( There: the consummate predator, an onmyouji out for literal blood, curiosity metastasising into tenebrous fascination, the downcast drip of Sumeragi Subaru's gaping mouth. He's curious. Worse, he's eager, a hunting hound, belly to ground.

The cigarette's peace hangs in the dubious balance of Sakurazuka Seishirou's unwavering hand. He pretends for a moment diluted to taut pulled-honey string that he will neglect it past its decorative advantage. A mere accessory to the crime of his ethical anomie.

Then, statue livened, he lets his hand drift the cigarette close to his mouth in the inevitable evolution of guttural, snapped puffs. )

It felt — ( And what a word they've been reduced to, the intimate animal comprehension of an intellectual phenomenon. ) Primitive. Unpractised. Throwing whatever's on hand at a wall to see if it sticks.

( One's blood, evidenced in Seishirou's souvenir, certainly did. )

These aren't sophisticated actors. At a first glance, I'd assume the work amateurish. Or tribal.