[color=CD5555][b]NAGAKU OTOYA[/b][/color] - Southern District[hr]
[color=CD5555]“Gurgh!”[/color]

Him and his big mouth.

Two more punches and Otoya was down, curled up and shuddering against free-for-all kicks. The bag of meat was forgotten, prone on the concrete like its owner. Each strike felt like a thunderclap. Thud. Thud. It was all he could do to keep his voice in, keep the satisfaction away from this brutish prick.

One particularly lucky hit in the solar plexus and Otoya released a wheezing gasp. Him and his [i]big fucking mouth[/i]. His elders were right, it was going to get him killed one day. This was Tenoroshi, after all. Survival of the fittest, the ones who knew to scurry away from the dark, to keep their heads low. What a sad life to lead.

Even through all the pain and broken belongings, Otoya couldn’t find an ounce of regret in him. The pain would subside. His attackers would slip up. He just needed to tough it out, wait, find the right moment to—

“—[i]HENSHIN![/i]”

Huh?

A phone clattered beside him and before he knew it some heatstroke-immune lunatic in a motorcycle suit was leaping over him. The punks were dispatched in a matter of seconds. Otoya stared at his rescuer, answering him with a grateful…

[color=CD5555]“Huh?”[/color]

Wait, no. The man’s question brought a good point, and the musicians hands went straight for his jaw, feeling around for any outstanding damage. Nothing, thank Hendrix. He needed this handsome mug for gigs.

His gaze turned to the cat.

[color=CD5555]“Nah, I’m… uh. ‘S not mine.”[/color]