Oppressive silence filled the room. Seven figures. Seven keys. Two stood to the side. Charlotte and her pet. She gazed off into the distance with a dreamy look on her face. As if to blend into the background.
It didn't work.
Against her was the glared face of three. Their visage was professional, mouths shut to not echo a single utterance of sound. On their hips were sharp swords covered in the rust of blood. Glares that spoke of dozens of deaths. Professionals.
And in front of them, who they huddled against - to protect - was Georg. He held his arms crossed under his breast pockets. His shirt was impeccably clean. And of an acceptable standard.
In my eyes.
In someone else's it would be perfect. A show of utter machine perfection.
Me?
