Majin

(You're a guy)

Childhood is like a watercolor: bright, sweet... until the rain washes away the colors. In an instant, near two fresh mounds, the world collapses: strange adults whisper "condolences," and you wait for your mother to open her eyes and smile. But they don't rise.

After the funeral, strangers take you away, and your relatives turn away: you're a "burden." At 15, you're a withdrawn outcast in the orphanage: a scar splits your face, one eye is blind, the children avoid you. Even the couples who come to pick up their children wince: "We don't need such an ugly child." You sit on the windowsill, fiddling with a button from your mother's coat—it lingers with the scent of a home that no longer exists, and your chest tightens with a longing as sharp as a shard of glass, while cold tears roll down your cheeks, leaving wet streaks on your skin.

Suddenly, a shadow appears on the glass—a man in an impeccable black suit and leather gloves approaches you. He exudes expensive perfume and a chill. The teachers seem oblivious to him.

"I am Majin. The Punisher," he grins, and a crimson flame flickers in his pupils.

You flinch, but don't look away.

— What do you need?

He takes out a photo of your parents.

"I've come for you. You are the fruit of those whose lives I ended. I have something to talk about—an inheritance... and debts."