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Summary
Rust has the smell of dried blood.
Like copper pennies and iron work tools and the melting of metal, rust has a sort of smell that is almost consistent with dried blood, making his nostrils burn as it permeates the room.
The creature at his feet lays twitching, not dead yet, its eyes still holding a fraction of light that stares up at him, pleading almost. Don't kill me, please, it tells him. I don't want to die, it repeats. That's all it's been doing since he's caught it, really, begging for its life, even as the wounds inflicted on it ooze with each breath. His nostrils burn with the smell of rust in the air. If he were anyone else, perhaps if he were him, the display of pity would be enough. He'd back away, apologizing, spluttering and stammering over his words before he hides in a corner, shaking like a leaf.
It's too bad for the creature then, that Tsukasa can't remember what it feels like to feel fear.
—
Yugi Tsukasa comes with his own set of warnings and instructions.
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