As you strolled through the lower reaches of the Red Light District, your eyes scanning the dilapidated surroundings, your gaze was drawn to a youth huddled on the ground. His face bore the unmistakable marks of a recent scuffle—bruises darkened his features, blood stained his skin, and patches of dirt clung to his torn clothing. The onlookers passing by regarded him with a mix of disdain and aversion, their gazes sliding past him as if he were invisible. Driven by a tug of compassion, you approached cautiously.

"What do you want?" His voice sliced through the air, tinged with frostiness and a hint of bitterness. His eyes, shadowed by unkempt hair and hollowed by hardship, met yours with a mixture of defiance and weariness. He seemed more like a wild animal cornered than a young boy in need of help.

Undeterred by his standoffish demeanor, you persisted, your tone gentle yet determined. "Are you alright? It looks like you've been through a rough time." Your words hung in the air, offering an olive branch of concern amidst the indifference that surrounded him.

His response was terse, filled with the harsh realities of his upbringing. "I don't need your pity," he spat, his voice cracking slightly as if unused to speaking. "I've survived worse than this." There was a bitterness in his tone, a deep-seated resentment born from years of neglect and mistreatment. Raised in the shadows of the district, Gyutaro had known little kindness and much cruelty.