Perhaps it had been the way he hit the concrete. Maybe he fell wrong. Maybe his head just couldn't take the pressure of solid concrete with a neck that couldn't support it. Maybe it was because he let his head snap back after he landed; maybe it was because he allowed himself to be tossed around like some rag doll.
Maybe it was because he was careless and never took precautions. Never thought they would apply to someone like him. He told himself that he didn't need a blade as long as he had his fists. He was wrong for the last time.
He didn't think there was anyone capable enough to pull it off.
Perhaps it had been the strength of each finger, working together in fluid harmony, each knobby digits working as one. Maybe it was the way each finger took his neck in sections, vocal cords, spine, muscle, windpipe. Grip, squeeze, twist. Repeat for good measure. Repeat again if deemed necessary. This is, the Fortissimo of Ikebukuro you're dealing with after all. He's superhuman. You can't afford to make mistakes. Efficiency is mandatory, accept nothing less. Expect nothing less than a struggle. He will go down fighting.
He didn't think there was anyone stupid enough to try.
Perhaps it had been the drugs administered, swimming in his veins and taking affect almost immediately. Slowing him, turning his limbs into steel. His augured collapse was inevitable. His tunnel vision made him appear bloated and chalky and pasty. His disoriented sight is going next, he looks like a corpse. Why can't he move? He needs to move!
Greedy fingers reach for him and snake around his throat and he knows what's coming next but he refuses to believe it. He's paralyzed. Immobile. Sluggish. Useless and unable to fight back.
Thoughts racing through his head, the only outlet is through his eyes but he was frozen-frozen-frozen and if somebody didn't come help him soon... he didn't know how long he would last. He's paralyzed against the frigid ground and-oh god, he's going to die.
He didn't think anyone was powerful enough to stop him.
Perhaps he had been cocky, carrying himself around with such an air as though he was better than the rest of them and not as prone to die as the next person. Perhaps his intrepid view on the world made it impossible for somebody to not try to bend him, break him down, snap him, and dig fingernails into his throat until it bled. Maybe his bold attitude was practically begging for somebody to come along and bring him down a notch, maybe he was just waiting to be proven wrong.
He didn't think there was anyone brave enough to try
Perhaps it had been the way he was referred to as a monster, brute, fortissimo, legend… Challenging anyone to try and kill the almost supernatural, slay the dragon, tame the beast, beat the unbeatable, conquer the unknown. Nicknames designed to strike fear into the hearts of all his foes, make them doubt and reduce them to a trembling mess that it was all he could do to not spare mercy on them love he wanted.
Every time that he spares no mercy is a nickname reinforced, every time he sends someone flying across the city is a rumor proven truth. Every limit he pushes and boundary he breaks sets records. There is no end in sight. No one can stop him.
He didn't think there was anyone smart enough to make a plan, carry it out flawlessly.
Perhaps he had been foolish, overestimating himself and underestimating enemies. His strength has never failed him before. He had never failed before. Perhaps it was all for naught, and Shizuo would die a death fit for a fool because he didn't think anything through.
Perhaps he was weak despite his strength. Perhaps there was an unbelievable amount of sadness hidden behind all of that strength. Perhaps there was stupidity and irrationality behind his pride. He imagines their reactions, the few people that cared about him and the people that did not care about him.
Izaya, quieted with astonishment, but surely that smirk would return, and he would go on with his day, maybe thinking about him once or twice. Maybe wondering, and then researching. Maybe Izaya will avenge his death. That would be nice. He knows Izaya has his ways of tracking people down.
Shinra and Celty would be distraught, and they would mourn for him, but he knows that they will move on and resume their somewhat normal lives to the best of their ability. He knows Kasuka enough to know that he would be beside himself with sorrow. He knows how much his brother cares, yet his stoic façade would betray none of his grief.
Yes, he can see everyone in his life moving on, and his name would fade from the streets as nothing more than a myth. And his legacy would fade from the minds of the people, spoken fondly only of by his friends, as they try to catch a distant memory of a man that was a monster.
He didn't think it was possible. He knows better now.
He had thought that it couldn't be done, that someone like him could just die like the rest of him. He wasn't immortal. And he wasn't a god. He's human, believe it or not. Who will miss him? Who will find him, rotted and mangled from death and perhaps the rats that would come to nibble on his fingertips. Celty probably, he can imagine her black tendrils tightening in shock and horror.
If he wanted to amuse himself he would want Izaya to find him, show him that he's never going to kill Shizuo now. He's missed his chance. Perhaps it had all been payment for all the property he's destroyed, all the people he's hurt. Perhaps each icy finger on his neck he deserves. Perhaps it was just karma catching up to him. All these maybe's and nothing set in stone. Perhaps he deserved everything that has happened to him, everything that life has done to him.
Shizuo didn't think there was anyone strong enough to crush his neck.
But as he fades from the world on the asphalt in a forgotten alley, he knows. His only wish was that he had realized this earlier. His only remorse was that he hadn't prepared for something as inescapable as this. His only wish was that there was someone to be by his side, keep him company in his final moments. Anyone will do.
He only wanted to die a noble death, but it seemed that chance would be taken from him. There will always be something missing from the streets. It seemed that Shizuo was fated to a deathbed alongside the trash, right where he belonged.
His only regret was that he could have been better, and he didn't have to die alone.