The angel had finally woken.
Kouhei walked down into the dungeon with Kyouka, Chihiro, and Kazuhiro in tow. The air itself felt wrong down here—stale, cold, a metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat—like the place had been chewing on itself for years. Torches guttered along the walls, throwing the cellblocks into jagged pools of light and shadow, and somewhere in the distance water dripped with patient rhythm. It smelled faintly of old blood.
"Oh, hello there, Child of Anti-Prophecy." The angel's voice cut through the damp like a silver bell. She was sitting where they'd left her, chained to nothing but the silence of the cell, smiling in a way that made the smile feel sharper than any blade. She didn't look frightened—if anything, she looked amused, like she'd been given the best seat in a play.
