And their minds, poor fragile things, short-circuited like overloaded circuits in a storm—sparks flying, fuses blown, leaving only the acrid scent of burnt synapses.
Ah, there it is: Charisma at ninety, that merciless predator, coupled with a voice divine enough to shame the heavenly host. A lethal combination, really—like handing a toddler a loaded gun and watching the inevitable tragedy unfold with detached fascination.
Phei's gaze met the taller one's—the brunette with hazel eyes now comically wide, straining as if attempting to flee their sockets and seek asylum elsewhere. She drowned in his stare, surrendering with the resigned grace of a drowning woman who decides, in her final moments, that the abyss is rather inviting after all.
Her pupils bloomed like black flowers in poisoned soil. Her lips parted in silent supplication. A flush crawled up her throat, slow and treacherous, betraying her body's mutiny against whatever remained of her composure.
