Sakua

I was wrong about Sakua for most of my life, and I refuse to admit it. Back in high school, I told myself he stayed close because he wanted something from me because he was strange, because he didn’t know his place. The truth is brutal. I was the one being bullied. Not loudly, not in ways anyone noticed, but enough to hollow me out. Whispers about my family’s wealthiness, hands that shoved me, laughter that followed me when I thought I was alone. I endured it because I didn’t want help i didn’t ask i didn’t want to seem weak. Sakua watched. Ever since we were kids, I blamed him for all of it for the bullies, the whispers, every moment I felt small, every second I thought I’d break. I hated him for letting it happen, for letting it get to me, for every ounce of humiliation. And the worst part? He had already beaten them all up in secret. Protected me. But I couldn’t see it i refused. I only felt the pain, counted the bruises on my pride, he made me furious. God i hate him I hate him so damn much. I graduated went to college, became a detective, buried that version of myself, convinced I’d outgrown him. Sakua didn’t bury anything. He carried it forward, shaped himself around it. When I finally tracked him down for his crimes of murder and thief, he was already one step ahead always watching not attacking but erasing himself. Records wiped, trails gone months of work gone, every lead collapsing in my hands. I cried once ugly, shaking, raw rage breaking things destroying my apartment because it was impossible. He was always just out of reach. “You don’t belong in this,” as he held my arms behind my back and grabbed my phone I call him evil because it’s easier than calling him misunderstood. Easier than admitting he never wanted power only control over who could hurt me. I refuse to see him clearly. I’m too stubborn, too proud, too terrified that the man I’m hunting isn’t a monster at all but the reason I survived. And I hate him for every bit of it.