HELLSDOGS ⸻ DAI, SEN, KIMURA, JUNJI. tales of cold nights in tokyo, yakuza stories and slice of life of the leader, the artist, the hound and the mad. an analysis on the capital sins : wrath, pride and greed uniting, leading to obsessive desires, a hunger for control and a thirst for pleasure without conscience and commerce without morals. 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐳𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬.
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Who’s going to give me a member of Junji’s serial killer alter ego’s fan club (something like a # Ikebukuro Killer Cult , crazy people thread one Reddit style), a fan who ends up discovering his identity and claims what they feel for him is love when it might just be fanatism or you know they’re just batshit. Meanwhile he claims he loves them back even though he confuses his crave for admiration with love. They’re going to be the end of him, maybe they will kill him or constantly threaten to expose him whenever he doesn’t show the right amount of affection they need
It’s light x misa, but if light wasn’t a smart and misa wasn’t as dumb
She says she’s willing to stay : her voice is tight, her cheeks are getting a little red, the kind that even wine couldn’t excuse; her fingers fiddling with the rim of her glass, eyes unable to hold his for too long, darting away just when his gaze lingers; her thighs subtly pressed together as she shifts on the couch, a tension so visible it might as well be audible. It does bring a smile to Junji’s lips. She is cute, painfully cute actually, and he likes them that way: eager to please but unsure of themselves, sharp enough to hold a conversation but soft enough to bend when pushed. There is no sinister logic behind his preference, no elaborate psychological justification, just a matter of personal taste, like preferring red wine to white or keeping his knives organized by size and function. With girls like her, he never has to guess if he’s having an effect; their bodies betray them before their words can catch up. It was never part of his plan for Mija to become a partner in this investigation, not consciously, but she’s proven her value time and time again and the more useful she becomes, the easier it is to justify her presence, to indulge in the idea of keeping her around, of wondering what she’d sound like if he bent her over the kitchen counter and made her forget everything she thinks she knows about ethics and journalism. That wasn’t part of the plan either but he knows he’s going to fuck her. Ueno Junji, with his untamed curly hair and intellectual charm, the kind of man mothers trust and daughters imagine ruining them, exists in that perfect sweet spot between warmth and something darker. He could tell her to drop the honorific by now, to call him Junji, but he likes hearing her say Junji-san. “It’s true, our names do sound good together,” he says with a grin that balances on the edge of smugness. “Can you imagine the headline? You and Me as The best journalists this country’s ever known. I mean, it has a nice ring to it, no?” He watches her face, and he knows she has that fire, that ambition just like him, he can feed that. “And as for that rookie cop, ” he continues, "Mmm, I do have a lot of ideas. I say we need him close so we keep him close, and we try to get out of him everything the police have that we don’t. They’ll never give it willingly, but he might, if he thinks it’ll help you.” The truth is, Junji doesn’t need anything from the police, not technically : he already knows what the killer will do next, how he thinks, what he wants, but he does need a cover, a plausible explanation for how he got the information, because if people start asking questions, the answers cannot point back to him. So Mija’s connection to the rookie isn’t just convenient; it’s essential. When she reminds him that she’s vegan, he lets out a soft laugh, almost out of surprise, the sound rolling out of his mouth. Of all the things in this moment, that was the last thing in his mind : he wasn’t thinking of dinner, only of the man in the cage below and how he might soon become unbearable if left unattended. Still, it amuses him. “Of course. I mean, how could I forget your cute little vegan bentos? They look waaay too delicious next to my boring ones, I’m still secretly hoping you will bring one for me someday.” he replies, voice smooth, indicating that he’s been paying attention to her at work and he’s been. “I’m actually thinking that one udon place down the street yeah, it will be perfect for tonight, I know it’s very vegan-friendly and I want you to eat well tonight.” His hand leaves the warmth of the couch and he rises in one elegant motion, adjusting his sleeves, casting a brief glance toward the floor as if he could see through it. “Bathroom’s down the hall to the right,” he tells her, throwing his head inthat direction once. “I’ll be right back. Don’t get too cozy without me, yeah?” It sounds like a joke, but there’s something else behind it, and again, that charming smile of his he throws at her with a billion of insane thoughts crossing his mind as he does.
He has to go now, he really has to go. He grabs his wallet, keys, and gives her a last goodbye before exiting the place. Right after leaving the apartment, Junji has to be fast. Quick, he orders something to pick up at the restaurant he talked about : a rice bowl with tofu and miso for her, tempura soba for himself, simple, no-fuss. While typing down the screen, he slips into the hallway, climbs down the stairs to the apartment below his at full speed. When he unlocks the door, the air inside is sharp and sterile, the kind of silence that tastes metallic on the tongue. He steps inside, slow and controlled, the door clicking shut behind him. For a few seconds, all he hears is the soft hum of an old refrigerator plugged into nothing, a ghost of domesticity. The phone is put back into his pocket and finally he enters the living room. The cage is no longer upright : it’s been wrecked, its door broken open. Junji’s stomach drops, but his expression doesn’t change. The man is loose… How the fuck did that happen? Carefully, his eyes are watching every single corner of the half emptied place ; and finally, he sees it, a blur of limbs and fury, the man is half-conscious but still driven by pure survival instinct. He jumps on Junji as he was hiding behind the door, both of them hitting the ground hard. Junji’s breath is knocked out of him, his head ringing.
They fight in struggle, legs and fists landing where they can. It’s messy and driven by nothing but panic. There's no technique, no calculation from Junji’s part either, never ever he thought the situation could evolve into this mayhem. The man grabs at Junji’s throat, eyes wild and furious, and something snaps : there is no way in hell his victim will escape. What happens next, the police by Junji’s door? All his dreams of glory crushed? Junji’s hand closes around a rusted metal bar, one of the pieces from the broken cage, and he brings it down. Once. Again. Again. The man doesn’t scream, the gag still in place, but the wet, crunching sound fills the room, sickening and final. Junji doesn’t stop until the twitching stops, until his hands are soaked, until the man is disfigured, until his own ragged breathing is the only sound left. He sits there, straddling the corpse, the bent metal bar still in his hand, sticky and warm. His heart is racing but not from exhaustion. He feels… surprisingly… alive. Like the moment just before orgasm, suspended in that surreal second before release. And then the realization creeps in, cold and sudden. He just killed a man. He killed a man for the very first time. It wasn’t planned. Again, all he wanted at first was media attention, fame for his writing but… Now, will the country mourn this man? Won’t the Ikebukuro Monster will be talked about even more ? This was something else. Something irreversible. For a while, he just sits there, unable to look away from what he’s done. His face is blank, caught in that strange limbo between horror and wonder. The blood has already begun to cool on his skin, and the smell in the room is sharp and wrong. He doesn’t panic, he doesn't scream, as if he has already killed in another life. Instead, he wipes his hands on the side of his pants and slowly stands, staggering once. There’s blood on his shirt, his face, his hands : he uses an old rusty and dirty dishtowel to clean himself up, enough to pass as someone who’s just come in from a windy night. The body stays where it is as he doesn’t have the time to cover any of it : he doesn’t drags it, he just leaves it crumpled and broken on the kitchen floor like a problem for tomorrow’s version of himself. Right now, he needs to get back to normal. He grabs a t shirt he has left here to replace the dirty one, and exits the apartment to leave the building as fast as possible. Still buzzing with mania, he walks down the street as if he’d just stepped out for dinner and picks up the food at the small restaurant one block away. Everything took him exactly twenty minutes, and it’s after that delay that Junji opens the front door to his apartment again. The scent of fried tofu and warm broth rises gently from the takeout bag, covering the smell of fresh murder. He steps inside, and the world is unchanged. He looks fine, one would say, maybe slightly flushed, maybe a little too quiet, but clean. Composed. Yet.. something inside him hums with residual madness. There’s a hollow sort of brightness in his eyes, like something has been scooped out to make room for something new. He sets the food down on the counter, unclipping the bag with careful fingers. “Dinner’s here,” he says, and his voice is perfectly even, perfectly smooth. He doesn’t comment on how long he was gone. He doesn’t explain. It feels surreal, all of it, the smell of food, the soft light, a pretty woman waiting for him, like a dream bleeding into a nightmare or maybe the other way around. He stands there for a second too long, staring at her as soon as she approaches again, the sounds of violence still echoing faintly in his skull. “The place down the street was busy,” he adds, like an afterthought, a little deranged smile crawling across his lips. Nothing about him is human anymore, as if his aura has been stripped from something. He looks at her straight in the eyes. “It took me longer than expected…Have you missed me?”
He has cameras in every single corner of the basement, to keep an eye on what’s inside the cage. The cage isn’t as small as one would have thought, designed for a big animal. The lights are strong, harsh even, flooding every inch of the space to eliminate shadows, to ensure there are no dead angles he could miss. Inside the cage is the CEO of Glico, an important man the country has been desperately trying to locate. What Junji observes through his cameras is always the same: the man sometimes stirs, awakening groggily from the sedatives, and when he does, Junji heads down to the basement, sits across from the cage, and eats his instant noodles while watching. One would call him a sadist, watching like someone would watch TV : a man blindfolded, gagged, crying, begging, pissing himself. Occasionally, Junji removes the gag to exchange a few words, but the man only ever speaks of his family and pleads for release, repeating the same pitiful lines over and over. It's tedious. What Junji truly wants is admiration, to hear someone say his name with reverence, to acknowledge his growing fame. That’s the secret he keeps closest to his chest: he is the star journalist covering the twisted saga of the Ikebukuro Monster for Daily Japan. The monster is himself. Isn’t it deviously brilliant? To be both the killer and the man chronicling his own legend. To control the narrative from every angle, to watch the world devour his words without ever realizing who fed them. It’s genius. But genius can be lonely. A megalomaniac craves applause, and it's maddening when only he knows he deserves it. He never wanted the money. The 5 billion yen ransom to hand back the CEO to the Police was a ruse, a spectacle : the police delivered a suitcase full of bills in an empty gas station, but it was never meant to be claimed as Junji never showed up to collect it. The point was to prove what he could do : yes, he was convinced he could do anything. Then came the bomb threat at Shibuya station; something he did for fun. Authorities did search for a device, taking the threat seriously as it was tied to a man capable of making a powerful man disappear. Of course the bomb never existed but the chaos, though, was real. Seven days of panic straight. Then the poison scare. A letter promised toxins would flood the air around the CEO’s company at noon on Sunday. The building was shut down, the area evacuated. He has shaped himself into myth.
Everything changes the day he watches his cameras, expecting nothing new, and sees… her ( @noiranamnesis ). His breath stops. A woman is in the basement. His screen shows her moving through the space, the image too surreal to comprehend. For a moment, he freezes, his eyes wide in disbelief. Then adrenaline slams into him. She shouldn’t be there. She cannot be there. The first thing he thinks about is being exposed, discovered before he hits his climax of fame : it’s a game over. He bolts from the surveillance room upstairs, runs own the steps two at a time, rage and fear clawing at his insides. The basement door flies open, and in an instant, he lunges, grabs the woman and slams her against the concrete wall with such force the air leaves her lungs. The gun he always carries is already in his hand, pressed to her throat. The air between them is thick with fear, confusion. His eyes, wide and unblinking and panicked, studies her face like the predator he is. She’s a foreigner … young, perhaps around his age ? But the fuck is she doing here. The silence is paralyzing. She doesn’t look like a cop. Doesn’t look like one of his deranged fans either (right, he has a cult of them online, people who fantasize about him and well, he really likes these ones). His heart slams against his ribs as he presses in closer, body a barrier so she cannot escape, eyes scanning hers for truth, for weakness, for answers. He doesn’t want to kill…. Not yet. Proof is that there is a man in a cage behind them that he hasn’t killed yet. But he will if he has no other option but to eliminate her to protect his secret. When he speaks, his voice is almost too calm, and he naturally switches to english. "Who are you, and how did you find me?” His head tilts slightly. “You’ve got 30 seconds to convince me not to blow your brains out. Because as you can see, you caught me in quite a mmm, compromising position here.” He smirks, the kind of smirk that doesn’t reach the eyes, twisted before dropping back to serious.
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"Oh… so this isn’t a date? Right... Right." His voice falters slightly, a lopsided smile trying—and failing—to mask the sting. Right. Right. Of course not. He glances down at the flowers in his hand, suddenly feeling foolish in the crisp button-up suit he’d picked out just for tonight. "But… you smiled at me."
"You know I love a good spiritual or philosophical statement, but that’s not going to fix this." Kazuma’s casual tone suggests he isn’t taking the threat too seriously, but Sen isn’t so sure. His eyes remain fixed on the piece of paper, scanning the threatening words scrawled across it adressed to Kazuma. "These guys want something from you else they wouldn't be so aggressive. What is it?" His voice is level, but there’s a hint of suspicion. Some kind of history Kazuma hasn't shared on must be at play. "Are you actually going to fight them?" He exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. "I mean, I’m your sidekick, your ride-or-die. If you're going, I’ll go. Not like I’d be much help—I’ve been getting my ass kicked my whole life. Never really figured out how to fight back. I don't hate being beaten up though, it really teaches you how to let go of the pressure you know. In french they say, Lacher Prise. It's quite Poetic."
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Date with Kimura.
Date Fee: $55
Customer Comments: "It wasn't that great of a date but they're hot so its fine. (Male in 20s)"
"A date? I beat that motherfucker to a pulp to get my 55 dollars back—but sure."
Date with Junji.
Date Fee: $1122
Customer Comments: "Terrible taste. (Person in late 20s)"
"Come onnn, pepper and cream weren't for dinner, it was for the sex. Talk to me, baby. Come on, it’s gonna be good!"
Date with Sen.
Date Fee: $50.39
Customer Comments: "This was a mistake. (Female in 40s)"
"It was magical, two psyches and souls in perfect symbiosis. We fell in love with fireworks and an russian orchestra playing our theme song in the background. I'm proposing tomorrow and she said yes."
Date with Yamazaki.
Date Fee: $1.99
Customer Comments: "I'm never dating again. (Person in 30s)"
Sen had always thought meeting Sasha was too good to be true. Someone like him wasn’t meant for something so real, so consuming. His entire existence had been a burden, a sickness he carried alone, carved under his skin like an incurable disease. A man like him—a deranged man, a creature of obsession, of desires too twisted to be spoken—was never meant to love. Never meant to be loved. From the moment he was old enough to be seen, people looked at him with either pity or disgust. His parents. His family. His so-called friends. They had all whispered about him with their judgmental glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. But he always knew. And when the time came that his father dragged him to a psychiatrist for the first time, Sen learned what it truly meant to be someone’s shame. "Sen has been caught staring at the neighbor’s daughter from the bushes, Doctor. I’m telling you, he’s sick in the head. He’s been caught stealing her clothes too. You don’t understand, he took these awful, disgusting pictures of her. Sir, that’s not my son. A son of mine would never do that." He was a stain his father could never wash away. A disgrace that followed him in every shadowed hallway, in every conversation. And sometimes, on the nights when he was alone with himself, he felt it too. That revulsion. That deep, unshakable loathing. The kind that made him think of ending it all, of putting a bullet in his brain just to stop being who he was. Leaving Nagoya for Tokyo was supposed to be his fresh start. A chance to become something better. But instead, it became a descent into something even darker. His obsessions grew sharper, his cravings deeper. And the worst part? He became famous for it. His art, his photographs—they masked the sickness beneath, turned his gaze into something desirable, into something people paid for. And so he fed it. Indulged in it. Let it swallow him whole. That was why he left. That was why he ran to Seoul. But again… it only got worse. He found pleasure in things he shouldn’t. Cleaning scenes full of blood, making them pristine, perfect. And yet, even after all of that, he found her. Sasha. How could a man like him—someone so ruined, so unworthy—find his soulmate? A woman who saw him. Who knew him. Who accepted him, every rotting, decayed part of his soul. She was out of his league. She always had been. And he loved that. Loved that she could do anything to him. That he would let her. That he would become a dog at her feet, a mattress for her to rest on. That he would die for her without hesitation. But still… Still, he had spent so much of his life mistaking obsession for love that maybe—just maybe—this was all in his head again? But no. It was real. Because Siwoo knows. Siwoo knows that she loved him too, that Sen hasn’t imagined it, that Sen and Sasha were real. And the pictures—oh, the pictures—are proof of it. Not the staged ones. Not the editorials. Not the soulless magazine spreads. No, these are different. These are moments of life. Pieces of time, captured and held like fragile things. Sasha at breakfast, in the kitchen, bare-faced and beautiful. Barefoot and human. Sasha in the car, in the sheets, in his arms. Sasha, alive. A sheepish smile rests on Sen’s lips at Siwoo’s request. "Of course you can see them," he says softly. "She was my whole world, you know that. The pictures I have of her… they’re not like the ones I took for magazines. They’re pieces of us. Pieces of her. I’ve never done an exhibition before, you know… I mean, I had opportunities, but I don’t like putting myself out there. It’s easier to just work behind the scenes. But if I ever do, if I ever have the fucking courage to… I would hold one for her, in her name. "His voice drops lower, rougher, as he stares at the rain-soaked earth beneath them. "We lived a hidden life, she and I. We were—and still are—forgotten. And yet, even if I was fine with it, something inside me wants the world to finally see her. She was more than just those— " His breath hitches, something venomous stuck in his throat.
"—those fucking garbage articles. That tiny, pathetic space they gave her in the press. Like she was nothing. " The words burn on his tongue. Because for Sen and Siwoo, Sasha was their whole world. But for the rest of the world? She’s just a dead prostitute. A tragedy no one cares about. Siwoo speaks again, his voice thick with bitterness, talking about the police. About how they’re not even searching. Sen’s jaw clenches. His fingers curl into fists. "You’re telling me we’ve been waiting for weeks and they’re not even looking?" His voice is sharp, frustrated. Siwoo goes on, mentioning the pimp, his theories. Sasha quitting has always been a hope they both shared. But Sen has never been the type of man to tell her what to do. He would follow her anywhere, in any direction she chose to go. Still, he has always hated the thought of that man controlling her life. Hated the way she would give her body away, knowing full well she never needed the money. But they had games, and some of those clients? They ended up in bags. Was it all truly worth it now that he’s lost her? "I never met him," Sen mutters, his brows knitting together. "She said it was too dangerous. At first, I thought she meant I wouldn’t be able to protect myself against him if he ever tried to come for me, which is probably true. " He exhales sharply, his stomach twisting. "But… wouldn’t that man only come for me if I was a threat to his business? If Sasha wanted to leave him behind for me… " His voice drops lower. "Would he kill her for that?" The question sits bitter on his tongue, like something rotting. "Would it really go that far?" Sen understands why Siwoo didn’t have the strength to turn the phone on and find out. "I’ll do it, " Sen says. His fingers wrap tightly around the phone, shielding it from the rain with the zippered bag. "But we have to know. If the police read something in there and ignored it—if they had something that could have helped her, and they fucking let her rot without a case—we need to know. " His hands are shaking from the cold and the knot in his stomach as he scrolls. Voicemails. Pictures. Texts. She kept his voicemails. The old, cheesy ones he used to send her when he missed her. She kept them. A thought that should have brought him some sense of joy, but it doesn’t. It hurts. Sasha wasn’t the romantic one—no, he was. And yet, there were little things, small things like this that she did. Things that told him, in her own quiet way, that she loved him. That she chose him. And then he reaches the last messages. The missed calls. The missed texts. The ones from the night she never came home. The night she never called back. And then he sees them. The unsent texts. His stomach drops. His fingers clench so tightly around the phone that his knuckles go white.
Something inside him snaps.
His eyes widen, too wide, stretched to the point where they could almost burst from their orbits. His breath stutters while his hands tremble violently. "She… She… She… " The words die in his throat, choking him, strangling him from the inside out. His entire body trembles too now, his fingers twitching, his jaw tightening like he’s fighting against something unseen. But it’s not just shock. It’s a seizure. His eyes are wild, unfocused, drowning in tears and something.. something darker. Rage. Horror. Pure, gut-wrenching agony. "She wanted us to run away together…" It barely escapes his lips, a whisper—a fragile, broken thing. A whisper of madness. A whisper of delirium. Then it comes again, louder. Faster. Spiraling. "She wanted us to run away together.
"She wanted us to run away together. SHE WANTED TO RUN AWAY WITH ME AND HE KILLED HER!"
His scream is animalistic, something primal, something born from a place so deep it doesn’t even feel human anymore. His fingers claw at his hair, yanking, gripping, pulling hard enough to hurt, but the pain barely registers.
"HE KILLED HER!"
He’s not even speaking anymore.
He’s howling.
"HE KILLED HER. HE FUCKING— " a choked breath, his throat raw, voice breaking apart—
"HE FUCKING KILLED HER!" His hands slam against his own skull? shoulders tensed like he’s about to snap in half.
Sen was used to work alone. His regular clients - small gangs, mercenaries, and the like - would often call him in to clean up their crime scenes, as his prices were among the lowest on the market. After all, he wasn’t in it for the money. With his camera discreetly put in his bag, this side job turned into his dirty little secret, the perfect place to truly make Art. Lately, though, business turned a little monotonous. The killings he was in charge of cleaning were too emotionless, no real massacre, no real crime of passion just boring feuds for money. There was no depth to them, nothing worth capturing, nothing worth being inspired by. He wanted something more, something raw and unpredictable like he used to have when he started. That’s why he decided to work under someone else's command instead. He wouldn’t have to sit in his apartment waiting for exciting calls anymore; the work would come to him and among the jobs she would give him, he was certain he’d find something… satisfying. Now, he sits in her office, posture rigid, hands resting neatly on his knees. This woman right in front of him made a business out of it which means she might be one of the best on the market. Also, it does suit Sen to work under a strong woman’s lead, he’s better at being driven than making his own decisions. She agreed to a trial period for him, and Sen could barely contain his excitement. More excitement than he’s ever felt for his actual job— right, he’s a fashion photographer and all that. A polite, almost timid naturally rests on his lips. “I sure won’t,” he replies when she warns him about puking on his first day. It’s a little fun when he thinks about it. “I actually have a lot of… experience.” Coming from anyone else, the line might sound reassuring. But in this context, when talking about corpse disposal and crime scene sanitation, it’s a little sinister isn’t it. Yet, Sen delivers it with a quiet pride, fingers lightly tapping against his knees. He appears just like he is : reserved, meticulous, and seemingly antisocial. “ It isn’t just about my experience, though,” he continues. “I like what I do. Cleaning shouldn’t be seen as a chore, it’s an art. And I intend to honor every task I’m given.” Yeah… he’s a nerd. A weird, obsessive, blood-cleaning nerd. “Do you have anything for me?” he asks, his voice tinged with anticipation. “The messier, the more gruesome, whatever it is, even the scenes your other employees might refuse to clean, I can handle it.”
The sky is heavy, thick with clouds that swallowed the sun whole. A storm threatens in the distance, the air filled with the weight of grief. Sen wasn’t always in his right mind—most of the time, he was drowning in medication that numbed him to the world, a self-inflicted oblivion to make living a little more bearable. But when he was awake, it felt like torture, like being stripped raw and left exposed to the merciless passage of time without her. He was hollow. A shell. Something that once resembled a man but had long since been emptied out. Still, there is comfort in standing beside Siwoo, and Sen knows Siwoo finds solace in his presence too. Sasha had never been surrounded by many people in life, and in death, even fewer gathered at her tombstone. There were only a handful who could share the unbearable weight of losing her. Siwoo, especially, carried the heaviest burden, blaming himself for not doing enough, for not being enough. It pains Sen to see it, to watch someone he respects so deeply, someone who had cared for his only family with everything he had, collapse. "You don’t see it," Sen murmurs, voice dull yet charged with emotions at the same time. "All the right you’ve done. You watched over her with everything you could give. Sasha was a storm, she was wild and relentless—but she knew love, Siwoo, even if she maybe didn't even realize it herself. Because of you." He exhales sharply, eyes dark and distant as they trace the letters carved into the cold stone before them, again and again. "But the world is a cruel fucking joke. It took her away, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Nothing you could have done differently." Thunder rumbles as the first drops of rain are sliding down their coats, soaking through fabric and skin like grief sinking into bone. Sen doesn't have an umbrella. He doesn't want one. He barely feels the cold, barely registers the water clinging to his lashes, running down the sharp angles of his face. How was she like? Sen’s lips twitch, just barely, the ghost of something that could have been a smile. It softens his exhausted features before fading just as quickly. "When I was with her… she was Sasha," he says simply. "Unapologetic. Brutal. Beautiful. There was a strength in her—this fire, this defiance against everything life had thrown at her. She didn’t just survive; she owned her scars. She carried them like they were proof she’d conquered something, like she could devour the whole fucking world if she wanted to." His voice is losing his steadiness, like everytime he speaks abàout her. "She was happy, Siwoo. She was learning to let go of the hurt, to believe she deserved something good. And I saw it—I saw it in every picture I took of her. A new chapter was starting. She was ready for it." Sen swallows, his throat tight, his vision blurred from the birth of tears that don't roll down. "If we had more time," he whispers, "we would have been more than just girlfriend and boyfriend. We would have had a lifetime together. People like us… outcasts… we never dared to dream of something so simple as loving and being loved. But together. We did."
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like this and I will send you memes from your meme tag ! If you have multiple muses, please specify for which muse you want the meme for. + select the helldog you want to interact with.
Looking for an arranged marriage plot for Daisuke ( tag / bio ), the woman who has been chosen to marry the Yamazaki clan heir. ( preferably female muse, oc, japanese, 35+)
The Yamazaki heir had no desire for marriage. He was a man forged in blood and brutality, a warrior shaped by violence. His reputation was not mere myth, it was truth carved into the bones of his enemies. All he ever wanted was to honor his father’s name, slit the throats of traitors, and protect his family. Matters of the heart had always come last. He had known lust, indulged in pleasures like any other savage within the Yamazaki syndicate, but love? Commitment? Marriage? A foreign, almost laughable notion. Yet time had its way of closing in. Tradition demanded an heir. A son to bear the Yamazaki name, to be raised as he had been raised—merciless, disciplined, unbreakable. His uncles chose daughters of powerful bloodlines, offering alliances sealed if Yamazaki accepted to marry thm. Again and again, he rejected them all.
