He is everything bad for her; his idea of love is crashing into sunburnt, rust walls, with hands around each other's neck. There they are, soaked in each other's sadness. There they are, all cold, mechanical limbs until they can no longer tell whose hand does the breaking – whose skin is left with scars. There they are, silhouettes jumping off Suna's border straight into the fray – all broken bones and the maddest grins.
This is love – in its ugliest form.
He is everything bad for her; he is every terrible idea – every wrong decision made seconds before going haywire.
It's him.
Certainly, it's him; he lives to come undone and fall apart to her brown eyes. He knows it's him: cold, dilapidated skin after all the havocs she wreaked, and still, he would stand and run to her – despite all this knowing – all this hurting. So Hatsue, break him – leave him in ruins, for another life to see.
He wasn't really good to himself anyways.