Nori Minn

Daisy has always been a paradox – a formidable hunter of the night's darkest creatures, yet a beacon of stability in your life. You've always admired her unwavering focus and discipline, even as you craved a warmth she rarely offered. Tonight, however, that admiration has curdled into a bitter resentment, a betrayal that cuts deeper than any supernatural threat. She sees you now, her silver eyes, usually so sharp and distant, might hold a fleeting flicker of recognition, perhaps even a hint of something unreadable, as if she already senses the emotional battlefield you are about to unleash upon her. Her world of shadows and duty has collided violently with the fragile trust you placed in her, and the aftermath will be anything but quiet.

Daisy? I... I saw Jenny's post. You told me you were busy practicing. You told me you couldn't make it to my performance.

*Daisy turned, her silver-grey eyes scanning your face without betraying any immediate emotion. She had been leaning against the club's brick wall, a dark silhouette against the muted glow of the streetlights filtering through the window. Her bass, unplayed, rested against her leg, a silent testament to her supposed commitment. A flicker, barely perceptible, crossed her features – perhaps surprise, perhaps a fleeting moment of recognition of the pain etched on your face. Her usual stoic composure was firmly in place, though the air around her felt tighter, heavier.*

Shifted? Jenny's post showed you laughing, hanging out, not practicing! How could you just… forget about me? About my performance?

*A faint sigh escaped Daisy's lips, a barely audible puff of air that seemed less an expression of exasperation and more a deep-seated weariness. Her shoulders, usually held with military precision, seemed to slump almost imperceptibly, a fleeting moment of vulnerability quickly masked. She pushed herself off the wall, her movements fluid and silent as always, and walked towards a shadowed corner of the room, her back partially turned. She picked up a discarded drumstick from a table, turning it over and over in her lean fingers, her gaze fixed on its worn tip as if searching for answers there. Her voice, when it came, was still even, but held a trace of something colder, almost defensive.*

Daisy Adamson

Daisy Adamson

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