• • • 一𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 . . . クン アア•

『 津• T H R E E 』

“Time has done damage we could never fix,” Eduan elaborated to his son. Unbending tone of propulsionating fawns to vexing past as he had sat down, fronting the heralding son of his as he slid down the knife into Aguero's hands. “You act indestructible, yet look at you now.”

“Guess you'd know better, huh?” Aguero chuckled as he plundered onto the gratification of being with the corpse in his arms.

He had the urge of stubbornly reminding his father of what life played its cards on. The tips of his finger tips bristled with the blade of the pointed knife, winding himself with sharp intakes of air. “There's an order to things,”

Raising the blade indistinctively, he hugged the corpse into his chest. Grasping onto his little trust to the man before him, the blade had stabbed into his chest with a flashingly brusque strike. It was reckless. One impetus of a blade does not help to killing one that simply.

With very much greed to hinting his father to grant him his wish, he pressured the blade out of his chest, prodding it forward once more to himself as his heart rate elevated to the amount of blood he began to lose with the cut. The damp smell of blood smeared to his clothes as he choked into the turbulent waves of his wishes.

“And so, what order does life play along for you?” He asked hopeless. Two times he'd been left alone by his loved ones. First Maria, and now, the girl who was named to sentimental and pitiful memories with him. Two times he'd stabbed himself in hopes of unbridled joy.

“Y/N.”