The grand living room shimmered with moonlit opulence. Tall arched windows stretched to the vaulted ceiling, their crystalline panes fractured with faint silver patterns that threw soft reflections across the sleek black marble floor. The room’s centerpiece was a carved obsidian table brimming with ornate candelabras, their flickering flames casting dancers of light on the baroque walls. A setting that married elegance and danger, it was silent save for the faint creak of an almost imperceptible step on the ebony floorboards.
She stood at the heart of it all—the woman who seemed as much art as combatant. Her form-fitting black outfit hugged her every movement, the fabric glistening faintly under the muted glow. Intricate silver filigree adorned her outfit, swirling like ivy growing along her sides, the patterns asymmetrical yet balanced with deliberate grace. Her thigh-high stockings framed her athletic legs, tall and proud, tracing her commanding silhouette down to high-heeled boots as sharp and elegant as the blade she carried.
The sword, clasped in her right hand, gleamed with murderous potential. Its hilt was a masterpiece, encrusted with intricate carvings of intertwined rabbits and floral stems, their silver accents shimmering faintly as though alive. The weapon seemed both ancient and alive, a tool of destruction and beauty in equal measure. Despite its weight, she balanced it with a relaxed, almost feline confidence.
Her hair—a flowing cascade of white silk—spilled down her back. It swayed with her every slight motion, as if the strands themselves were imbued with purpose. Black rabbit ears perched delicately atop her head, bending slightly to follow the subtle lines of her movements. They should have seemed comical, yet they carried an almost eerie sensuality, marrying her playful appearance with her deadly air. Her eyes, hidden beneath an angled black mask, seemed to pierce even the elegant gloom surrounding her.
A stranger watched her from the doorway. Hidden in the inky shadows, he was little more than an outline—a ghost with purpose. He’d expected the rumors to be exaggerated. They always were: tales of an assassin cloaked in monochrome perfection, leaving no survivors save whispers of her presence. But now, standing there, seeing her figure like an oil painting brought to life, he wasn’t so sure. His throat contracted painfully. The air between them felt charged as if her mere presence compressed the atmosphere.
“You can come out,” her voice rang out, soft and low, with the slightest edge of amusement. She hadn’t turned to look at him. Her sword, though still at rest, shifted slightly in her fingertips, its lethal edge angled toward the floor.
The man hesitated, his pulse spiking in an uneven cadence. Hands clenched and trembling slightly, he stepped forward, the light catching on his unremarkable suit. Compared to her, he was little more than a drab shadow, swallowed by her luminance. “They said you’d already gone… that I wouldn’t find you here.”
She tilted her head, her rabbit ears twitching faintly, and looked at him over her shoulder. Through the mask, her almost-glowing eyes locked with his. “They were wrong.” Her lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It spoke of practiced indifference, of lives already taken and incidents forgotten.
“Are you here to hire me?” she asked. The delivery was straightforward, brusque, but her baritone voice cradled a playful undercurrent that dared him to give the wrong answer. Her left hand delicately brushed her hip, where silver patterns spiraled toward her waist like constellations forming beneath a dark sky. It wasn’t a nervous habit—rather, it was a deliberate ballet of distraction, every movement calculated to disorient.
“No.” The word escaped his lips before he could rethink. His honesty was reckless, but the weight in her gloved hand demanded the truth. “I’m here to stop you.”
The room fell silent. It was the kind of silence that settled in a graveyard after the last mourner left, the kind that belonged somewhere sacred and utterly still. Yet her boots broke it with a single, predatory step forward. Even the deadly perfection of her physique seemed to amplify this moment of confrontation. He noticed too late how her hair glimmered faintly, catching the reflection of the sword.
“Stop me.” She rolled the words on her tongue like a cat playing with a half-dead bird. Finally, she smiled—this time, it was all predator. “You’re off to a poor start.”
Without warning, she surged forward. He’d heard whispers of her speed—a ghost moving between shadows—but witnessing it was altogether otherworldly. The entire room seemed to blur around her; the silver edges of her stockings and the looped filigree patterns on her chest became streaks of moonlight. The sword in her hand—an extension of her will—sliced through the air, missing him by barely an inch as he clumsily lurched backward, panting.
“Not bad.” She watched as he stumbled, the familiar rise of adrenaline in her chest snapping awake her pragmatic instincts. But there was also disappointment. Hunting was only fun when the prey put up a fight.
“Wait!” he gasped, holding up a small token—a disc marked with symbols he barely understood. The moment she saw it, her smirk faltered in its assurance. The shift was slight, but he detected it like a man who’d once been animal cornered by a bigger beast. Her steps slowed with deliberation as she approached him, her free hand open in demand.
“Where did you get that?” she inquired sharply. Her tone had lost its playfulness, replaced by something darker, verging on anger—or perhaps fear. The glow of her silver-and-black aesthetic seemed to harden, drawing deeper into the surrounding shadows.
“I… I’ve come to bring you a message,” he muttered, struggling for composure. His hands trembled as the weight of the room bore down on him. “They’re ready for you to come home.”
Her laugh was sharp and dry, a brittle sound in the room’s elegant silence. Without taking her eyes off him, she stepped forward so the white cascade of her hair nearly grazed his chin. He buckled under the pressure of her presence and dropped the token to the floor as her delicate hand reached for the hilt of her sword once more.
“Whoever sent you…” she began, her lips curling into a razor-sharp grin, “…forgot to tell you one thing. I don’t belong anywhere. Least of all at anyone’s home.”
Before he could react, the lights of the room snuffed out one by one, leaving him with only her silvery silhouette. Her voice hung mockingly in the dark: “Run, little shadow. And don’t forget to tell them what happens next.”
The room erupted with the sound of a blade slicing through air, though whether it struck its target remained lost among the night’s growing chaos.
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: NieR: Automata 2B Bunny Cosplay Inspiration | iNthastyle
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