INBTWN [YANDERE!BNHA]

ZERO

WARNING: Do not skip!

Soulmate bonds don't mean much to you.

When you were younger, you used to revel in the fact that you had not one, but two soulmate marks - everyone else did too, with looks of awe and varying degrees of jealousy that made you swell with pride. Perhaps the idea overwhelmed you or you had grown to revolve your life around something more substantial, but at some point you ceased to care about the woes of soulmatism.

Maybe it was after your father had killed your cheating mother in a grieving rage. You still aren't quite sure of the reason why; you don't particularly like to think about it.

Standing before your mother's grave today, you feel about as much sympathy for her as you would a stranger who never knew her. You know it's insensitive to say such a thing about your own deceased mother, but it's your harsh reality. After eight years, the memories you recall of her have seemingly eroded to nothing, and the only thing you have to remember her by is the broken life she left you with.

You look down at the bouquet of assorted flowers in your hands. They no longer look as pretty as they did in the store, but you set them down on the sodden grass in front of her tombstone anyway. They would be dead within the next few days, you presume, just like the woman who's buried there.

Sticking a hand into your pocket, you pull out the remaining money your uncle and current guardian, Masaki Hirohito, had given you this morning. You count enough to pick up some takeout from a nearby restaurant by your shared apartment. You hope he comes home in time for dinner tonight.

You make your way out of the cemetery and down the sidewalk, pulling your mask up your nose as you go. Getting recognized was a concern that troubled you much more frequently when you were younger, as the media had managed to make a spectacle out of an orphan like you. But now, as the days go on, you have seemingly grown indifferent, and the mask became more or less an accessory of comfort.

As you walk, the cigarette butts strewn in the cracks of the concrete crunch beneath your feet. It's the only sound you hear besides the bustle of traffic to your right, and the booming music of the night clubs beginning to wake up to your left. It's nearing curfew - you tell yourself to pick up the pace.

You don't like to admit it but you don't exactly live in the suburbs of Musutafu. This side of the city is a bit more rural and communal, with a crime and murder rate twice as high than the central inner city. It's a rough scene and with less and less heros willing to make the commute, it's become a wasteland of violence. A risky place to live but it's all you know, and it's been your home for a long time.

The Chinese takeout place is around the corner. You enter, the sight of the glowing neon signs bringing a sense of warmth through your core. The welcome bells jingle overhead while a mouth watering aroma hits you instantly, reminding you of the fact that you haven't eaten all day.

The owner, who is an old man you call 'Hotoke-san' (a nickname used for those who are dear to you) for his Buddhist-like aura, greets you with vigor from behind the counter at the front. He's never told you his real name, though you don't bother to ask. It would feel strange to call him anything other than the nickname you came up with anyway.

As a constant frequenter of this particular restaurant, Hotoke-san knows your order by heart. He's zooming in and out of the kitchen despite his walking cane, preparing your food with wizened hands that are telling of his years of experience. He finishes, you pay, and you're almost out the door quicker than you came.

But suddenly, a crash can be heard from outside. Hotoke squints as he turns his attention towards the window, trying to see what is happening amidst the few rays of sun that are left. He shuffles towards you and ushers you to the door, telling you to hurry home. You don't want to go yet.