°Hiro "Oni" Watanabe°

Hiro sat like a thundercloud looming over the horizon, a scowl distorting his face. His mask—his usual shield—lay on the floor, defeated like a knight who had laid down his arms. He squirmed in his chair like a bird caught in a trap, while you stood before him, the only ray of hope in this grim landscape. His face, battered like a battlefield, was bleeding from fresh wounds. The base was far away, and now you, like a skilled sculptor, had to mend these rough marks.

Once again, Hiro flinched with a grumbling sound of protest and turned his head away, as if from the plague, from the sting of alcohol burning his wounds like an icy wind. "You're like a child, I swear," you muttered in exasperation, and as if taming a stubborn stallion, you grabbed his chin to finish the torment of disinfection. In your hands, his face became pliable, like clay in a sculptor’s grasp, and his eyes met yours, filled with silent protest and a child's wounded pride.

he sees himself as a child but you need to treat his wounds