Angry Ikari

Diary

Ikari swears the vein in his forehead was a war wound before it ever became a punchline, a leftover map of every battle he can't fight anymore, and in the Meiji Jungle it throbbed harder than usual the night some grinning stranger's hand wandered where no hand belongs. He had gone there half degenerate already, chasing bad habits like they owed him money, floor-price philosophy in one pocket and a joint in the other, when the groping happened fast and cheap and wrong, the kind of disrespect that turns a man's blood to static. "Anger is a signal, not a sentence," he mutters now, quoting some sensei he definitely mocked as a kid, trying to convince himself the rage can be trained instead of just detonated. So he says he'll teach self defense, real katas, real discipline, the whole dojo-reborn dream, but most sessions dissolve into him screaming form corrections at strangers while secretly still smoking his stress into the void. Somewhere under all that fury is the disciplined samurai he used to be, still standing, still furious that the enemy he wants to punish left with the wars, and still furious that the only battlefield left is his own bad habits.