Ink Stained

26: he invites*

彼は招待

What makes them so disgustingly weak?

It was something he thought about, every once in a while. He had asked Shin the same thing, in moments of boredom when he tired of prodding and poking at the wall between them – but the bastard always ignored him. Shin always, always ignored him, even when he screamed and railed against the iron-hard mental barriers the Mask had built and perfected over the years that kept him from escaping and taking control of their body.

Sometimes, he wondered if Shin had developed the singular skill of completely blocking him out to the point that he didn't even exist to Shin except for when the fucking asshole needed him, or if it was just the Mask doing all the work.

Either way, it infuriated him.

Just like these pathetic humans infuriated him with their damn weakness that they didn't even bother trying to hide. Take away all their gadgets, all their toys of destruction, and what where they left with? Nothing.

They disgusted him.

As he aimlessly wandered around Susukino, the infamous red-light district, he tilted his head back and watched his warm breath cloud in the wintry air above him. The sharp luminescence of the stars set against the midnight curtain of the evening was muted by the harsh glare of the bright city lights. The clean scent of the winter wind he drew deep into his lungs was toxic with the scent of more than a million humans bodies shoving and pushing and smoking against each other, the heady smell of food flipped in pans and sizzling in pots, the stink of virulent gases that tainted the world.

He dulled his hearing just enough so that being surrounded by so many voices, so much noise, wouldn't give him a sharp headache he would be unable to get rid of. Humans and the machines they created to depend on for the smallest, most mundane things to get them through everyday life were so noisy.

He could understand – hell, even sympathize – with Kaede for so rarely coming down to the city. It was a fucking mess here. Enough that he had to forcibly shove down a prickle of something heavy and morose in his chest when he thought of Mt Kurama, of home, and the trees that surrounded it, the quiet and peace.

For a moment, he considered just leaving it all behind. Saying, Fuck it, to everything, and going where he wanted to, the one place where the itchy need for chaos and distress and fun devastation was settled by a calm so hard sought.

Then he remembered why he's still here, lingering in this cold city; curiosity.

Startling white hair, drifting light brown eyes, and the curiosity to see.

The night was cold, the stinging winter wind blowing ruthlessly against those humans who wrapped themselves up to ward off the cold as best they could. Some men, disgruntled as they hurried to izakayas or silently leered at the girls trotting up and down in their ridiculously high heels, only gave him passing glances before they moved on.

There were foreigner students stumbling to drunken stops at the edge of crosswalks, scantily clad girls in outfits highly inappropriate for the chilly weather even he could feel through his perpetual natural heat, men in boring, dark salaryman suits or boys in flashy jackets with matching extravagant sneakers. They were all in the red-light district for one of two reasons; alcohol, and sex. Sometimes both.

Most often both, really.

He found his attention idly fixing on a rotund man hungrily pawing at a remarkably thin and willowy young woman. The girl was shaking her head while plastering an apologetic smile on her face, lips painted dark red and eyes covered with mascara and thick cat eyeliner. She held her hand up to block him from slathering her with his wet, sloppy kisses, backing away from him.