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Up north, in a once abandoned warehouse, a woman pinches the unmarred skin underneath her breast. It's the only part of her body that retains the colour of her skin, the rest of it covered in patches and pathways of pale reds and burning pinks. Down south, a man feels his arms tense around a little girl as her own much softer arms wrap around his neck. Her palms, warm and pudgy, slide across the scars that bracket his throat. She finds the texture interesting. He can't bring himself to tell her to stop, not that he has the voice for it anyways.
The woman is nude. Black hair swoops around her form like tendrills, clumped together by mud and blood, and if she dares to acknowledge it, some mucus and vomit. The man is clad in layers of fabric and held together by the little girl. An undershirt, a Tshirt on top, a hoodie to keep him warm and a leather jacket to keep the wind from biting at him, a holster around his waist and thigh, the leather straps of it pressing thick pants into his skin, steel toed boots anchoring him to the ground, he's reinforced with every muscle he moves. His helmet rests on his bike, both loyal to him. There's mud on him too, but he isn't caked in it. In a minute's time, he'll have wiped off those steel reinforcements on his shoes, he'll have thrown his pants in a basket for someone else to wash, only to pick it up clean without having lifted a finger.
A young witch and a young man stand with their backs bent at awkward angles at the opposite ends of the city. She's bent forward, leaning on a sink whilst staring at her body in the reflection. Her body burns from within. She is nude and the room is cold, but her body burns from within. It's going out. It keeps flickering with no one to stoke the flames, but it burns. He's bent with one knee locked, twisting his hips forward to balance the girl in his arms. There's a flame within him too, one that the witch lit the night they both died. He has his layers to keep the flame protected. He has hands that fumble when they pull up the zipper of his jacket, make soft noises as they pat his pockets to find their toys.
Today is a good day, the woman thinks. Her pain is low and the air is clear.
Today will be a good day, the man thinks. He puts down the little girl. He'll make it a good day. Today, the pink hair he combs through won't just be on the little girl. The sky is clear, and he has the intel.
Today, Till will find Mizi.
...
It's hours later by the time the man gets off his bike again. He grins as the growling noise of his companion comes to a halt. The warehouse stands tall, but the chipping paint is even more stark. He knows she's alone. He can feel it. This is not a place of warmth, but the flame in her calls the flame in him. He can see the smoke rising, he can see her fanning that flame, and he wants her to see his too.
His expression falters for the first time when he knocks and gets no answer. He knocks again.
There is a man knocking on the door of a naked woman up north in an abandoned warehouse. He's clad up to his knuckles in leather and jean and steel, and he's waiting to be let inside.
She doesn't make a move to come close to the door. The woman is tired, curled up in a corner with her arms wrapped around herself. She stares at her paper toys. Today was a good day for her. The air is clear and her windows are open. She should have closed them, she thinks as the knocking continues. It wouldn't have mattered, he realises as her door is kicked in.
A man with a worry creased brow approaches her.
"Mizi?" He writes in a tiny notebook, holding it up to her. She nudges his hand slightly further so that she can read better.
No, not her, she shakes her head. Not by his eyes.
He takes in her form, feels the ash from years prior building up in his throat again at the sight of those burn marks.
He turns the notebook back to himself, scribbles out the question mark, underlines the name and shows the page to her again.
She shuts her eyes.
Today was going to be a good day.
They agree. For the first time in their lives, Till and Mizi think one thing at the same time. Today was meant to be a good day, and now it isn't.
What he's looking at makes him feel sick. Where he thought he looked like a wreck, she looks like ruin herself. Not an inch of visible skin is unmarred. Her face barely moves as she tries to frown. A continious unevenness moves through her skin where it had melted off only to reattach itself.
He doesn't know what he was looking for. He thinks he found it, but can't decide if he's happy about it. He'd thought he was over it.