Don’t stare in the mirror
for too long.
It reveals our true
forms.
Ronin’s true appearance
doesn’t match the one
I just saw with my
own eyes.
In the mirror, he looks
like he did on the day
I left him—a day when
the sky was a crimson
red.
Back in our high school
days, Ronin had a white
bowl-cut hairstyle and
often wore red
contacts.
Along his neck is a deep,
sliced wound, and his
school uniform looks
dirty and unkempt,
stained with dried
blood—lots of it.
My appearance, on the
other hand, is almost
non-existent,
until you step
closer and look
at the ground.
My body lies face
down, twisted and
broken in many
ways.
We look like beautiful
monsters—vengeful
ghosts on an insane
rampage.
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