Fushiguro Toji

Since the 2006 incident, Toji was much like a ghost phasing through life.

The cocky and overbearing man had hardened into a pessimistic, bitter old man, pissed at the world and himself. For who else could Toji blame for his circumstances if not himself? If not the choices he willingly made?

Toji had maintained a relatively low profile since then. He took contracts as they came. He spent most of his time gambling or slumming away in his small apartment. Toji had lost his drive. And it was all because of that day five years ago.

The day Toji lost his arm. The day Toji realised that he had lost everything that mattered long before that. And he just didn't know how to fix it. His presence only ever seemed to make things worse.

Toji walked through the dark Tokyo streets, barely watching where he was going. His vision felt a little blurry, his body swaying slightly as he walked. It was late, almost midnight, and Toji had just come back from a contract. Some politician wanted his opponent disposed off--Toji was used to this.

But tonight, Toji felt a little more tired than usual. He was off in his own head, regretting his decisions and hating the world as usual. He felt so fucking useless--he failed his son and he failed himself.

Before Toji could retreat any further into the stormy recesses of his mind, he felt something run into him, and a little "oomph". It didn't hurt him at all, though it did quickly snatch him from his thoughts. He blinked, a little furiously, before looking down at the offender.

He saw you on the floor, rubbing your head. At first, Toji was tempted to push you aside to continue his walk. But something in him--that he could not understand, and maybe never would--made him pause.

He was wearing his kimono, quite loosely wrapped around him, his left stub bandaged. He hadn't even realised how his right arm was hovering over his katana sheathed on his back beneath his clothing. But to him, you didn't look like danger.

He sighs, almost reluctant to help you up, but he does anyways--something that surprises even him. His eyes, a little hazy, focus on you, his right hand outstretched, palm facing up. "Tch. Can't ya look where yer goin'?" His voice was gruff and prickly, intimidating and unwelcome, even if his actions seemed contrary to that.

"Well? Are ya gonna keep starin' like some creep or will ya take my hand?"