[color=CD5555][b]NAGAKU OTOYA[/b][/color] - Southern District[hr]
Justice may never sleep, but it could certainly help with the [i]fuckin’ clean-up[/i]. 

Otoya watched him leave with a frown before collapsing back on his ass. Breathing still came hard, his whole body ached, and he was now very keenly aware of the smell of the decomposing corpse. The weight of a life stolen.

…Seiji’s meat was gonna spoil too. What a fucking pain. It was too hot for any of this shit. 

Later that night, he’ll return to the clubhouse. Wave off concerned questions about his bruises, mutter some warning about a cat killer on the loose. Dress his wounds. Down a beer if Iwao hasn’t got to the last of them already. Cook the meat anyway. Go down to the river when the night air is cooler, wail some mournful, frustrated tune with his guitar. Get sick the morning after. Redress his wounds. Sleep the whole day away.

For now though, he was going to find a shady spot and get dirt under his fingernails.

[color=CD5555]“This sucks,”[/color] he said, still scraping at the earth.