A hand? His hand? She stared down at his offer at first as if it were a rare sideshow for somebody to barter touch with the baleful geisha of gloom. Was he trying to shake hands with her? Here the akuma inserted the red spider lily of her masquerading manners, feigning underneath the golden malice of the indoor lighting to be used to shaking hands. She shook it, bony and cold, firm but lax as a ribbon holding together a funeral bouquet. Maybe the grin that volunteered itself for slaughter, stringing itself across her pale face prettily, was the genuine article.
Maybe.
"Momoko, one-oh-two, and you're welcome..." consideration of withholding what next she'd confide was brief. "Watch out, place is haunted."