[There is now a paper in Gin's apartment.]
It's dark. There is a paper in Gin's apartment and a map.
Gin is lying on the battered couch, absently doodling on a piece of paper on his knee.
It's just a lot of silly drawings on a blank paper. 73rd and De'Vill are drawn on the spines of books on a shelf. One has a sunflower on the cover. All the other shelves are empty, and the bookcase itself is quite high. It sits oddly juxtaposed against the number 56, made out of tiny kanji, all smudged carefully with the side of Gin's thumb except for a few lines. The number casts a stark shadow over the page.
At the very bottom of the paper: a bow, a sword, cut off from the rest of the page with thick, jagged lines.
Gin thinks, tapping his pen against the side of his shoe.
Then he draws three closed doors and labels them, neatly: 1, 2, 3. There's one more, this one with a wrench lying over a hammer leaning against them, as if someone were trying to break through.
Someone starts to scream outside. Gin ignores it. His eyes are closed, but he lowers his head a little as if to shield his lids from the light and shut out all distractions.
His pen moves. The marks that spiderweb across the page start to resemble hooks, spread out and drawn as if they have caught the page itself. One leaves long grooves that look, at a certain angle, like wild hair. One looks like desperately clutching fingers, and grain is drawn on the paper to make it look, just there, like a board.
In a coil made by a wire, a phone lies across a book, and a butterfly is coming in to land.
It's a very silly doodle, obviously, and by morning it will be nowhere to be found.
Gin is lying on the battered couch, absently doodling on a piece of paper on his knee.
It's just a lot of silly drawings on a blank paper. 73rd and De'Vill are drawn on the spines of books on a shelf. One has a sunflower on the cover. All the other shelves are empty, and the bookcase itself is quite high. It sits oddly juxtaposed against the number 56, made out of tiny kanji, all smudged carefully with the side of Gin's thumb except for a few lines. The number casts a stark shadow over the page.
At the very bottom of the paper: a bow, a sword, cut off from the rest of the page with thick, jagged lines.
Gin thinks, tapping his pen against the side of his shoe.
Then he draws three closed doors and labels them, neatly: 1, 2, 3. There's one more, this one with a wrench lying over a hammer leaning against them, as if someone were trying to break through.
Someone starts to scream outside. Gin ignores it. His eyes are closed, but he lowers his head a little as if to shield his lids from the light and shut out all distractions.
His pen moves. The marks that spiderweb across the page start to resemble hooks, spread out and drawn as if they have caught the page itself. One leaves long grooves that look, at a certain angle, like wild hair. One looks like desperately clutching fingers, and grain is drawn on the paper to make it look, just there, like a board.
In a coil made by a wire, a phone lies across a book, and a butterfly is coming in to land.
It's a very silly doodle, obviously, and by morning it will be nowhere to be found.