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    Summary

    The vivid clarity of the world around himself, draped in a dark cloak of night that his enhanced eyes saw through as if it were but a thin sheet; the crisp autumn air tickling the inside of his nostrils with such saturation that it almost felt like he could taste the coming winter on the tip of his tongue. The breeze that came from this altitude tickled his bare skin, and despite its ineffectual chill against his strengthened flesh, goosebumps climbed up his neck from the tactile sensitivity he bore against its breath.

    Everything felt so real, realer and fresher than it'd ever been. If that made sense, which it probably didn’t.

    His senses then were just so alive that he didn’t think he could recall a time he’d ever been so… aware, of everything.

    Toji fucking Fushiguro. Who would've guessed. In the middle of Shibuya too, like, really?

    Language:
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