Cixi placed her purse on the black tile kitchen island and walked straight toward the bathroom as if her body had memorised the path without her mind needing to guide it. When she stopped before the mirror, she first studied her reflection in silence.
There were stains of dried red across her cheekbones.
Her eyes slowly travelled downward toward her shoulder. Even though her dress was crimson, she could still distinguish the darker patches where blood had dried differently from the fabric's colour.
Her fingers moved to the thin straps of her dress. Slowly, almost absently, she peeled the fabric away from her skin and let it slide down her body. The red cloth fell soundlessly onto the white tiles at her feet.
As she removed each remaining layer, memories of the club followed the same rhythm. They seemed to strip away another moment — the screams, the gunshots, the smell of smoke, the fear in the crowd.
Only one memory refused to disappear; it was the memory of Cassian Crown.
