytail to give him an air of someone who does not tend to their appearance often. 

He grins lazily, breath scented with sweet liquor and smoke, half the culprit only inches away, pinched between a gloved forefinger and middle finger. “You got here fast. We hardly need to introduce ourselves. Can I grab you a drink for your time here? Cigar?” He walks to the further side of the floor, expecting his guest to follow. “Asphodel Commission told me you guys sent the report downstairs before even inspecting your own people. Sorry to hear about the loss, didn’t know your kind could be killed like that. My part’s to say we had no hand in it and the remnants of sulfur are easily planted, then carry on the investigation like it’s our job to prove innocence." He takes in a drag, puffing out a faintly pink smoke that dissipates quickly. "The Xuanwu, I’ve heard of his reputation. Feel like that gathers plenty of enemies. Any come to mind?”

@the-bitter-truth -- ;

The midnight hour was fraught with restlessness, cold sheets of rain descending from a velvet, heavy shroud of storm clouds that flickered with lightning dancing in the oppressive, brooding sky. The city of Manhattan below spanned like a starry tapestry, a maw of teeth surging into the very sky. Bolts of lightning struck lightning rods with cacophonous claps of thunder and showers of sparks that rained on the pelted streets that ran like veins, pumping smoggy traffic and blitzing headlights across city blocks and creating a dazzling, shimmering nexus. Upon the soggy concrete that reflected the cascades of neon, the Azure Dragon trekked in a human guise, painfully mortal in slacks, a pea coat, and shoes that shuffled carelessly through puddles. The rain was his territory, the water his home. No matter which shoreline an ocean straddled, the seven seas were his dominion. Mortal, god--or some divine median between the two. The stench of Hell was strong among mortals, the burning ozone of Heaven glaring from above like the heat of an unseen sun.

The blaring of a car horn jarred him from the fugue of his thoughts, a taxi swinging away from the curb and charging into traffic, Dan Heng balking with slight distaste. Had he a choice in the matter, he would've preferred to live in the currents of the world's oceans and rarely emerge upon land, but this was important. The feud between Abrahamic forces of Heaven and Hell had become obnoxiously dominant in the past thousand years, a progression he'd passively watched while they canvassed the globe on the banners of countries conquering both east and west. With a brief flourish of his wrist, Cloudhymn magic sent an unseen wave through the crowded streets these people would never see, a returning wave painting arrows upon street corners that beckoned him like twinkling stars a pilot followed while braving the almighty seas.

Banking sharply, an unassuming alleyway curved into a dead end to the naked eye, yet before him revealed the entrance of a ritsy night club only their ilk could perceive. Angels, demons, the mythic that had been borne from the forces of nature; this was the world that existed alongside the mortal. The gargoyle bouncer gave him one look and saw past his mortal guise, inclining his head in deference before the gaudy, black and gold double doors swung open and invited him inside the smoky cabaret where dreamy jazz fumigated the air like fog, scarlet and velvet dripping from the walls and ceilings like blood. Dauntlessly did he enter, a bespeckled hostess regarding him hawkishly.

"Gallagher," Dan Heng intoned with an air of authority, "I'm here to see the one known as Gallagher."

[the-bitter-truth]

𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐧

ᴀʟɪᴀꜱ? Somnus/Hypnos

ᴀɢᴇ? 22. Bday soon on the funny number.

ᴢᴏᴅɪᴀᴄ? Gemini. I know very little of what that means.

ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛ? In what respect? Academically? Scientifically? We have to be specific here.

ʜᴏʙʙɪᴇꜱ? Art (I miss oil painting, I've done acrylics the most. Usually it's digital art), reading, cooking, writing, getting in my car and not stopping until my soul feels at peace, learning about medical history.

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ(ꜱ)? Neon toxic lime sludge, red, coral, bluescreen blue, fog grey, pthalo, sage green. All the greens and browns. And nearly neon pink. And mild desaturated construction orange.

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ? Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke, Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, The Collected Schizophrenias by Esmé Weijun Wang, 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami, The Golden Apples Of The Sun by Ray Bradbury, The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, and Pachinko by Min Jin Lee.

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴏɴɢ? Dead Fingers Talking - Working for a Nuclear Free City

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ? Fuuuck idk i dont watch them often. Parthenope i think?

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴡ? Interview with the Vampire or Shameless, not a huge show watcher either.

ʀᴇᴄᴇɴᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅ? A Rift in Time by Raja Shehadeh (The book i'm only allowed to read at the gym so I go to the gym more)

ꜰᴜɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ? I have an average of 88-93 BPM.

ᴛᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ʙʏ? @eladead (Thank youu)

ᴛᴀɢɢɪɴɢ? @visvivae @killdevil @huijarii @aequitaes @reversescale and whoever else wants :>

[the-bitter-truth]

ஐ = slapping them. >:)

From: Prompt

He barely reacts, neck still twisted to one side from the impact of the hit. Given Sunday's prowess in conducting, Gallagher had expected a finer crescendo to his improvised song of a familiar melody. The head of the Oak family has all but come atop him, spitting ire about staying away all while Gallagher lets Sunday back him against a wall. Several flimsy minutes of pretense later, the makeshift angel escalates their one-sided spat, leaving a faint red mark across a stubble-speckled cheek. First there is silence, and then Gallagher laughs, a gravel rhythm that overtakes Sunday's wing-beat exhales.

'You can't ever just ask for shit the normal way, huh? That's fine. Suits me real well." A hand lunges for Sunday's pristine throat, gripping the delicate muscle and skin with the harshness he knows his weekend lover is asking for. "You better hope you remembered to lock your office."

[the-bitter-truth]

Re-editing my tags for the LAST time, TRUST.

[the-bitter-truth]

"Metamorphosis. Edited the recipe slightly goin' off your recent drink orders." Served in a tall wine glass, the drink stacks blackberry vodka, elderflower liqueur, crème de violette, and shaken gin. Dyed with additions of pink guava and coconut cream, the mostly tart-sweet drink is given a slightly metallic edge with drops of a beet reduction and ferrous sulfate for its top layer.

"I chose you cause I was hopin' for a story in exchange. You're that galaxy ranger makin' rounds and I've heard plenty of tales, but never from folk like you." Dreams persevered, ignorant of the reality that crumbles below their feet. How many cared, aside from stopping on their feet and looking to the sky the day their "world" crack into fragments? That was the problem, thinks Gallagher. The ripples of truth had all but faded once they lapped at the feet of individuals. Maybe that was why he stayed while Misha had gone. The blind dreamers of Penacony would never accept death, not when a well-constructed lie kept them within their comforts long past their own bodily decay.

"I mix these for the dream troupe members. It helps them, makes up for what they've lost with dreams I think." Siobhan's careful hand tilts the bottle of syrup, adding precisely a half-ounce by eye. Gallagher nods, mottling mint wordlessly. She sighs. "Do you disapprove? It's not in our jobs to. They're family to me, some of them not so different from children. Maybe it's not fate, but it's fair. They deserve more." He sets down his shaker, patting Siobhan on the shoulder. "I know. You're doin' a good thing. It's what this place for is for." Siobhan shakes her head, sliding his hand off. "What should I do if one of them denies the help? There's not really more for them out there, yet they want to go." Mint eyes catch onto rubies, taking the brunt of her quiet confrontation. "Maybe there is, who knows. Can't always be 'bout you." A pause. "Or maybe, they wanna stay. That's why they have to go, so it's easier later." "Easier..." mutters Siobhan, busying herself with reorganizing bottles.

"You've heard of that little bit of news at the theatre? Had me thinkin', it's 'bout time I need to learn somethin' new. If I hear what life outside is like, maybe the drinks can ease that transition."

@the-bitter-truth sent : He'd seen the hunter around, trailing the scent of iron and sulfur death, a finality in his steps that clash with syruped dreams. Today he stops by the bar to order nine individual glasses. Gallagher slides a tenth, glass tall and layered in blues and pinks. "Could you help me with somethin'? Need a taste-test that isn't smashed drunk already."

boothill was always the type of man best left to his own peace. even if it meant empty glasses of five, or seven   -  nine, this time though, was a stretch and yet the burn of each drink was rendered muddled by the taste of earthly spice of the cigar betwixt teeth. plumes of smoke escape as the hunter allows metal digits to trace the rim of his current glass. the remnants of amber liquid rest solemnly at its bottom.  to halona.  the thinks, his youngest sister   -  even if adopted. their memories together embodied light and joy, the bullying of an older brother to a bickering younger sister. how cliche can it get?

he's about to push the glass to the rest, to leave the glasses in a small space. easy for the barkeep to clean up, it was the least he could do after draining a good chunk of their current selection of alcohol. but there is a presence boothill comes to sense before he rises to his feet,    could you help me with somethin'?    no, not really. this buzz, warm but burning in his chest, will only last so long till the next stop. the ranger should move on   ( . . . )   until a glass stops right in front of him. a puff of smoke again leaves his mouth before metal digits rise to pluck it from scarred tiers.

“  ‘n’ the hell would you choose me for this, exactly?  ”   taste - testing?  it was one of the more simple requests boothill has dealt with. though, he isn't keen on being given an unwanted drink, there is a look of uncertainty under the brim of his hat. it comes with a glance up towards the man before him,   “  . . .  gave it a name yet?  ”

[the-bitter-truth]

“ㅤI  STRANGLED  THE  DEVILㅤ;ㅤI  WATCHED  AS  THE  WATERS  GREW  STALE,ㅤㅤㅤSILENT,ㅤㅤㅤDEAD.ㅤALL  WHILE  THE  PEOPLE  CRIEDㅤ:ㅤI  ANGERED  THE  HUNTER.

independent,    highly    selective    &.    +21 &. mutuals    only    ATTICUS    "    BOOTHILL    "    UNDERWOOD    from    THE    HONKAI    STAR    RAIL    FRANCHISE.    fandomless,    crossover    friendly,    canon    -    divergent,    original    lore    friendly.    unaffiliated    with    any    verse    world    fandoms. by reign, +25.

#    A    STUDY    IN    (    .    .    .    )ㅤthe    man    lost    to    the    fires,    revenge    is    best    served    violently,    dead    man    walking,    the    guilt    of    a    survivor,    the    yearning    for    something    softer,    the    endless    indulgence.

[the-bitter-truth]

What would you like to achieve before you die? (laughing from the irony)

"Haha. Good one. I hardly have a plan for this sorta stuff, prefer playin' it by ear and lettin' fate guide the rest. I'd like to visit what I can of old friends, maybe learn a new instrument. Don't care much for achievements."

[the-bitter-truth]

PROMPTS FOR THINGS DONE WHILE DANCING *  adjust as necessary, send 'reverse' for the reversal of action prompts

DIALOGUE PROMPTS

that thing you just stepped on? yeah, that was my foot.

you've never danced like this before, have you? i can tell.

you're rather good at this.

where did you learn to dance like this?

i'm sure i'm not the only one you've danced with.

i don't know what i'm doing.

just follow my lead and i'll help you.

you're a lousy dance partner.

is that your perfume i smell?

i'll be with you the whole time. follow me.

it's an honor to dance with you.

i could kiss you right now.

i never thought i'd get the chance to dance with you again.

i like to keep things spontaneous.

mind if we dance?

you clean up nice.

figured it was time i stepped in.

what were you doing, dancing with them?

i've waited my whole life for a moment like this.

if you dip me, i'll kill you.

i think the song's over.

well... that was nice.

you look lovely in that dress, by the way.

can we go again?

just put your hand on my shoulder.

i didn't know you could dance!

do you remember the last time we danced like this?

you're doing wonderfully. you look like an expert.

when's the last time i danced with you?

you deserve this, you know.

everyone's watching us.

what would you do if i kissed you?

just keep your eyes fixed on me.

ignore the staring. they'll get over it.

take hold of my hand and let me guide you.

may i have this dance?

i was hoping i'd meet you out here on the dance floor.

dance with me. don't make me go out there alone.

is this the part where we kiss?

ACTION PROMPTS

[ cut in ] sender interrupts receiver as they dance with someone else and requests to dance with receiver, instead

[ dip ] sender dips receiver at the end of the song

[ guide ] sender places receiver's hands in the correct position for a formal dance

[ slide ] sender's hand slips down to receiver's hip as they dance

[ stumble ] sender and receiver make a mistake in their dancing and stumble over each other

[ laugh ] sender and receiver attempt to dance, but can't help themselves from crumbling into a laughing fit

[ private ] sender encourages receiver to dance with them in the privacy of their own home with no one around

[ silence ] sender and receiver start dancing without any music

[ groove ] sender and receiver perform funky, silly dances together, overexaggerating to make each other laugh

[ oops ] sender keeps stepping on receiver's feet and apologizing each time

[ almost ] sender and receiver finish their dance and stare into each other's eyes, transfixed, nearly about to kiss

[ teach ] sender gives receiver a proper lesson on how to dance

[ classes ] sender and receiver meet at a dance class

[ slow ] sender and receiver slow dance together

[ tender ] in the middle of a dance, sender reaches out to fix receiver's hair/clothes

[ interrupt ] someone tries to interrupt sender and receiver as they dance

[ forbidden ] sender and receiver are not supposed to be seen together... but they end up dancing together anyway

[ sensual ] sender and receiver participate in a sensual, romantic dance

[ cooking ] while cooking with music on, sender and receiver humorously dance around the kitchen (using utensils as microphones in the process)

[ first dance ] sender and receiver share their first dance at their wedding

[ first kiss ] in the midst of dancing together, sender and receiver finally have their first kiss

[the-bitter-truth]

Gallagher modern au design :> just sketch cause ive got a Headache today

[the-bitter-truth]

[Celestial Body]

🇯​​🇺​​🇵​​🇮​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​

You crave adventure and wisdom. a knowledge seeker, you love to read and you might not like school but you appreciate the opportunity to attain new information. for you, we are all here to live and learn, and you want to experience all the possible opportunities on this planet-- you also have a good sense of what is right and wrong, and you stick to the facts when it comes to arguments. you seek a life that gives you new surprises at every turn, and you won't be scared. you know you're ready. however, you often get too wrapped up in the logic of things and neglect your personal life. sometimes you don't know when to stop. every once in a while, when you're wrapped up in feeling like you must do Everything, take a step back, and know that you have time. your life will be fulfilling. take pride in the small things.

Tagged by: @huijarii , thank you! Tagging: @unfxithful, @herotheism (Topaz), @aequitaes (Adventurine), @visvivae (Ophelia or Ciaccona), and whoever sees :)

[the-bitter-truth]

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘎𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰��𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘯.

Gallagher likes immortals because he likes people, and such tales are an intimate confession of what people want the most. Whether a sage lives forever to guide the lives of future men or a hero is broken by eternity, a common chain is that the author, by virtue of being mortal, will always fail to maintain a character both “human” and ageless. Always relegated to a tool, too unstable, too burdened, or too tired. Upon his red-oak bookshelf lie forty-two books on the subject of defeating death, and yet death bleeds from warm skin to the nib that writes an assurance: It is good that we die. To be temporary is a privilege. 

 One thing you cannot rely on books alone for is how to be human, that’s what a marble bartop and a generous pour is for. ”Dream’s Edge” is the name printed in pink neon over a vintage cell phone booth that hides a door within, offering an exclusive bar to those who whisper the right phrase into the corded phone. Gallagher thinks it's a corny gimmick, but the bar does end up with a dramatic bunch who don’t mind some riddles for a sparser crowd and a vintage environment. Opening daily at 6 p.m., the interior is accessed through a stairway and requires an additional minute of walking to reach a space decorated in golds and blues. A yellowed painting sprawls across the ceiling, illuminated by a modest chandelier that dangles at the center of the bar’s space, which nearly bisects by walls into three rooms twice to imitate a short-ended “I”. The counter holds ten leather-seated stools in a semicircle, situated at the far end of the entrance. The next closest room is a rectangular space, walls decorated with paintings enshrined in golden brass. The entrance opens to a humble space, which allows access to a jukebox for a quarter per song. 

Gallagher tugs his tie loose before a customer can even be seated. A mint nestles in a pocket of his cheek, chasing off the thicker half of perpetual smoke which scents his breath. 

Not too many ritzy paved streets away arrives a package. It’s large and rectangular to hold a brilliant scarlet off-the-shoulder empire gown in layers of stitched silk and chiffon to create an illusion of gossamer. What the delivery man doesn’t know is that every part of that package’s delivery comes up to a false address and name. An assistant signs off on the package, gives her thanks to the man, and takes the package in. Were the dress not so airy within its plastic and the morning so busy, perhaps the assistant would have spotted something strange about how full the plastic was. Tucked into itself, the plastic had been weighed down to create a perfect seal between itself and the outside air. As the dress is raised to inspect the beauty of it as a whole, the seal drops to leave open the bottom, immediately sparking the pyrophoric chemicals inside with oxygen.

FIRE!!! A great spark had occurred and faded in seconds, burning only the thin layers within the gown and leaving the ashen skeleton of wire mixed with synthetic threads. Plastic has melted, solidifying over the hidden wire inside to leave a ribcage that hovers over a message, stitched into the inner back:

ᴵ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʳᵘᵗʰ. ʸᵒᵘ ˢᵖⁱⁿ ᵃ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ᵗᵃˡᵉ, ᵇᵘᵗ ᴵ’ˡˡ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐʸ ˢʰᵃʳᵉ.

@visvivae

[the-bitter-truth]

Busy hell is over. W.