Bayonetta had never been the most emotional woman. Sarcastic? Hell yea! Flirty? Without a doubt. But sappy? No.

Yet, in this instance, she found herself feeling helpless. She’d always been a hopeless romantic, inside— she simply didn’t know it. Did she have to gall to tell her damn childhood friend that she’d been in love since she’d been awakened, as of late?

She didn’t want to face that. She, instead, scribbled poetry down on paper, tapping her heel on the ground.

’..I am not sure if I believe in the existence of the soul to begin with, but the desire to be with the one you love? Now you’re speaking my language. When these feelings are strong enough, they can drive us to challenge our seemingly immutable fate. . . That said, if there are any hopeless romantics left in the world who still want to give it a shot, I know the way to hell and I’d be happy to give you an escort.‘

As she wrote, she felt as if she was admitting some deep dark secret, that burdened her soul. She exhaled, setting down her pen. She then bit her lip, and crumpled up to paper, tossing it into the garbage.