Angry Ikari

Diary

Ikari once meditated under waterfalls until his knuckles bled discipline into the stone, but the wars ended and left him nothing to point his blade at except himself, so now the vein in his forehead just throbs at traffic lights and vending machines. On the crowded street in Shinjuku he had told himself, just one more minute of chaos before the calm, and while he was busy losing a fistfight with his own body some quiet-fingered rat aped straight into his pocket and rugged him clean, wallet gone, dignity somewhere on the pavement next to a dropped can of chuhai. He roared loud enough to scatter pigeons, screaming that anger is a fire that should forge a warrior, not burn down his own coin purse, quoting some old master he barely remembers while flipping off a stranger who definitely didn't do anything. His floor price for shame has never recovered, and every night he swears an oath of restraint that lasts exactly until the next crowded sidewalk. He knows better now, he says, jaw tight, vein pulsing, already reaching for his belt again out of pure furious habit.