There is no such thing as a naturally black rose. Those that do exist are artificial creations; white roses dyed black. It is only a white rose that can be convincingly dyed black as any other colour would show up beneath the veneer and prove the blossom to be an obvious fake.
It is only the white rose that can cover itself and pretend to be black as pitch.
Nekozawa readies himself for school every weekday morning, thick velvet curtains of his room drawn permanently and tightly shut so as not to let even the smallest sliver of sunshine in.
Tightening his tie deftly, he grabs the pale blue blazer of his school's uniform and pulls it over a pristine white shirt. Glancing at the large gothic-style antique mirror that takes up a large section of the wall, he tentatively touches the almost deathly-pale skin of his cheek and can't help but notice how he seems to shine within the shadow-filled room.
Sighing slightly, he turns and pulls a dark wig out from a sideboard. He draws his golden hair back behind his neck with his left hand and with his right, pulls the wig over the top. Walking over to the mirror, he tucks a few loose flaxen strands up into the hairpiece.
After perching on the side of his bed to tie his black leather shoes, he reaches into the bottom of an ornate sideboard and extracts a folded mass of black material. Unfurling it carefully, it reveals itself as a large and very thick cloak.
Throwing it over his head and pushing his hands through the armholes, he pulls it down and shakes the wig out so that it once again covers most of his face. Turning to the mirror, he now finds his figure blending nearly seamlessly with his surroundings.
With a small nod of satisfaction, he grabs Beelzenef off his dresser and skulks out the door, the weight of the cape pulling him down and slowing his movements.
He makes his way down the stairs of his house, towards the carport entrance where he knows a black limousine with heavily tinted windows will be waiting to take him to school.
He doesn't see is his little sister peering at him from over the balcony at the top of their house, a small smile on her face.
Kirimi knows that there's no such thing as a naturally black rose. There's a beautiful white rose underneath, just a thin layer of dye away.