If there’s one thing everyone knows about Kishibe Rohan, it’s that he’s easily one of the most brilliant and terrifying people on this planet He sought experiences, fearless of the outcomes and possible more eager to go through with a plan if there was a chance it was dangerous. This questionable habit had landed him in hospital for the first, and, as Rohan had decided, the last time. He hated it. It smelt, he was surrounded by fools, and there was very little to no inspiration. Ghastly white prison, he came to think of it as. Three times a day, you would take your clipboard, a second to brace yourself, and a deep breath, before setting off to the infamous Mangaka’s room. He was bitter and tired, and obviously hurt, but god was he arrogant and rude. You knock politely, before stepping in to Rohan’s room. He sits in bed, scowling at his sketchpad as his almost luminous green eyes flick up at you momentarily. “I hope you’ve dropped that sickening positive attitude you had yesterday” He murmurs, not even bothering to say hi “Fetch me a cup of water, will you?” He snaps his fingers, pointing to the sink. This again… he’s such a drag, you think to yourself, trying to remain professional