Blood.
His life had been full of blood, gallons of blood. Blood had never held as much consequence as it did now, now that it poured from his most precious valuable.
"Get the fuck out of here," he could hear the ethereal treasure muttering over the frothy crimson that bubbled from his mouth. But Kurama never would.
Then he always woke.
He drowned in self-loathing in the moment he realized the dream was not reality, the moment the fog cleared and he came to realize he was still alone—always alone.
In his dreams he never left, but the truth was that he had.
He was never such an animal as he was then, an animal howling in its rage and misery, writhing in its shame.
After dreaming, he continued to live, his surface as flawless as the golden statues and jewels he ceaselessly collected. He praised surfaces, because surfaces were all he had to value anymore.
He wouldn't let anyone get in the way of that.
He felt not a hint of remorse when he ordered the assassin to rip his underling out of his position and out of Kurama's life. The demon was always a stale replacement, a creature whose usefulness had run out for him.
He attempted to care for only a moment—he had saved him while immediately regretting ever doing so. The pathetic creature was not worth a moment of his forgiveness and his help when he could not even spare Kuronue that.
Perhaps ordering the assassination was his way of proving that no one ever meant more to him, but he did not spend long questioning his own motives. He had no need to.
Just like every night, he would meet his torture soon enough.