(( WARNING: death & eye gore & corpse mutilation! ))

The boy in black and electric yellow, monster wrought in dementia and human skin, he straddles the lifeless green-clad form—just one of the bodies littering the floor, like crumpled sheets in the classroom she's never seen. But this is home, and those are friends, or they were, before they were corpses. Mary's tears won't come, the slightest movement, the slightest breath won't come. She trembles once, and for all her bursting, crackling emotions she's as still as the chilled "statues" in her mother's yard.

"If the eyes say as much as the mouth," that boy says, and every word is heinous, like globs of venom are running down from his lips rather than trails of blood—it is the ugliest and most hated sound, but his voice is seamless, without a hitch, much like the sure motion that swipes down at Seto's face. She can't see the rest, only the dark contours of his body, the twitch of his shoulder and the bounce of his hair when he rips, when he yanks—

Mary hears a wet pop, and flinches. She hears the sickening second pop, the splurch, and her spine feels like ice, and her chest like roiling, hot sorrow, and her ribcage won't expand enough, she can't breathe enough—

Something wet and sticky rolls out on the floor in front of her, lacking ceremony but with bone-breaking impact. It's a blaring red, even in this dim light, it's sharp and steely downturn, even at the bottom of hell.

"How will he call for help now?" that warped boy says dispassionately, and carelessly, cruelly wrenches the corpse up by the hair, in the small light where her sight becomes reluctantly possible. So she sees. Blood drips on the black of his hair, from the pallid white of Kuroha's fingertips, and again, and again, from the gaping black pit of Seto's sockets. Those eyes were once warm. The first kind eyes she'd ever—

Rising to his feet, Kuroha pulls him up more and slams him down with a punishing flick of the wrist, brutal without effort, and the-body-that-was-her-Seto drops, not with a soft slump, not able to catch itself and laugh it off, removed of all that strength and softness. The dull crack, graceless and ringing, expands in her head: it sounds like the end of the world.

She screams, and doesn't stop.