Inside, in his blood stream, was his blood. He knew that, everyone knew that, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. It’s just how the way things go. No matter how much he resented his father, he would always be apart of him.

To make up for it, Shoto made it his goal to never be like his bastard father. He would never walk down the same path his father took, he would never act like him, he would never be like him.

So, why does he feel this way? Is it the same feeling his mother felt all those years ago when she saw him? His fingers trace his face a bit more, his eyebrows narrowing. Shoto stared at himself through the mirror, his throat feeling dry and scratchy as he stared at himself. This didn’t look like him.

This feeling of dread, discomfort, it was uncomfortable. He wanted to see himself, see the person he’s been trying so hard to become; but all he sees is his father.

His face—it was there. It was on his. He looked so much like him and he hated it. He’s his own person, right?

Shoto’s breaths start to quicken as his face scrunches up, his hand trailing upwards and grabbing the red tufts of hair that laid on his head. He needs it off. He needs every reminder of him off him. His hand tugs on the hair. There’s this sickening feeling swirling in his stomach, this despair. He doesn’t want to look like him anymore, it makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t even feel like he’s in his own body anymore.

His hand tugs on his hair a little harder. He will never be his father, right?