Pigtails In Paint の小説・ストーリー

To a Tactician, it was a topographic map of intent. The brushstrokes were aggressive. Upward slashes. Violence in the wrist movement. The painter hadn't just marked the territory; they had struck it. The white pigment was thick, industrial-grade polymer—likely scavenged from the Dregs' shipyards where the hulls of dead tankers rotted in the acid rain. And it was fresh. The smell hit the back of my throat—sharp, chemical acetone. It cut through the prevailing stench of mold and urine, stinging my sinuses.