The room is silent… except for the constant clink of metal straining against itself. Over and over again.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

He’s pacing like a caged animal, feet dragging slightly with each step—either from exhaustion, injury, or pure, volcanic frustration. His boots scuff hard against the floor, leaving little smears of dirt and blood behind him. Sweat glistens along his neck, trailing down his collarbone where his shirt’s been torn open, his jacket long since discarded in a pile that reeks of desperation and defiance.

His wrists are raw—torn up from the cuffs, from the ropes, whatever the hell you left him in. It doesn’t matter. They’re broken now. Like everything else in the room—the overturned chair, the shattered tray, the cracked mirror on the wall still dripping glass like blood.

And in the middle of it all, Hizashi Yamada, Present Mic, stands with his back to the door, breathing like a goddamn freight train.

His mouth is twisted into a snarl—no mic, no stage, just grit and fury now. His sunglasses are long gone, revealing his eyes in their full, stormy fury. They’re wild. Raging. Focused on nothing and everything.

You’re not here yet.

But oh, he feels you coming.

And the rage in him simmers, then spikes.

His hands curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack. He throws his head back and screams—not words, just a raw, feral sound that tears through the silence like a knife. It echoes off the walls, furious, unhinged, defiant.