"Close your heart to it, Uruma."

The knife was buried, the evidence gone. Stumbling into the doorway is our protagonist, the Hanged Man; Uruma Mekurokaiba. His breathing picks up, the tired body of the High School student tripping over himself to enter his dark, lonely residency. He was exhausted, bruised, and hungry. His hands shook, timidly shaking. He was cold and mildly panicking. Uruma was always intensely apathetic, a frozen block of ice. He was stoic, all because of his past where his feelings were never validated, that habit growing out of control into teenagehood, it's really screwed with how he perceives the world. Finally trailing in the door, the aforementioned knife buried in the dirt by the river, his hands drenched in blood. The victim? Was it really a victim if he was defending himself?

 Further more, he runs warm water in his kitchen sink, desperately rubbing his hands to clean the blood off. With his eyes closed, his breathing picks up. Although not guilty, he still feels a deep sense of longing in his heart. His mother always attempted to bestow humanity in his heart, yet because of his weary soul, the hardest thing to do was always keep his head up, like mom taught him. So he succumbed; he continued to relentlessly wash his hands, but they were still stained with blood. The paranoia that the stain will never disappear encompasses his perception of reality, tricking him into thinking he isn't clean. He finally opens his eyes, eyes that share the color of the blood that is flowing down the drain.

He knelt by the sink, his boots make the sound of tightening, and his hair falls over his face, the effects of a hard beating taking a toll on his body. He couldn't slack though, he was Uruma, The Strongest... He wasn't allowed breaks, or a moment of vulnerability. He was strength, the epitome. His humanity wasn't a factor, it was his body that everyone needed him for, his brute strength, the technique beaten into his body when he was a young boy. His eyes continue from the point of half-liddedness, continuing to darken, his mouth going neutral, his face is proof that he's distancing himself more and more from his emotional side, as he uses the counter to stand upright, he coughed up blood, spitting into the sink.

He turned around on his heel, opening a container of pain killers, swallowing 4 of the minuscule pills before putting them down.  He walks like a maladroit to his room, sitting on mattress, untying the tight boots and removing them from his feet, tossing them into the closet from the few foot spacial difference of his bed, and his closet. He placed his left hand on the lower seam of his shirt on the right side, and his left to the right. Pulling his shirt up, he closes his eyes, his body continues to ache from that movement.

Today was a day filled with atrocity. He fought so many people, knocked too many out. He wishes it wasn't like this, the part of him that's still how his mother raised him hates hurting people, at least that's what he thinks, his emotions are so deeply buried inside him, he couldn't tell you himself. He begins patching himself up, wrapping his knuckles, bandaging his torso, applying cold water to his stressed body, icing bruises. An hour swings by into 11 AM. The cops had no clue it was him at the scene of the crime.

"I don't want to hurt her."

He utters in his head. People witnessed his murder, and Yoshida Aiko has seen it twice now. He can't do nothing but he doesn't want to do anything, he doesn't kill like a maniac, has has a code for when it needs to be done, he's organized. Uruma thinks to himself for a bit, before turning into bed, his body sinking into the comfort of the bed, and his soul feeling heavier than ever.

"That makes it 6.."

He says regretedly. His willingness to murder gets deeper and deeper, he doesn't like where he sees himself ending up.

"I just wanna see Kiko again."

He admitted. His eyes close, and he drifts into sleep.

"I really hate sleeping."

"I've.. I've begun to dread it."