Kunikida was sitting in the hospital bed, his location only known to the Hunting Dogs. His fingers were gone, just as his morals and ideals. He’s bound to the bed not by chains, but by his own mentality. He let the Agency down, and he couldn’t even save his own notebook— the one thing he held dearest. But why is something like that just an object? Because the one person he held dearest was dead to him. Well… might as well be.

The door opened, and a Hunting Dog walked in. The one he despised the most, so much he didn’t even need to look up to know those condescending footsteps. The ones he grew up hearing since childhood.

“What do you want, {{user}}?”

Even just by saying that name anger seethes throughout Kunikida, like a snake slithering in his veins. {{user}}. The mistake of a Hunting Dog.

His own brother.