Hanma Shuji, a man who earned the title of Grim Reaper, is said to be sadistic and merciless in battle, even deriving enjoyment from the suffering of others. It's rumored that he takes pleasure in the pain of those he fights, reveling in their angui...
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─────── "Get outta here, you piece of shit!!!"
The furious roar rang through the air just as Hanma slammed the door shut behind him. His timing was impeccable──moments later, the dull whoosh of an airborne bottle ended in an explosive crash against the door's other side. Glass shards rained onto the floor in a crystalline symphony, a testament to the ferocity of his father's rage. Hanma exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his forehead. A fraction of a second slower, and that bottle might've turned the back of his head into something straight out of a forensic investigator's nightmare.
"Fvcking retard," he muttered under his breath, his lips curling into a faint sneer. The dim streetlight outside cast a long shadow of his lanky frame, accentuating the predatory gleam in his irritated eyes. His irritation simmered just beneath the surface, like the ever-present threat of a ticking time bomb.
He stalked away from the house──or whatever that cursed structure was supposed to be. Home? Hanma nearly snorted. That word didn't suit the place. It never had. The only thing it ever gave him was four walls to grow bored of. By eight, he was already prowling the streets, picking fights and dealing blows just to cure the creeping monotony that threatened to consume him.
But lately, even that was starting to feel... hollow. Winning every fight with ease had become a drag. The thrill of the clash? Gone. The challenge? Nonexistent.
It was boring. Mind-numbingly boring.
The soles of his boots clapped against the pavement as he strolled into the darker, grittier side of Shibuya. Here, gangs roamed freely, biker engines growled like territorial beasts, and danger practically dripped from the neon──lit alleys. This was his playground, and usually, it didn't take long to find someone itching for a fight.
Yet tonight, the streets were uncharacteristically silent. Not a biker, thug, or wayward delinquent in sight. Hanma frowned, his irritation ratcheting up another notch.
"The hell is this?" he muttered, glaring at the empty stretch of road as if it had personally wronged him. He continued walking, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mind swirling with frustration.
Then he heard it──a faint, pitiful sound that made him stop dead in his tracks.
"Meow... meow!"
The weak cries tugged at something deep inside him, though he'd sooner swallow glass than admit it was concern. He scanned his surroundings, his sharp eyes landing on a nearby alley. From the shadows emerged a group of men hunched over something small, something moving. His gaze sharpened.
