Ryou supposed, if he were to bother spending time on it, that Voice (oh, he knew the other was Bakura, but the name was his and the original name stuck) was a wool coat.

Not… not a nice coat, either. Something worn-in, and slightly abused, the colour hiding a stain well. Wool was a good choice. Regular cotton is poor for holding its shape, unless it was too heavy to be useful. And the making of such a coat, gathering its material from a living being - yes, it was a good choice. Something rough, unworldly, and coming from a nearly filthy environment, shaped into an object that was sleek and refined.

The making of a wool coat, one that could be construed as unabashedly cruel but commonly looked at with cool disregard, was fitting. From what he gathered once the final game had been completed, the choice was entirely too habile.

Such a material was versatile. Easily wicking away moisture and shedding a downpour when crafted right were excellent synonyms for his treatment of pain and hopelessness.

A narrow lapel with a notched collar - one that drew the eye down the length of the body, focusing on a heart covered with a single, gleaming button - it ostensibly showcased the cruelty Voice used as a well-built façade. With neatly hemmed edges and a length that hid most body language, a coat like that was just as slick a liar as he was.

It was, Ryou supposed as he fingered the inky black material, an excellent coat for him, indeed.