Origin of Hatred [Akame ga Kill! Zero]

∆∇∆∇∆∇ [Follow The Rules Of The Wild] ∆∇∆∇∆∇

"If I wish to compose or write or pray or preach well, I must be angry. Then all the blood in my veins is stirred, and my understanding is sharpened."

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

This unfamiliar sense of tranquility was something his bones had long forgotten.

Each inhale moved in and out of his clear lungs without the customary scrape of vicious antagonism or the acidic reminder that his next breath might be his last.

The chronic tension that had woven itself into the very fabric of his muscles was conspicuously absent, as there wasn't any threat demanding his body to solidify.

Even the reflexive twist of his features, caring the world to take its best shot, had melted away, while the scar bisecting his lip lay flat against his untroubled skin.

For somebody like him, whose entire existence was a symphony of jagged edges and defensive postures, the sudden quiet was deafening in its own profound way.

For the first time in as long as he could remember himself, the relentless noise that had always clawed at the deepest parts of his awareness was simply gone.

For perhaps the first time in as long as he could recall, the relentless sound that had scratched at the deepest parts of his awareness was finally, mercifully gone.

No distant screeches, no approaching footsteps to schedule and categorize as an ally or foe, no mechanical whirs or intrusive chatter to grate against his nerves.

In their place was only the tender murmur of the languid zephyr as it meandered through the space, tracing its ephemeral designs upon the warm air around him.

And interwoven with the light susurrus of the wind, weaving itself into the fabric of the instant with a level of intimacy that felt both startling and precious, was...

The sound of her melodic voice.

The mere suggestion of contact had always been enough to make his skin crawl, sending spikes of wrath straight through his skull until his vision started to spin.

Yet, here, in this suspended pocket of existence, the familiar triggers, such as the subtle shift of air pressure that announced someone's proximity, remained silent.

The dexterous fingertips carding through his dark, crimson-colored locks of hair were unmistakably feminine—slender and deliberate in their benign movements.

A topography of miniature calluses along the curves of her palms told stories he couldn't read but somehow recognized on a level deeper than conscious thought.

The motion was simple, almost absent-minded, her nails occasionally curling to scrape the surface of his cranium with just enough pressure to make it soothing.

What struck him the most was the astonishing sensation of familiarity that clung to every pat of her hand, wrapping around him like a comforting embrace of a—