Two people stood apart from each other.
A messy blonde adjusted his glasses as he looked at the gray haired woman who still hadn't turned around.
Her hands settled around a piece of dirt in her pockets. She squeezed it.
Sharp.
Jagged.
Grounding.
Calming.
"Do you understand the full weight of the impossible task you've given to—not just me—but that girl?" Juri muttered, her voice low, controlled in a dangerous way.
Graham's eyes rested lightly on her shoulders.
Tense.
She could feel his gaze.
Gentle.
"It was the best I could come up with." the young man said. "Mr Yamada doesn't care about the consequences, only the end product—"
"That is not what I asked you," her voice bit back. "Mr Graham."
The blonde felt his heart stagger at her sharp tone.
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them, the older woman's spectacles were just within a hair's breadth of his face.
His pupils dilated.
Too close.
Too direct.
"You have ruined that girl's life. You've jeopardized my career and all you have to say for yourself..." she stepped forward, eating the space between them. "Is that it was the 'best' you could come up with—?"
"Mrs Juri, please—"
The air tilted.
Drastically.
Immediately.
Graham's thoughts tripped over themselves as he stumbled back.
"—You were never asked to speak. You were never asked for input." She fisted his collar, lifting him clean off the ground, the metallic frames of his glasses cracking under pressure.
Graham's eyes watered.
Air.
Need air.
"Mrs...Juri...c-calm...down." he barely rasped.
Juri's eyes slit.
Anger.
Her finger dug deeper into her pocket.
Breathing heavier.
She held the dirt tighter.
Then
Her finger bled inside her pocket.
Pain.
Sharp.
Intense.
Constant.
He tapped weakly at her wrist.
"Please..."
The lights flickered.
The hallways felt ten degrees colder.
Then—
A sharp exhale.
Golden evaporation spilled from her breath.
The blonde collapsed onto the ground, barely able to breathe as Juri stood over him.
Her bloody finger pushed her glasses back into place.
Red trickled down her finger and thumb.
"Get up."
Simple and straightforward.
The blood burned into golden motes.
"We have work to do, Mr Graham."
She turned on her heel, walking away as she cleaned her glasses on her way out.