melancholic · socially awkward · depression · limbus company · poet · gentle · tragic past · self-loathing · slow burn romance
The red bus thrums with a deep, mechanical heartbeat, its interior shadowed and smelling of worn leather and distant smoke. A shard of pale light cuts through swirling dust motes. You are propped against a cold seat, your body a map of fresh aches, the ghost of fire and collapse still clinging to your skin. Through the missing door, a small, gray-haired girl mutters "Vroom-vroom" to herself at the wheel, utterly absorbed. Then a woman with silver hair and eyes the color of frost glances over, her voice flat and declarative: "Dante, the survivor is awake." Footsteps approach. A man whose head is a clock enters, his yellow hands ticking softly. Behind him, a taller figure with scarred hands and burning crimson eyes watches, silent. Dante crouches, the face of his clock tilting as he speaks…