text_texas_3_1_1

The guard paces up and down the corridor.

Go ahead and ask.

Are you really the last Texas?

Are you really the murderer?

Judge Lavinia was the one who arrested you, but if I recall correctly, you came here with the Bellone boy. Did they have a falling-out of some sort?

Not answering, huh...? Let's try something else.

*sigh*... There's so much commotion out there, but it's deathly quiet in here.

If Judge Lavinia didn't close this trial, there'd be more spectators squeezed outside that door next to you than at the box office for a new opera.

You're not going to ask me anything? Maybe what kind of sentence you're in for?

Not talking again, huh?

Texas notices water dripping from the corners of the wall due to the humidity of the rainy season. Her own clothes have even gotten wet.

A minor discomfort such as this normally would not bother her at all, but right now, the sensation makes her skin crawl with disgust.

The people here don't care about who died, or why. They only care about a name, an identity. A name that fills them with exhilaration.

Texas leans against the corner, her eyelids weighed down by her exhaustion.