HELLSDOGS โธป 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. ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐ ๐ข๐ง๐๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐ง๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ซ๐๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง๐ฌ๐ฉ๐ข๐ซ๐๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ฆ๐ ๐จ๐ซ๐ ๐๐ง๐ข๐ณ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง๐ฌ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฒ๐๐ค๐ฎ๐ณ๐ ๐ญ๐๐ฅ๐๐ฌ.
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Whoโs going to give me a member of Junjiโs serial killer alter egoโs 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 theyโre just batshit. Meanwhile he claims he loves them back even though he confuses his crave for admiration with love. Theyโre going to be the end of him, maybe they will kill him or constantly threaten to expose him whenever he doesnโt show the right amount of affection they need
Itโs light x misa, but if light wasnโt a smart and misa wasnโt as dumb
She says sheโs willing to stay : her voice is tight, her cheeks are getting a little red, the kind that even wine couldnโt 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 Junjiโs 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 heโs 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 sheโs 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 sheโd sound like if he bent her over the kitchen counter and made her forget everything she thinks she knows about ethics and journalism. That wasnโt part of the plan either but he knows heโs 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. โItโs true, our names do sound good together,โ he says with a grin that balances on the edge of smugness. โCan you imagine the headline? You and Me as The best journalists this countryโs ever known. I mean, it has a nice ring to it, no?โ He watches her face, and he knows she has that fire, that ambition just like him, he can feed that. โAnd as for that rookie cop, โ 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 donโt. Theyโll never give it willingly, but he might, if he thinks itโll help you.โ The truth is, Junji doesnโt 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 Mijaโs connection to the rookie isnโt just convenient; itโs essential. When she reminds him that sheโs 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 wasnโt 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. โOf course. I mean, how could I forget your cute little vegan bentos? They look waaay too delicious next to my boring ones, Iโm still secretly hoping you will bring one for me someday.โ he replies, voice smooth, indicating that heโs been paying attention to her at work and heโs been. โIโm actually thinking that one udon place down the street yeah, it will be perfect for tonight, I know itโs very vegan-friendly and I want you to eat well tonight.โ 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. โBathroomโs down the hall to the right,โ he tells her, throwing his head inthat direction once. โIโll be right back. Donโt get too cozy without me, yeah?โ It sounds like a joke, but thereโs 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 : itโs been wrecked, its door broken open. Junjiโs stomach drops, but his expression doesnโt change. The man is looseโฆ 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. Junjiโs breath is knocked out of him, his head ringing.
They fight in struggle, legs and fists landing where they can. Itโs messy and driven by nothing but panic. There's no technique, no calculation from Junjiโs part either, never ever he thought the situation could evolve into this mayhem. The man grabs at Junjiโs throat, eyes wild and furious, and something snaps : there is no way in hell his victim will escape. What happens next, the police by Junjiโs door? All his dreams of glory crushed? Junjiโs 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 doesnโt scream, the gag still in place, but the wet, crunching sound fills the room, sickening and final. Junji doesnโt 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 feelsโฆ surprisinglyโฆ 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 wasnโt planned. Again, all he wanted at first was media attention, fame for his writing butโฆ Now, will the country mourn this man? Wonโt 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 heโs 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 doesnโt 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. Thereโs 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 whoโs just come in from a windy night. The body stays where it is as he doesnโt have the time to cover any of it : he doesnโt drags it, he just leaves it crumpled and broken on the kitchen floor like a problem for tomorrowโs 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 heโd just stepped out for dinner and picks up the food at the small restaurant one block away. Everything took him exactly twenty minutes, and itโs 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. Thereโs 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. โDinnerโs here,โ he says, and his voice is perfectly even, perfectly smooth. He doesnโt comment on how long he was gone. He doesnโt 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. โThe place down the street was busy,โ 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. โIt took me longer than expectedโฆHave you missed me?โ
He has cameras in every single corner of the basement, to keep an eye on whatโs inside the cage. The cage isnโt 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. Thatโs 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. Isnโt 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. Itโs 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 CEOโs 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 seesโฆ 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 shouldnโt be there. She cannot be there. The first thing he thinks about is being exposed, discovered before he hits his climax of fame : itโs 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. Sheโs a foreigner โฆ young, perhaps around his age ? But the fuck is she doing here. The silence is paralyzing. She doesnโt look like a cop. Doesnโt 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 doesnโt want to killโฆ. Not yet. Proof is that there is a man in a cage behind them that he hasnโt 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?โ His head tilts slightly. โYouโve 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.โ He smirks, the kind of smirk that doesnโt reach the eyes, twisted before dropping back to serious.
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"Ohโฆ so this isnโt a date? Right... Right." His voice falters slightly, a lopsided smile tryingโand failingโto 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 heโd picked out just for tonight. "Butโฆ you smiled at me."
"You know I love a good spiritual or philosophical statement, but thatโs not going to fix this." Kazumaโs casual tone suggests he isnโt taking the threat too seriously, but Sen isnโt 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 thereโs 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, Iโm your sidekick, your ride-or-die. If you're going, Iโll go. Not like Iโd be much helpโIโve 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 backโbut 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, itโs 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 wasnโt 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 himโa deranged man, a creature of obsession, of desires too twisted to be spokenโwas 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 wasnโt 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 someoneโs shame. "Sen has been caught staring at the neighborโs daughter from the bushes, Doctor. Iโm telling you, heโs sick in the head. Heโs been caught stealing her clothes too. You donโt understand, he took these awful, disgusting pictures of her. Sir, thatโs 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 photographsโthey 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 againโฆ it only got worse. He found pleasure in things he shouldnโt. 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 himโsomeone so ruined, so unworthyโfind 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 stillโฆ Still, he had spent so much of his life mistaking obsession for love that maybeโjust maybeโthis was all in his head again? But no. It was real. Because Siwoo knows. Siwoo knows that she loved him too, that Sen hasnโt imagined it, that Sen and Sasha were real. And the picturesโoh, the picturesโare 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 Senโs lips at Siwooโs request. "Of course you can see them," he says softly. "She was my whole world, you know that. The pictures I have of herโฆ theyโre not like the ones I took for magazines. Theyโre pieces of us. Pieces of her. Iโve never done an exhibition before, you knowโฆ I mean, I had opportunities, but I donโt like putting myself out there. Itโs easier to just work behind the scenes. But if I ever do, if I ever have the fucking courage toโฆ 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 wereโand still areโforgotten. And yet, even if I was fine with it, something inside me wants the world to finally see her. She was more than just thoseโ " His breath hitches, something venomous stuck in his throat.
"โthose 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? Sheโs just a dead prostitute. A tragedy no one cares about. Siwoo speaks again, his voice thick with bitterness, talking about the police. About how theyโre not even searching. Senโs jaw clenches. His fingers curl into fists. "Youโre telling me weโve been waiting for weeks and theyโre 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 heโs 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 wouldnโt 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. "Butโฆ wouldnโt that man only come for me if I was a threat to his business? If Sasha wanted to leave him behind for meโฆ " 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 didnโt have the strength to turn the phone on and find out. "Iโll 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 itโif they had something that could have helped her, and they fucking let her rot without a caseโwe 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 doesnโt. It hurts. Sasha wasnโt the romantic oneโno, 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. "Sheโฆ Sheโฆ Sheโฆ " 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 heโs fighting against something unseen. But itโs not just shock. Itโs 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 togetherโฆ" It barely escapes his lips, a whisperโa 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 doesnโt 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!"
Heโs not even speaking anymore.
Heโs howling.
"HE KILLED HER. HE FUCKINGโ " a choked breath, his throat raw, voice breaking apartโ
"HE FUCKING KILLED HER!" His hands slam against his own skull? shoulders tensed like heโs 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 wasnโt 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. Thatโs why he decided to work under someone else's command instead. He wouldnโt 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 heโd find somethingโฆ 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 womanโs lead, heโs 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 heโs ever felt for his actual jobโ right, heโs a fashion photographer and all that. A polite, almost timid naturally rests on his lips. โI sure wonโt,โ he replies when she warns him about puking on his first day. Itโs a little fun when he thinks about it. โI actually have a lot ofโฆ experience.โ Coming from anyone else, the line might sound reassuring. But in this context, when talking about corpse disposal and crime scene sanitation, itโs a little sinister isnโt 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. โ It isnโt just about my experience, though,โ he continues. โI like what I do. Cleaning shouldnโt be seen as a chore, itโs an art. And I intend to honor every task Iโm given.โ Yeahโฆ heโs a nerd. A weird, obsessive, blood-cleaning nerd. โDo you have anything for me?โ he asks, his voice tinged with anticipation. โThe messier, the more gruesome, whatever it is, even the scenes your other employees might refuse to clean, I can handle it.โย
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 wasnโt always in his right mindโmost 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 donโt see it," Sen murmurs, voice dull yet charged with emotions at the same time. "All the right youโve done. You watched over her with everything you could give. Sasha was a storm, she was wild and relentlessโbut 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? Senโs 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 herโฆ she was Sasha," he says simply. "Unapologetic. Brutal. Beautiful. There was a strength in herโthis fire, this defiance against everything life had thrown at her. She didnโt just survive; she owned her scars. She carried them like they were proof sheโd conquered something, like she could devour the whole fucking world if she wanted to." His voice is losing his steadiness, like everytime he speaks abร out her. "She was happy, Siwoo. She was learning to let go of the hurt, to believe she deserved something good. And I saw itโI 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 usโฆ outcastsโฆ 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 fatherโs 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 raisedโmerciless, 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.
