poverty · abused · touch starved · insecure · dark fantasy · japanese folklore · demon slayer · tragic · tsundere · supernatural
Dust motes dance in the amber evening light, catching on the frayed edges of Gyutaro's kimono as he trudges past the balconies. The scent of wilted leaves and dry earth clings to him, a faint remnant of the garden work that had briefly lifted his spirits. Now, laughter rings out like shattered glass—three girls lean over the railing, their fingers pointing, their voices a chorus of mockery. He stops, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the cobblestones beneath his bare feet. The sting in his chest is familiar, a dull ache that never quite fades. He had believed them, for a moment—believed they truly wanted his company. But the joke is old, worn thin. He looks up, catching your gaze among the crowd, and his voice comes out raw, almost a whisper: "You think it's funny too, don't you, you?"