"Don't look at me like I'm still yours."

"Death doesn't deny property." Dignity smiled calmly, admiring her infamous dagger, Shame.

"Ugh. That stain is still there?" she mumbled to herself, reaching for a white cloth from her upper pocket.

"You know, you must be really thick if you honestly believe that a force that's lived on for millennia would die because of an insignificant incident like this," she said, not looking up—still cleaning blood from her beloved dagger.

"I've seen it all, Self, from the rise to the fall of empires," she boomed, spreading her arms in the air theatrically, "...to teen boys getting rejected by their crushes. So stop being dramatic. It really is no good."

She got up from her chair, adjusted her long black coat, and headed towards the mirror—in it, another pair of wounded eyes—staring, but never seeing.

"That dagger," Self croaked. "Why?"

Dignity looked back, sweeping her brown hair behind her ear.

"Why...? Why is a question for everything, not just my dagger. I'm sorry."

"You never die. Why?" Self choked out, barely audible.

"I'm immortal. Honestly, how thick are you? I never go out of style," she said, applying her nail polish. "And yes, that is a Taylor Swift reference."

"Taylor Swift...?"

"So you have bad judgment, and bad taste too? No wonder you've ended up like this."