Hanzou Urushihara
1
0Hanzou 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.
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