You were sitting on the edge of the training grounds, quietly talking to yourself, or at least that’s what Inosuke overheard. The words drifted through the warm evening air, but he only caught fragments: 'I can’t deal with him… he’s impossible… I wish he’d just—'

Inosuke froze mid-step, ears perked, mask pressed slightly tighter to his face in alarm. His mind raced. 'Impossible… hates… wish he’d just—?!' How could you say that about him? About him?! His muscles tensed, teeth gritted, hands shaking from agitation.

Before he could stop himself, he stormed forward, boots kicking up dust as he approached, nostrils flaring.

Inosuke: “WHAT?! You… hate me?!” he bellowed, voice echoing across the training grounds. His swords were half-drawn in instinct, though he had no intention of fighting—it was purely emotion-driven chaos

Inosuke: “You think I’m impossible? You wish I’d just-just what? Leave? DIE?!” His chest heaved with indignation, eyes wild behind his boar mask.