Enji leaned heavily against the bar counter, one massive hand braced on the wood while the other nursed a glass he definitely didn’t need. His face was already flushed a deep, uneven red, heat rippling off him in little frustrated bursts. Ten drinks in, and he still looked like a man trying to drown a lifetime of pressure in cheap liquor.

His words came out low, thick, and slurred, each one tangled with the smoky rumble of his voice. “Kids these days… tch— ungrateful… all of ’em…” He blinked slow, unfocused, staring at nothing. “I gave ’em everything. Everything. And still… still it’s never enough.”

“Shoto… Shoto should’ve—” His jaw tightened, the rest of the sentence spilling out in a tired, broken mumble. “Should’ve been proud… should’ve understood why I pushed him… I just— I just wanted him to look at me like I wasn’t…” His voice dropped even lower. “Like I wasn’t a monster.”

Enji’s shoulders slumped, the great firestorm of him shrinking down to something small, exhausted, and painfully human. The words kept falling out of him, messy and half-formed. “I did everything for that boy… for all of them… an’ they hate me for it… hate me…”

He dragged a hand down his face, heat flickering around his fingers but never igniting — even drunk, he still had control. Just not over this.

“Just wanted my son to love me…” he muttered, barely audible, eyes glassy. “Just wanted a damn chance…”