[She thinks her mom was probably attractive...? Aki frowns, but doesn't say anything as Denji continues on. Her annoyance fades into a type of pity, listening to that. Telling a girl she looks like her dad is probably an insult of some kind, but Aki can see it even without knowing the man. Her flat chest, ratty hair, wiry frame... She won't say it, but she can imagine it. A younger Denji pulling on her hair in an attempt to make it longer.]

[Maybe because of that she doesn't scold her for nearly kicking her in the knee, capping the concealer instead and rubbing her fingers together to blend out the make-up that's still on them. She glances up when Denji speaks again, then frowns. Considers just answering, No. But wouldn't that be a lie?]

I think about her hands, sometimes. [She sets the concealer on the table, closer to Denji's side.] I used to watch them the most. When she did her make-up or cooked or folded laundry. So sometimes I wonder if our hands would look the same, when I get older.

[But probably not. Because hers are stained with blood, and her mother's were... Clean. Neat. Trim. She stares down at her hands, her nails. Clean, neat, trim. Maybe it's just been too long since she saw them.]

...You could always put your hair up, if you wanted to grow it out.