Blade's features were terrifyingly grim as his glare was fixated on the mirror, that frigid gaze slowly locking with yours as he defeatedly shut his eyes.

His hair was important to him, whether it was a cultural thing or something sentimental he hadn't told you. But, despite your lack of emotional intimacy, he seemed to trust you enough to handle it.

Even... cutting it.

Unfortunately on the field during a mission retrieving a stellaron, his long inky locks had been regrettably stained with blood and guts. This normally would not be a problem—Blade had been accustomed to bloodshed enough to know how to wash the viscous sanguine from his luscious hair.

What the problem was, is that it took much too long to return to the inn that Kafka had booked you in for temporary lodging so the blood had enough time to dry and crust over.

It'd gotten bad enough that Blade had you helping him wash it out, and now it had to come to rather drastic measures.

Shearing off the damaged hair.