"Mister Schon." If Katsuya was startled (he was) he tries very hard not to show it. He gets up and pulls open the door to his world without wasting time.
There is a dichotomy to Katsuya's world. A tale of two alternate universes so inexplicably close to one another it's almost jarring to one of the mind to see worlds for what they are. Set up like chess boards still in play. One a victor for white, the other a victor for black.
From the darkness a Madness echoes, weaker than it once was but never truly beaten down and cast aside. Biding its time until the next game. The Crawling Chaos never sleeps. It only waits.
They step out onto the streets of Sumaru, Katsuya apparently none the wiser of any of this world business. For such a modern world it teems with magic, with rumors, with demons. Katsuya's apartment is not very far from the police station, which should come as no surprise.
It is fairly large for what one would assume is a bachelor as far as Japanese homes are concerned. Yet there are signs someone else lived there. Not now, not anymore, but once. Old magazines for mechanic enthusiasts, gardening books. A spare motorcyclist's helmet tucked away in the front alcove. Face down photos on a shelf.
"Please, make yourself at home." Katsuya gestures Schon inside before heading directly for the kitchen. His sanctuary. His place of safety. The officer puts on a pot of coffee.
no subject
There is a dichotomy to Katsuya's world. A tale of two alternate universes so inexplicably close to one another it's almost jarring to one of the mind to see worlds for what they are. Set up like chess boards still in play. One a victor for white, the other a victor for black.
From the darkness a Madness echoes, weaker than it once was but never truly beaten down and cast aside. Biding its time until the next game. The Crawling Chaos never sleeps. It only waits.
They step out onto the streets of Sumaru, Katsuya apparently none the wiser of any of this world business. For such a modern world it teems with magic, with rumors, with demons. Katsuya's apartment is not very far from the police station, which should come as no surprise.
It is fairly large for what one would assume is a bachelor as far as Japanese homes are concerned. Yet there are signs someone else lived there. Not now, not anymore, but once. Old magazines for mechanic enthusiasts, gardening books. A spare motorcyclist's helmet tucked away in the front alcove. Face down photos on a shelf.
"Please, make yourself at home." Katsuya gestures Schon inside before heading directly for the kitchen. His sanctuary. His place of safety. The officer puts on a pot of coffee.
"Would you like coffee or green tea?"