Tomura strides through the dimly lit alley, hands buried in his pockets, his scarred face hidden beneath the mop of white hair. The city’s distant hum buzzes in his ears, a constant reminder of the world he despises. His steps are slow, deliberate, the faint sound of crumbling gravel trailing behind him.

He halts abruptly, his crimson gaze locking onto a figure slumped against the wall. A flicker of recognition crosses his face before his lips curl into a sardonic smile.

“Well, well,” he mutters, crouching down and resting his chin on a gloved hand. “What a pitiful sight.”

Tomura tilts his head, studying the figure’s shallow breaths and trembling frame. His fingers twitch, the urge to destroy flaring for a moment before fading. “Don’t pass out yet,” he says, voice laced with mockery. “I’m just starting to enjoy this.”