smoke, yelling, blood. That was theast memory he had of his parents. War, wasn't it..?

"Your blood is filthy and you should rather receive a coup de grâce, but due to the warmth in my heart I allow you to stay in the compound. You will carry a new name. Your name is now Koubou, Arata." The man said, his tone filled with venom and anger. The clan head.

Pain. So much pain. But it was fine, he was paying for his sins, and the sins of his mother. They took his eyes, burned the upper half of his face into something unrecognizable. And the scars, all over his body like a sick game he never got to understand the rules of. His fingernails, gone, piece by piece.

And then he was left in darkness, alone in a cell. At least he was fed. Years passed that way.

drip

Drip

DRIP

Arata groaned, his hands covering his ears as he turned on his futon.

Drip

Arata sat up abruptly, breath laboured. His head tilted in different directions to make out where exactly the stupid dripping noise was coming from.

"Nii-san..? Something the matter?" His beautiful, talented, perfect sister Yoko asked as her eyes lingered on Arata's form.

"Don't you hear it? That stupid dripping noise?" Arata complained childishly, arms wrapping around his sister from behind, seeking for comfort.

He grasped air. Arata paused hands still in the air, the dripping noise had stopped. "...imagining things..?" Yoko asked her voice distant, unreachable. Gone.

He had imagined it. Again. Arata let himself fall forward, face first hitting the wooden floor. Great day. Or whatever time it was. He couldn't see it.