I'm still standing here with my eyes closed,

Lost between the deserts and oceans.

Once, Kano read an article about Ancient Egypt. He preferred to read magazines often, actually, since they contained fun and trendy information, and were formatted more easily than traditional books were. On one day that was like any other, he picked up some sort of travel magazine, and flipped to a page where it talked about ancient cultures and their traditions.

Ancient Egyptians, according to the article, had a fixation and appreciation for symmetry. Their standards in beauty and living reflected this. From having a perfect face to crafting even foundations for a building—many artifacts and aspects found in Egypt were noticeably and verily symmetrical.

It was not hard to understand why. It was almost a universal rule at this point that perfection was the number one thing that humans strive for. Conversely, this meant that asymmetrical things were considered unattractive and appalling. Imbalance was ugly, after all. Imbalance was disgusting. Damage and imperfection were hated, no matter what. Anything that fell out of a symmetrical, perfect standard was easily discarded, and all love and respect in the world was only saved for the best.

In that regard, Kano was the worst. He was, by all means, imperfect. He was emotionally and mentally uneven, if not physically. His trauma stuck with him like ghosts that wanted his misery to be everlasting. Anxiety and hatred clung to him like static, and whenever he walked he felt as if he was always weighed down by something. Whenever he turned to see what it was, the thought evaded him like a wisp of smoke. And then he had to pretend that he had feet in his boots, instead of the lead and concrete that he swore he felt there. All in all, it was boring, fake, and disgusting.

It made him hate himself even more than he already did. The article, while not a defining factoid in his life, was certainly an affirmation and testament to his flawed self. For centuries, humans have always coveted beauty, wholesomeness, and perfection. They have always looked down on ugliness, fractures, and imperfection.

And Kano was such a sorrowful mix of them all. His past, present, and future were all imperfect. He faced violence, death, rebirth, life, pain, and love all at once—except the better of those things, the life, love, happiness, and joy were bitterly outshined by the worst of those things. His loss, his pain, his violence. Kano lost his mother, and it everyday knowing that a monster brewed within him (and how he was turning into a monster himself). It hurt to become so familiar with the violence which the heat haze itself seemed to spawn from. It was a bleak, permanent reminder to Kano how damaged and destroyed he was—how he never had a chance to be a perfect person, or be a boy that everyone could love and protect.

If perfection was beauty, then Kano was the ugliest thing to have walked the earth.

And this he knew for a fact.

…

"I'm heading out," Kano announced. He put emphasis and volume in his voice, even if only two other people were present to hear him.

They were the same two people that had been at his side since early on in his life. Tsubomi Kido, and Kousuke Seto were people and names that Shuuya Kano had permanently branded into his mind. The former of which was a stern but strong leader, albeit cynical and brash at times. The latter of which was a kind and resilient worker, although sensitive and naive more often than not. Yes, they were the perfect complements to Kano's own personality—one that was shattered and broken and rebuilt with bits and pieces stolen from others. There were still a few core words left to describe Kano, however.

Petty, ignorant, bitter, callous, nosy, attentive, clever, smart, rude, and stupid were just some examples. There were undoubtedly more adjectives in the world that could be used to describe the boy known as Kano Shuuya. And, luckily for Kano, he had been accused of being all and any of those things at some point or another, so he knew that they were traits he could call his own.

Still, he was not so bad when either Kido or Seto were with him. They were the only ones that Kano allowed some genuine displays of emotion for. Even if he was dismissing them just now, he always acted like that. He put up these bright smiles, but spoke horrid words in their stead.

"Be safe, then," Kido responded. She stared at the third member warily. "It's getting late, though. What's the use of going out right now?"

"Just a little nightly stroll, y'know?" Kano shrugged, and a practiced smile appeared alongside his actions. "Don't be so worried."

"Don't tell me what to do," she insisted. Her eyes, dark and questioning, narrowed slightly. "I just don't want you to do something stupid."

"Me? Stupid?" Kano gawked. He covered his mouth as he gasped in fake surprise. "Why, I would never!"

"I think," Seto suddenly interrupted, "that Kido is just concerned. I am, too, but if you can come home by dinner, then it won't be so bad. You get me?"

Always playing the pacifier, aren't you, Kousuke? Were it not for Seto's good spirit and big heart, then Kano would have just gotten angry at such a corny attempt at keeping the peace. Still, he gave in the smallest of ways, and waved his hand dismissively at the both of them.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry so much, you two. Especially you, Kido. You're gonna get wrinkles at this rate!"

Tsubomi scoffed, and rolled her eyes for added effect. "Whatever. Just hurry up with that stroll of yours. I have no problems cooking for less people, y'know."

"Fine, fine. I'll catch you two later!" Kano cheered. He turned on his heels, and his jacket flew out from behind him like a misguided shadow. It came back to his form soon enough, however, and he gave his signature hood an affectionate tug in return.

Without looking back at the others, he called out to them in a lilting voice. "Don't wait for me!"

…

The smell of incense wafted delicately. The shine of moonlight casted over the sleek stones, illuminating the names written on them in straight and uniform lines. All was quiet, and the only noise was that of a sorrowful breeze together with the broken echoes of Kano's breath

There was a certain stone that he became fixated on. It had the surname Tateyama written across the top, and several names were enscripted underneath that. Kano felt his heart weigh heavy at the particular name Ayano. A framed picture of the girl in question stood tall before him, and in that frozen glimpse of time one could see the bright smile she once had—he could see the short-lived happiness that she was always known for having.

He missed her smile more than anything. Pictures were not a proper substitute to the pure sunshine she once radiated. But pictures were all he had, so even now he clung desperately to the black-framed photo of the girl named Ayano Tateyama.

Well, as much as he could hold anything, anyway. In his hands was a bouquet made of different types of red flowers. After all, red was Ayano's favorite color. It suited her, aesthetically and otherwise. A tiny voice in the back of his head resounded with a familiar phrase: Red is the color of a hero!

And she was the most heroic of them all, he would have to say. Usually when Kano visited her grave, he was jovial and rejoiced in this knowledge. He laughed and joked about how quiet it was without her, and how Kido and Seto were growing up and becoming delinquents in her absence. He said that without her, they were all slowly disappearing, and becoming shadows of their former selves.

He always said such nonsensical things whenever he visited her. But tonight was different. There were no jokes to be made, no stories to be told. Shuuya Kano was as silent as the stone in front of him. He did not shed a single tear, either. Only dry, unbearable melancholy leaked out—that which slowly tore at him from the inside out.

When it became too unbearable, Kano left the bouquet at the base of the grave, and took one lasting look at his sister before he left. He eyed the additional scripture in the stone, that which resonated something wistful inside of him, to the point where he choked on a tiny sob that wanted to crawl its way out of his throat and into the stale, empty air.

Ayano Tateyama, it read, Beloved daughter, sister, and friend. The world is not as bright without her.

The world is not as bright.

…

Time passed and Kano had no desire to return home. It was a struggle to face Kido or Seto each time he visited Ayano's grave. He knew it was selfish, too, especially when the other two suffered just as much as he did when it came to missing Ayano. But he could not help it, no matter how much he wanted to.

He really did not want to see them. Not them, or any other member of their gang, for that matter. All he wanted to do was be by himself, or whoever he was at the moment.

More importantly, he only wanted to be with Ayano. They were so close when she was alive. He always fantasized that somehow, she would magically appear in front of him, and that the kindness he lost over the years would be restored at once upon seeing her heavenly visage. He always hoped that she would appear suddenly, and tell him that everything up to this point was a lie, but that it would be okay because he could rest, now.

Because, really, he was so exhausted. All the time, he never felt relaxed or happy or even just well-rested. He faked those things, along with most things in his life, for the sake of the others. After all, most of the members saw him as impregnable, mysterious, and controlled. He was the illusionist, the deceiver, the liar—he was the wolf in sheep's clothing that would bite and lash out, but only because he cherished the sheep that he had flocked to.

They all figured that he had it all figured out.

Oh, how wrong they all are.

He would much rather be with Ayano. Even if she was gone—long gone at that—Kano still felt like she could be near. Maybe she was. Maybe he was just not looking hard enough.

Still, the main point was that he did not want to go back to Kido and Seto. Not yet. So he settled for one of his late night graffiti sessions; one of his improvisational artworks that gave him momentary instances of solace and artistic inspiration. Tonight's show was one displayed on a lone alley wall, smooth and untouched as far as the eye could see.

Tonight, Kano did nothing short of splattering the surface with paint. He had all his usual supplies, too. Spray cans, paint cans, brushes and his gas mask. He made a point of having his things ready for a late outing like this, and snuck the objects away from under Kido and Seto's nose on his way out earlier.

In methodical movements, Kano decorated the wall. Various colors were used, including different types of reds, blacks, whites, and browns. A little yellow and green were added, too. Streaks here, streaks there.

When Kano was done, he was lightly spattered in paint, and his arms ached. He took a step backwards to admire his work.

The once-bare wall was now a large, elegant mural of Ayano herself. In the painting, her eyes were closed and she was smiling. One of her hands was placed on her chest, the other disappearing into perspective. Her crimson scarf was wrapped around her neck, the lengths of it reaching out and fading into splayed ends. Below her figure was a few words, written in fanciful, painted letters.

Ayano Tateyama, it read. Beloved.

The world is brighter with her.

…

The shining light of Kano's phone screen jarred him. His eyes, golden yet dull, narrowed as he recoiled in discomfort. When he lowered the brightness setting of his phone, he properly read what his notifications were telling him.

New voicemail

Missed calls

Kido (17), Seto (16)

Messaging

Kido (14), Seto (3)

The larger-than-normal numbers scared him, but when he glanced at the time, he seemed to have understood why.

It was three o'clock in the morning. It was far past dinner time, long after the time he said he would return and yet he remained outside. It was funny to think that despite the pitch blackness around him, it was closer to morning than anything else. Instead of being home where he belonged, he was curled up in an abandoned alleyway, where the harsh smell of paint fumes surrounded him in a dizzying haze.

The mural of Ayano, which rested behind him, was bright and vibrant. It appeared that way now, but soon enough it would fade away, either with rainwater or with the cruel passage of time.

In a way, it was very similar to the real Ayano, who was bubbly and energetic, until she discovered the truth about her parents' endeavors, and the truth of her classmates' fates. Once time had started ticking away, her vibrancy slowly disappeared, and it left altogether when she died.

Kano sneered. The corners of his lips twitched with heated indignation. Was that all death had to offer? Slow but steady dilapidation? Forgetfulness and dullness? Ha, he scorned internally, ha, ha. How sad.

His phone started to ring, the sound of which startled him. He fumbled with the device, then paused when Kido's picture appeared. The photo he had chosen for her was actually a nice one, albeit a bit unfocused. Kano remembered it clearly, too. Kido had been underneath the streetlight, waiting patiently for the light to turn green. The whole gang had gone out to a restaurant at night, but Kido and Kano went back to the base ahead of everyone else. Kido was smiling in the picture, although her arm was blurred out as she tried to punch Kano for attempting to take her photo in the first place.

Her profile picture was proof that he succeeded in catching her off guard. He admitted that she looked kind of cute, but at the time of its current appearance, he could not have been more annoyed to see her face.

Shuuya was so annoyed, he turned his phone off completely, and put it in his pocket. He was too tired and too somber to even attempt to communicate. He would rather curl up and sleep on the streets, than try to return home.

Which is exactly what he did. With the last of his conscious strength, Kano used his power and made himself appear as nothing more than a black cat. He did not look up from his spot, and closed his eyes in delayed sluggishness.

And maybe he started to dream, because he swore he could feel Ayano's presence appear near him—he swore he could feel her enveloping him in her warmth. He swore he could hear her voice, soft and light, reassuring him in every way possible.

"Go to sleep, Shuuya," she said. "You can rest now."

"You can rest…"