Blue Butterfly | Amajiki Tamaki

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3rd POV

King grew restless.

His [e/c] eyes bulged in their sockets, narrowing his scrutiny on the exuberant hustle and bustle of the Hanamatsuri Festival below the building he was dangling his legs from; his glower an odd mix of malaise, curiosity and frustration—three emotions he couldn't quite fathom at that moment.

The lambent light from the string of lanterns shed a dim glow in the overwhelming banquet of darkness, fading like red sparks in the dead of night. If it weren't for his searing cigarette, wisps of smoke wafting in the crispy air, his lifeless eyes would not have been lit by the burning bliss unfurling with the cacophonous chatter erupting from the citizens. He blew a shaky breath, releasing the tension in his stiff shoulders and removed the pent-up frustration in his system in a few more tufts.

Chisaki Kai—the young man that a partial of King's wrath was directed at, gritting his teeth before tossing his cigarette into the crowd, the glowing tip vanishing between shifting bodies.

"Fuck Chiswick," he grumbled.

Although, he was tolerable in the board meeting and helped him, King was still quaking with resentment. They never got along; their personalities clashed and their goals led them in different directions—a sense of friendship would never bloom between them.

Never.

Despite being so young with a cynical, sinister mind, King could not comprehend why his boss placed an abundance of faith in Chisaki, nor did he understand the reasoning behind his actions. 'Why was Chisaki chosen as the next successor?'

King had been in the villain business far longer than Chisaki had, his soul quivering with reminisces which dated back to his prime. He was more thoroughly experienced in raids; he had more connections in the black market and knew the city's routes like the back of his hand, and he certainly believed he held the power to uphold such a huge responsibility.

Yet, why?

Was it because Chisaki's Quirk was on a whole different level, the sheer strength of Overhaul incapable of leaving nothing but pools of blood and limbs in the aftermath? Sure, he could get the job done—so could King, but somehow the former was granted with the opportunity of the lifetime, not him.

"Bullshit," King spat, springing upright and dragging his feet over the cold concrete of the roof. "I don't need them, I can get things done on my own."

'I wonder why I put up with them,'  he wondered; that was something he began questioning himself lately.

He was a regular thug during his teens and kept quiet about his night activities whenever he popped up at school; during the day he was [Surname] [d/n], your stereotype, casual nice guy with fake smiles on display to please people, and by night, he let the real him devour the facade he created.

He loved living in the moment, whether it was during a random street-fight with gangs or breaking in the local stores for fun, the thrill of doing anything he wanted was the drug he couldn't stop consuming.

Even now, King was taken aback by the fact he used to have a family; people who he could share benign laughs with and cradle the warmth flaring in his home, but that was long gone. He loved his wife, his child but he tossed those unnecessary emotions in the dark under when it wasn't enough. He was bound to the organisation; their loyal mutt that sniffed out the dirty work—to put it simple, he couldn't run away from his past.

So King cut ties prior that night with Chisaki and his hooligans, managing to slaughter at least five people in the board meeting room, satisfaction sculpturing onto his chiseled face at the lingering memory. His hidden blade was still buried into the depth of his right pocket, drenched in rusty, metallic blood that dried overnight.