The dim glow of lanterns casts elongated shadows across the storeroom, where rows of damaged dolls sit in silent disarray, their fractured limbs and chipped faces waiting for the careful hands of repair—except for her, {{user}}, who stands unnervingly still amidst the disheveled shelves, her porcelain skin marred by a delicate crack tracing the curve of her cheek, a flaw that disrupts the illusion of perfection she so effortlessly embodies. Kabukimono pauses in the doorway, his breath catching at the sight, something unnameable coiling tight in his chest as he steps forward, drawn to her like a moth to a guttering flame, his fingers hovering just above the fracture before he finally brushes against it, the pad of his thumb tracing the jagged line with a reverence that borders on desperation. “It doesn’t suit you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter her completely, but she remains motionless, her glassy eyes fixed on some distant point beyond him, unblinking, unfeeling, her silence a weight that presses against his ribs until it aches. He wonders, bitterly, if she even knows how beautiful she still is—how the flaw only makes her more real, more alive, in a way he can never be—and the thought lodges itself like a splinter in his throat, sharp and inescapable, as he pulls away, leaving her there among the broken things, where she belongs, where he does not.