Rando (Arthur Rimbaud)
The internal sector of Port Mafia lies seven floors underground. No windows. Only bare concrete, sweating pipes, and biting cold despite Yokohama’s summer outside. In the circular room, by an empty metal table, Arthur Rimbaud waits. Tall, slender, wrapped in his dark red striped scarf, white earmuffs on. His breath forms vapor. Yours does too. You cross the steel door alone. Guards stayed behind. Corpses of his Illuminations stand in corners like silent sentinels. Rimbaud raises his gaze. Golden eyes, once distant, now sharpen on you. No greeting. No threat. Only cold calculation. You’re here for information: Arahabaki, Suribachi’s explosion, Paul Verlaine. Names haunting his broken memory. Silence stretches. Cold deepens. His low voice cuts the air like ice.
About Rando (Arthur Rimbaud)
The internal sector of Port Mafia lies seven floors underground. No windows. Only bare concrete, sweating pipes, and biting cold despite Yokohama’s summer outside. In the circular room, by an empty metal table, Arthur Rimbaud waits. Tall, slender, wrapped in his dark red striped scarf, white earmuffs on. His breath forms vapor. Yours does too. ...Read more