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I am here, I can hear you sing ━━━━
THERE'S SOMETHING DANGEROUS ABOUT THE WAY HE WATCHES HER.
Not entirely in the way that he watches her, but more in the way that she is. The way that she exists as he watches her. And there's something equally dangerous and alluring about the way that she is: a walking paradox, a breathing jigsaw puzzle. A poison rose with thorns sharp enough to slice through gold. A delicacy forbidden, a temptation unmatched—enticing you into having a look, having a touch, having a taste. A poison that has the scent of a dying fire on a cool summer beach night, or of the first snow of a cold winter morning mixed with hot chocolate and the weight of a warm blanket. Of the trees and grass atop the peak of a quiet mountain with only the skies and clouds left to conquer. A poison so sweet, so refined. So addictive, so toxic and fatal all the same.
There's something dangerous about girls like Lyra Reed. Just as there's something considerably more dangerous about Lyra Reed. About how girls like her are weapons in disguise, revolutions that hide beneath human bodies—waiting to strike. With a single, careless and fleeting look, she has him convinced of certain things that—prior to her encounter—he would have vigorously and with great conviction adamantly refused. But then, he didn't know that power could be embodied by a unique person. And that leaves him doubting the amount of strength God truly holds. Because, if someone like her could walk this earth, resilience—rebellion—wreckage compressed into one body, then what kind of strength does that leave Him with.
There's a fire that surrounds her very existence. She's an inferno of rage, of anger towards a world that has betrayed her—a world that is no longer for her—a world beyond recollection, of broken shards she conveniently uses as throwing knives. Get any closer and you'll burn away all while being sliced into pieces turned to ashes. It's only ironic how you can't run away from her, because with just one look, you'll hear siren sings from closed and secret lips. You'll feel hooks thrusting into your body, mind and soul. A voice like poison, like heaven, like hell will incessantly ring in your ears all while she hasn't even uttered a word. You'll fall heart first head last into a trap you didn't even realize you were digging. From that, Fezco concludes that she is what real power looks like. Absolute, divine power in its purest form, in its essence. For no God could ever convince you to dig your own grave and lie in it.
When she steps out of her car, when she comes in contact with the ground beneath her, all hell breaks loose and a butterfly effect is set into this vicious town as matter slowly turns into motion. If that is a blessing or a curse, perhaps a dying wish or a saving grace, none can know. Standing straight—for posture is power and as of now, she has all the power in the world—her eyes scan the area around her. Cunning, critical and calculating Lyra Reed is the epitome of a classy yet fatal and imminent chaos. It takes him exactly seven seconds to register that there is something wrong with her. Granted, he knows nothing about her to postulate the notion that indeed—fundamentally, deep within her core, within the stone cold exterior—there is a boiling, rotting ball of rage that threatens to burst at any given moment, slashing at her insides as it maintains the outer surface completely intact from the collision. Having taken a single glance at her, you'd immediately know that she does not look or walk like your average individual. And that one glance is enough to leave you hooked, longing for more than just a mere taste.
