[color=CD5555][b]NAGAKU OTOYA[/b][/color] - Southern District[hr]
[i]Click-clackclackclackclack.[/i]

The sound comforted him. Something crisp to cut through the hazy afternoon. It felt like the whole goddamn city was melting under this heat. Seeping.

A backpack full of art supplies resting on his shoulders. One hand holding a bag of leftover meats from Seiji’s joint. The other clutching a can of spray paint, shaking it idly. It wasn’t a coincidence that he had it out at this moment. In this part of town, it never was.

[i]Click-clackclackclack.[/i]

Another prod into a small body.

The musician counted the sounds, letting the clicks play out. Gave it a few more seconds to see if he calmed down.

Across the street, the delinquent stuck his knife in.

Otoya watched. Hm, yeah. Nah. These little shits were bouta get it.

He was no stranger to depravity. People got their rocks off plenty of ways, habitually crashing down the street from Den-Setsu taught a guy all sortsa things. What Otoya couldn’t stand though, was desecration. Injustice. [i]Disrespect.[/i] There wasn’t a person in the world he’d trust to measure the value of a life, especially not these fuckin’ clowns. Cat, dog, human, every creature should have some dignity in death.

Ah man, he was getting heated up now. People were always warning him against running his mouth. Shoving his way into someone’s business. Tenoroshi wasn’t a place to cultivate bad blood, they said. An extinguished life here would be forgotten quicker than the spare change in a glovebox.

Otoya felt his neck creak. Ya know what though? Just because those people were right, doesn’t mean they weren’t also purposeless idiots.

In a quick few strides he was at the leader’s six, close enough to grab the scruff of his shirt and start spraying onto the back a cat with crosses for eyes.