Power, he wanted power. Power to split the world into even and odd pieces, power to climb the tower of skeletons, power to drop the moon.

Taboo felt oily, viscous and gelatinous. Hot as lava, wriggling inside his body, it filled his mouth with the taste of coal. It painted his arms and chest with dark swirls, but that was fine, since black suited him much better than pale and blinding white ever could. With a smirk on his face, he hearkened them to be the best kind of tattoos Shibuya could offer. Graffiti was everywhere, and he was the grandest and most recent piece of art, even if the paint on his body felt greasy against his skin.

He didn't know of its power until one day, he kicked a parked car in a fit of rage, and it went flying through an abandoned building. After the dust cleared, he felt the fire coursing through him, warmer than ever.

Suddenly, he was alive. With the oil rippling across his muscles, he'd outrun the wind and burst easily through stone. The black made him more powerful than he could ever equate himself to be.

Using it, he was the lion, king of the beasts and the proud lord that stood above all and crunched the bones of those who opposed him. To be the alpha male atop a mountain of corpses was his calling, no his true destiny. He roared for more, the oil burned for more, but there wasn't enough he could grasp in his claws. The pathetic perch he sat upon wasn't nearly wide or grand enough for someone of his stature, no, he had to climb up. Higher and higher until he could close his jaws around the throat of the lanky king so undeserving of his throne. Hungry for meat, for blood, for bursts of static, for lava, and for oil. Appetite and ambition swirled into one.

His soul was dyed in black and with his claws and fangs, he'd savor the taste of royal blood. With the oil coursing through his body, he'd burn his way to the throne.