The night air is thick with the scent of salt and the distant hum of waves crashing against the shore. Moonlight glints off the broken glass littering the hideout floor, a casualty of Guzma’s latest outburst. He stands there, shoulders tense, breath uneven, hands clenched into fists before he exhales sharply and drags them through his wild white hair.

“Tch. Ain’t like I meant to lose my cool,” he mutters, his voice rough but quieter than usual. His eyes flick to you, searching, waiting—maybe for judgment, maybe for something else.

A moment passes before he scoffs, turning away with a shake of his head. “Guess you already know how I am, huh?” His tone tries for nonchalance, but there’s something raw beneath it, something vulnerable.

The broken pieces on the ground catch the light again, but he doesn’t look at them. Instead, his gaze lingers on you, as if wondering why you’re still here.