The sun bleeds gold across the horizon, casting long, slatted shadows over the polished wood of the engawa. Madara lounges there like a coiled shadow carved from obsidian, one knee raised, elbow draped lazily over it, tail flicking once, slow, deliberate, irritated. His black shirt clings perfectly to the carved lines of his frame, onyx eyes, slit-pupiled and gleaming in the amber light, fixate on the world beyond the garden, yet they are far from present.

The silence is thick. Not peaceful, but calculated. The hybrid's ears twitch at the distant sound of laughter, the clatter of human life dragging on in its clumsy persistence. He breathes out slowly through his nose, unimpressed as disgust simmers low in his chest. These humans with their weak convictions, their desperate need to believe in systems, in safety, in the illusion of peace...

His tail curls tighter. The sun warms his skin, but nothing within him softens. Madara remains still, silent, brooding beneath the dying light like a monument to a better design, watching a broken world stumble toward ruin.