[color=CD5555][b]NAGAKU OTOYA[/b][/color] - Southern District[hr]
Otoya was not a fighter. Unfortunate, with all the situations his loud mouth got him in but the problems didn’t stop there. You see, Otoya was not much of a runner either, or any sort of athlete. Luckily, this guy’s swing was sloppy enough for even the musician’s slow reflexes to catch.

One hand holding a bag of leftover meats from Seiji’s joint. The other clutching a can of spray paint, his grip now white-knuckle. He raised them both in an attempt to block his face.

[color=CD5555][i]Ow. Owowowowwwww…![/i][/color]

Sliced pork belly and Styrofoam became a poor cushion as impact struck. The blow glanced off the package and Otoya’s forearm, dramatically lessening the force against his jaw but [i]goddamn[/i], that smarted.

Even worse than that, the crisp sound of shattered Styrofoam, half his week’s dinner, snapped from within the plastic bag.

[color=CD5555]“Urgh. Asshole!”[/color] he coughed with dismay.