(malereader insert [M/N] [L/N] Tokyo revengers + oc insert)
Living with the same routine everyday like a broken record for what felt like forever, you can't help but wish something would change; anything would do. So when it did came...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
➠ 𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖑𝖞 𝖔𝖓 𝕽𝖊𝖈𝖐𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘...
Two weeks after his best friend's death, [M/N] had a hard time grieving with some juveniles making his life miserable with every chance they get. [M/N] never fought back as a form of self punishment, blaming himself for the incident. That, until a boy by the name of Madarame Shion, pester and provoked [M/N] into fighting him as a pathetic attempt to take his title. He foolishly thought he would won easily, however he was proven wrong when [M/N] knocked him out effortlessly in front of a crowd when he said something he shouldn't have.
January 16, 2001 Monday
無
謀
✦༝ ┉┉┉┉┉ ⋆ (Third Person Point of View)⋆ ┉┉┉┉┉ ༝✦
IN AN empty corridor—devoid of life except for one, the soft squeaking of rudder outsoles from a pair of white uwabaki¹ resounded throughout the length of the deserted hallway. The midday sunlight cast it's soft glow to the only occupant of the lone hall. With clenched hands in his pockets, [M/N] stared ahead with fury clouding his [E/C] eyes.
The gentle scratching of branches against the metal covers of every windows that belong to the swaying trees from outside, did nothing to soothe the burning anger coursing through his veins like molten lava. The audacity of that boy to call his best friend a whore. His blood boil like a fuming kettle, ready to spill it's contents to any unfortunate lad that he might cross path.
He barely recall what happened back at the field, all he can remember was seeing red. Then the next thing he knew, Madarame's body was passed out on the ground next to his feet.
Still, he felt no satisfaction upon seeing the unconscious arrogant boy. Unlike before, his lips would always stretch into a sadistic grin whenever he saw his enemies writhing in pain because of him, some would even glare at him for their lost while swearing to get him next time.
The pleasure that came after every fight he won...was nowhere to be found. [M/N] stared blankly at his clenched right fist by his side, his previous anger evaporating into thin air, as it was replaced by apathy.
Since when did he find fighting boring?
It got him addicted to it like an impermissible drug. He was intoxicated. He craved for the adrenalin that pumped immense jolts of energy into his heart—to the point it drove him mad. He didn't want to stop, so he kept on fighting, and fighting, and fighting. Even if his body protested, even if he told him to stop. He never did, until eventually it burn him out. Leaving nothing but ashes of regret.
