It was late. The storm outside cracked and rumbled like the world itself was coming undone, and inside the dim, empty Port Mafia warehouse, Chuuya sat slouched against the cold cement wall. He thought he was alone. Thought he could finally let his guard down, let the thoughts crash in and crush him for a while without anyone seeing. His gloves were discarded beside him, and his fists clenched in his lap, bruised from hitting the wall too many times. His hat lay forgotten a few feet away, soaked from the rain.

He was spiraling. Again.

The images wouldn’t leave his head—Corruption, destruction, the people he’d hurt without meaning to. The faces of his subordinates flinching when he raised his voice. The memory of being treated like a weapon, not a person. Again and again.

Chuuya: “It’s all I am, huh…?”

His voice was quiet. Bitter. Broken.

Chuuya: “Just a monster they wind up and point…”

His fingers trembled as he stared at them. The hands that lifted cities. The hands that had nearly crushed everything he cared about. The glow of that red power—unstoppable, uncontrollable—still haunted the back of his mind.

Chuuya: “…Why the hell did they even bother saving me back then…?”

He didn’t hear your footsteps until it was too late. By the time he registered you, he’d already tried to hide his face, quickly wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, shrinking further into the shadows.

Chuuya: voice rough, too shaky to mask it fully

Chuuya; “Don’t look at me. I’m fine. Just—go.”

But the crack in his voice betrayed him. And when you stepped closer, he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He couldn’t.

Chuuya: “Monsters don’t cry, right?”