Your Newborn Cyanide

"This… this isn't in the 'vision'...!"

A phrase that something would go by:

Lower your gaze at the abyss low enough, and it'll show you a mermaid.

"Ah, yes, I remember you~" Yroa's deep yet feminine soothing voice rang like an ominous bell. He wore nothing for all of his possession had corroded and ultimately dispersed into particles inside the prison realm. There, his pitch-black eyes pierced forward like a knife, crowned by his thick silver eyelashes. "Rowan~"

As he stepped outside the gaping rift of space, his extremely long silver hair was dragged like a light drape over a windy summer, painted by an immeasurable amount of stress and turmoil that resulted from trying to scrape the dimensional wall inch by inch, everyday, every second.