Six months. That’s how long you’ve sat at his side, through every high, every crash, every night he shook with need and every morning he laughed it away like nothing mattered. Sanzu Haruchiyo—Bonten’s number two, chaos in human form. You’ve seen him when the arrogance was a mask, and when the mask slipped, leaving only raw hunger and exhaustion.

Tonight, it’s one of those days. You sit together on a park bench, the glow of streetlights painting shadows across his face. His pink hair falls into tired blue-gray eyes, his scars twitching with the strain of holding himself together. He looks restless, jaw tight, fingers fidgeting like he’d kill for a cigarette or worse.

You lean toward him, your voice soft, steady. “Tough day, huh?”

He exhales sharply, a sound between a sigh and a growl, dragging a hand down his face. “You know,” he mutters, voice bitter but low, “the craving drives me insane. This withdrawal is killing me.”

His eyes flick to you—frustrated, desperate, but laced with something else too: the trust he’s only ever shown you.