On the run from her father, a well known underground mafia boss in Tokyo, Amara Fujimoto runs to New York City after the callous death of her mother. With unforeseen circumstances, she stumbles upon the offer of joining an assassination agency in ho...
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Warnings:
Vulgar/ Explicit Language
Humiliation
Slight Violence?
With each stride down the lighted hall, her mind became more clear, more resolute, as if the growing physical distance between her and the now chaos lounge had now become an emotional chasm. Amara didn't know how long she had been walking for, but she did know one thing.
She was lost.
It didn't bother her really, it helped clear her mind from the events that had recently occurred. She knew she was on the highest floor; the hallway being illuminated by the full moon. Large glass widows covered the wall to her left, revealing outside. Lost in her thoughts, she thought about how it was possible for Jean to know about not only the conflict between her and her father, but her ethnic background. She stopped near the closet window, peering outside a window.
"Erwin must have done a profiling on me, as expected." She said to herself, sighing deeply.
To profile someone meant extrapolating information about the person based on traits, behavior, ethnicity, and past tendencies. This was something Amara was familiar with, as she had done a few herself in the past so it was understandable as to why one was done on her.
Though, it was frustrating, not being able to escape her past. What she despised the most was her ethnic background being brought up and thrown in her face. It was a constant reminder of the endless bullying she endured in her time as a youth. Never was there a day she wasn't looked down upon as a disgrace. In Amara's mind, her coming into this world was a mistake, a sin; and she slowly started to believe that a disgrace was what she really was. Pausing to close her eyes and take in a deep breath, she steeled herself to only think of her future from here on in. A future she would mold, build, direct. But it failed. The air was suddenly rent by the sound of breaking glass, as her fist collided into the window, the glass cracking upon impact.
Retracting her hand from the window, a crimson red liquid leaked from her knuckles; the cool air hitting the wound made her wince.
"¡Mierda!" She says in a loud whisper, before examining her hand. There were small shards of glass in her flesh and the blood seemed to run non-stop. It was certainly going to leave a scar.
