It would be just fine, him seeing the pitch of her gloom ditch and all the blood, broken mirrors, and nothing therein. She could barely have her heart recite by memory any eulogy of the life long since left dead in there and forgotten... that's what the phantom told itself. Mostly all of her tired, woozy bones didn't care, as tension fluttered down the milky way like a shoved princess to an underworld sacrifice, pooled into a pile of relaxed cream.
But lo', as she went to follow the marvel of his handed instructions (who would refuse assistance from someone tall as the koto?), the knock of her knee helping to tipsy the rigid corpse over to her midnight champion, behold the shirt he wore like painted horror... when she let the wounded instrument into his arms, congratulations, it's a split, it was impossible not to laugh.
And not only to laugh, mind the stars, witness the moon, the blackest night sky, but to actually have enough trouble standing to the dagger point where the witchblade had to tumble-lean against the opposing wall and cover her mouth... her laughter somehow made the shadows yearn toward her. Hardly able to recover, eyes beginning to water, she did her best to slide down the wall, doors and all no matter, toward the elevator with him.