In the shattered cloud city, Death Mad sat on the wreckage, lazily crossing her legs. The secrets hidden under her short skirt were barely visible in the gaps of her crossed thighs, and she held a half-burned cigarette between her fingers. Every time she appeared, she was dressed to the nines, giving off the first impression of an urban beauty living in a luxurious penthouse, always with a chauffeur, frequenting high-end places, dazzling like a splendid rose that required meticulous care.
Yet in such a desolate ruin, she did not seem out of place at all. Even in the face of a world crumbling around her, she remained as calm and serene as ever, a composure that lent her an ethereal, smoky illusion—it was fitting, as she was inherently a Phantom, a bundle of memories.
She was like a beam of starlight projected from a distant future across light-years, where the star had long since extinguished, and the beauty Ash beheld was merely the light from a now-destroyed past.
