Between the scales stretched a single, precise line of dark flesh — no ragged scar, but a deliberate incision from one shoulder to the other. Too symmetrical for battle, too neat for accident.
She guided the needle toward it.
The line parted. No tear, no blood — It simply opened up, revealing layers of flesh within.
Then came the sound. It was not loud. It was not even clear. It crawled out of the opening, low and dry and rough and so, so wrong. It was —
Yu recoiled and hit the windowframe behind him. The stone pressed the wet of his coat into his feathers. It was grounding, but only barely.
That was a breath! A breath!
This is. A. FUCKING. MOUTH!
Not a wound. Not a cut. A real mouth! Not under her mask, or part of her mask, or on her face at all, but below her neck, set into her chest, where no mouth should ever be. It was so wrong. It was disturbing. It was damn disgusting. Yu took a sharp breath. HOLY SHIT!
She fed it the needle.
The scales closed and her shoulders moved back to her sides.
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