Junko's nail was sharp against Mukuro's skin. So sharp, that for a moment Mukuro could not focus on the image in the mirror in front of her, and only imagine her sister's nail going straight through her skin and bright pink blood pouring out. However, there was no way that she could play this game and have a cut.
Mukuro was the soldier, the one who was supposed to get hurt. Or at least she had been. Now she had the role of a supermodel to play, and soon she would need to step out onto the stage.
Junko ran her long red nails through Mukuro's wig. Strands of the fake blond hair touched the back of her neck, and a shiver ran up Mukuro's spine.
"You are absolutely," Junko said, leaning forward and placing a quick kiss on her lips, "beautiful."
The absence of Junko's touch was ten times more despair inducing than any cut her sister could give her.