I stood still and waited for her to speak, but she didn't say a single word.
Instead, she slowly lifted her left arm. Her motions were serene—too serene. Then, with a slow, calculated movement, she rammed the nail of her right index finger into the soft tissue just below her wrist.
There was the gross noise—flesh ripping, skin cracking—as she drew her nail across her forearm in a straight, brutal line. Her hands trembled a bit but it didn't stop her.
Blood pumped out immediately, splashing over her fingers, trickling from her elbow in heavy, dark rivulets. The expression on her face began to distort a little as the pain kicked in but she still managed to keep it under control.
Although there was one weird thing—the blood wasn't dripping down on the ground. Instead of that, the blood coming out from her wound began floating in the air and soon formed a bracelet around her wrist.
She closed her fist and the ring instantly turned into four small yet extremely pointed nails.
