[The blade finds its mark, dragging thick, oozing lines across the shadow's face, each weeping its own acrid oil. No flinching. No looking away, even as the knife trails across both dark pits, cutting open a more expansive stretch of black.
She would not let them get away.
With one hand, the shade grasps, attempting to catch the edge of their signature sweater, pin them until vision is restored. With the other, it slashes out with its own knife, humming with the promise of a different kind of pinning — more along the butterfly collector variety.]
CW DEFINITELY BEATING UP ON A CHILD HERE!!!!!
She would not let them get away.
With one hand, the shade grasps, attempting to catch the edge of their signature sweater, pin them until vision is restored. With the other, it slashes out with its own knife, humming with the promise of a different kind of pinning — more along the butterfly collector variety.]