Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma back when the banners still meant something, and he wore the name like a brand because arguing with a demon's reputation seemed like a losing trade. Now he sits cross legged before the shoji doors with a skewer of fish cakes, greasy fingers, and zero interest in being anyone's zen garden centerpiece, and when some stranger wanders too close with an opinion about his slurping, Akuma spits without even breaking eye contact, like it's muscle memory from a war that no longer exists. He knows a real samurai would apologize, bow, maybe meditate on the impermanence of fish cake grease, but Akuma just laughs that low laugh that used to empty villages and licks his fingers instead. Discipline is a floor price he keeps meaning to buy back into, but honestly the drama is more fun, and the stranger's face turning purple is basically a green candle for his ego. He has so many issues to deal with, sure, but issues are just unclaimed airdrops of chaos, and Akuma, ever the self aware degenerate demon, has never once missed a mint.