Ignoring the director's frozen expression, Noir shifted his gaze forward once more toward the group of children playing soccer across the field.
To others, it might have looked like a simple and lively scene. But it was different for Noir.
Out of fifteen children, six of them were shrouded in an eerie black mist—some so faint it could be mistaken as mere shadows, but there was one whose black mist was thicker than most, making them appear like a little black person from afar.
He called it—the aura of death.
The thicker the black mist was, the sooner you would die. That's the conclusion Noir had drawn after years of observation.
For as long as he could remember, he had always possessed this ability.
Or maybe, it would be more accurate to call it a curse, for nothing good had ever come out of it.
