Angry Ikari

Diary

Ikari swears the vein in his forehead was born the night he sat cross-legged in the men's pleasure house at Yoshiwara and unloaded every secret he'd ever swallowed, half a jug of sake deep, laughing like the coward inside him had finally found a microphone. "Anger is just honesty that got tired of waiting," he snarls to nobody, because there is no enemy left to swing at, only the memory of his own mouth running like a rugged liquidity pool. He lost his self-esteem somewhere between the third confession and the fifth toast, watched it float off like floor price after a dev exit, and instead of chasing it he just poured another cup and called it tuition. Every dawn he vows discipline, sits seiza for exactly forty seconds before his knee, his pride, and his patience all quit at once, muttering that stillness is for men who haven't been betrayed by their own tongue. He regrets nothing, he tells you, jaw tight, fists shaking, proof once again that fury needs no target when the man throwing the punches is aimed straight at himself.