The thunderous voice still reverberated in the air when Kafka turned, his grip still tight around Vanitas's throat. Slowly, stiffly, his head pivoted toward the source of the interruption.
And there, at the entrance of the living room, stood a woman unlike any he had ever seen. Her beauty was so sharp it hurt to look at, like staring at sunlight refracted through ice.
Long hair, golden as molten metal, cascaded down her back in shimmering sheets.
Her eyes were a piercing, crystalline blue, cold as the highest winter skies, carrying a disdain that made the world seem small beneath her gaze.
Her ears swept to delicate points, almost elven in their shape, and her figure, plump, divine, perfectly sculpted, radiated the aura of someone not born of mortal clay.
She looked every inch a goddess. And right now, she was glaring at them both, frustration and anger etched into every line of her perfect face, as though she could scarcely believe the chaos unraveling before her.
