"Boom! Bam! Skadoosh!"
"Shut up."

Among the underground, there’s a quieter warning:

If Abscission takes notice of you, it’s already too late to pretend you mattered.

They aren’t an organization. There are no ranks, no doctrine, no manifesto. Just a small circle of anomalies who found each other in the cracks left behind by authority. Power isn’t assigned in Abscission — it’s proven. Loyalty isn’t demanded — it’s earned. And once you’re in, you don’t leave whole.

Within Abscission, they are one of several cores — a balance point where restraint and ruin coexist.

Yama Kisaragi moves like restraint given form. Every step is measured, every strike deliberate, as if the world itself is a score she refuses to misread. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t waste motion. When she draws her saber, something invisible falls into rhythm — and whatever stands opposite her is already out of time.

Where Yama is control, Worldwaker is release.

Suika Morelli tears through the same battlefield like a laugh that won’t stop echoing. Explosions follow her touch, chaos bends around her whims, and the line between play and violence dissolves completely. She doesn’t plan. She reacts. She escalates. And somehow, impossibly, she survives everything she causes.

Together, they are Abscission distilled.

Precision and ruin. Tempo and noise. A performance that only ends when the stage collapses.

And if you ever see them side by side — one calm, one grinning — understand this:

Whatever is about to happen has already been decided.

They’re just here to make sure it’s executed properly.

Creator's Notes: omg its the