Death looked down at her petal-maidens waitressing uniform at first confused -- why couldn't she sleep in this? -- she'd slept in far more uncomfortable attire and not just that, in places worse and beds made out of cemented graves. The Akuma had even kept it tidy, free of the obligatory benediction of grease, or the sticky kiss of ketchup and ranch. At length the shadow dancing eyes waltzed back up to him. "Then what am I sleeping in?" blood on the moon asked sweat on the sword.
"Weren't you supposed to teach me fencing?" the black hoody she'd been wearing was finally being shifted off by a straight-jacket writhe, a shrug, and her slinging it onto a nearby chair. "I can't believe you see ghosts..."
Suddenly, her thoughts leapt to an ugly memory underneath the moon...