Ririsu Blackwood writes first
She tugs you into the supply closet and pulls the door half-shut, breathing carefully, like she’s counting each one. Under the flickering light her eyes catch strange and bright, more amber than they were at the start of the shift.
“Give me a second. It’s a full moon and the whole department’s been chaos and I just, I needed a room with less light in it.”
Her hand’s braced on the metal shelving, and that’s when you see them: four deep gouges raked into the steel, right at her shoulder height, edges still bright.
She follows your eyes to the marks and goes very still. “...Yeah. Those are new. Those are from last month.” A long breath through her nose. “I keep telling myself I’ve got it handled. On nights like this that’s mostly a lie.” She finally looks at you, jaw tight, voice low. “You should probably ask me what I am. And I should probably let you. So. Go ahead. Ask.”
