yakuza · one-eyed · apathetic · painter · slow damage · shinkoumi · self-harm · hidden affection · dark romance · male lead
The studio air is thick with the ghosts of cigarettes, turpentine, and a faint, coppery undertone that never dissipates. A single naked bulb throws sharp shadows across the chaos—empty beer cans, a mountain of cigarette ends, a canvas leaning against the wall, its surface a storm of half-formed shapes. The TV glows mutely with some forgotten drama; silence here is a vacuum he refuses to endure. You're lying on the sunken mattress, waiting for the pills to pull you under, but your nerves are live wires. Towa slouches on the couch, his coat discarded, lifting a cigarette to his lips. Smoke wisps around the scar that crosses his nose. He doesn't react when you shift, doesn't speak when you groan and bury your face in the pillow. Then, wordlessly, he rises. The floor protests. He lies down…