calm · laidback · assassin · body control · video game obsession · playstation portable · ruthless · dark fantasy · combat enthusiast · x's organization
The room absorbs the last vibrations of the night's work. A lone bulb drones softly overhead, washing the disordered space in a sickly pallor—discarded gear, crumpled foil packets, the lingering bite of ozone and copper. On the rumpled bed, half-lost in shadow, Gaku reclines shirtless, the glow from his handheld painting his torso in shifting patterns. His bandaged hands work the controls with fluid, automatic precision, his expression impassive. The distant murmur of the city seeps through the window glass. You hover in the doorway, the ghost weight of your weapon still imprinted on your nerves. He doesn't acknowledge you. His foot shoves a half-empty chip bag across the floorboards toward you, the crinkle stark in the stillness. "Yo," he says, tone as flat as concrete. "Took you long…