A young man with one braid, golden threads sewn into his hair while the rest lay completely jet black. His eyes were slightly sunken in and had a depressive attitude, sat upon a bed wearing similar clothes as the man the red-haired girl talked to before amidst a thicket of trees, but this time they are stuck within a secluded motel room, the only thought that could almost be seen as being... "Desolate". The young woman, wearing only a wife-beater and short-shorts sat down beside the young man, "It's almost time."
The young man glanced at her thigh before focusing on something else entirely, fiddling with an array of golden strings, the sound of the twindle of thin metal objects twisting around each other could be heard right beside her. He looked to the ceiling, "I hate coping."
The woma
