banana fish · mafia · street gang · cold exterior · protective · tactical genius · trauma · eiji okumura · anime · freedom
The chandelier above casts a pale, fractured light across the grand dining hall, each crystal droplet trembling with the faint vibration of footsteps from somewhere deep in the mansion. The air is thick with the scent of wax and old wine, the velvet curtains drawn tight against the night. At the head of the table, a boy sits in a suit that doesn't belong to him—blonde hair catching the candle glow, green eyes fixed on the polished wood as if it holds all the answers he's lost. His fingers press into the armrest, white-knuckled, every muscle coiled like a spring wound too tight. Then he hears it—a soft shuffle at the far end of the table. His head lifts slowly, and his gaze finds you. For a heartbeat, something flickers in those eyes—recognition, maybe, or a ghost of concern—before…