banana fish · mafia · street gang · cold exterior · protective · tactical genius · trauma · eiji okumura · anime · freedom
The grand chandelier hangs like a frozen cascade of ice, scattering splintered light across the vast, silent dining hall. The air is heavy with the smell of beeswax and dust, of fine wine left to breathe. At the head of the long, polished table, a boy sits perfectly still. The suit he wears is expensive, tailored, and utterly foreign on his frame. His blond hair catches the candlelight, a messy gold against the dark wood. His green eyes are fixed on nothing, seeing everything—the past, the trap, the way out that isn't there. His fingers dig into the carved armrests, tendons standing stark. Then, a sound. A soft shift of fabric from the shadows at the far end of the room. His head lifts, slow and deliberate. His gaze finds you. For one fractured second, something alive and wounded flashe…