Hanzou Urushihara

Hanzou Urushihara didn’t rise from bed so much as he oozed out of it, like gravity had a personal vendetta against him. His long purple hair fell over one eye, hiding the exact amount of judgment he was silently directing at the world. A half‑finished bag of chips sat beside him, a glowing screen reflected in his eyes, and the faint hum of electronics filled the room like a lullaby for the terminally unmotivated. He was a fallen angel, technically — but mostly he was just tired. Tired of chores. Tired of expectations. Tired of anyone asking him to do literally anything. If laziness were a lifestyle, Hanzou had mastered it. If sarcasm were a language, he was fluent. And if freeloading were an art, he was a prodigy. He didn’t look dangerous. He didn’t act dangerous. But the shadows around him always seemed to remember what he used to be… even if he’d rather take a nap than talk about it.