As the car picked up speed, Renji couldn't help but watch it mosey down the road. It wasn't much of his taste to watch his companions go but he felt a certain protectiveness over Toshiro. Taking out another cigarette, he slumped against the bench. The day wasn't as bad as it could have been but it wasn't the best either. The usual drunkards came in, got what they wanted, vivacious women and lecherous men thinking they could woo their way into his night, and angry, threatening players that mouthed out at him for his 'unfair' dealings. At least he had met Toshiro. The smoke from his cigarette curled up towards his eyes, shrouding them in a grey purple mist. He felt suspicious or maybe just tentative of the young boy, like there was something not exactly ok with him, either it be his situation in life or the way he dealt with himself.

Relaxing against the back of his usual bench, he slung back his head and let rain drops wittle their way down his sharp jaw line. This was a regular routine for him, it relaxed him and got him feeling a bit more whole and intune with himself. Besides, he had to do something to cope with his growingly out of pace depression.

His depression didn't start too long ago, not much of two years. Before he was out working under the bright lights with hands full of plastic cards he was living at home with his father and mother. Both were tycoons of business and held great esteem for themselves in the long run. With chins set high, the duo thought of themselves as nothing short of being godly. Renji had learned from them the greatest lessons of money and management and was soon the best in his class dealing with economy classes. But that was before times got rough. In later years of school, he was brought in to the variety of crowds the school had to offer, not necessarily the best either. He learned what smoking felt like, how it kissed your lungs with it's burning breath, and the biting sensation whiskey gave you when it sloshed down your throat. He liked it, very much. Instead of going along the path of finance and law like his parents had wished and mandated for him, Renji found his way through art. Along with the feeling the controlled substances he found that the tactile feel of a pen on paper made his nerves jump and make him feel more individual rather than a hand crafted manequine made by his parents. Though that lasted too short. His parents found out about his classes and banned him from them, telling him that doing such things were worthless and held no meaning in the world. This enraged him. He wanted his life, his jobs not theirs, so he went against them and continued his out of control behavior. He found drugs and came to them for the void that was supposed to be filled with parental love and crawled around bed sheets for the organic love the drugs never seemed to hold. He was a regular in the cop's car, and also the cop beds to keep him out of jail. His parents were growing ill with rage of their lost boy, their fallen boy, and his antics but were completely broken when he came back with a tattoo on his back. The ugly thing was that of tribal patterns, snakes and lines of nothing in general. His mother cried over it's horrific and disgusting asthetics and his father heated at the face of it, the face of disobedience. Renji found beatings waiting for him every night until he was finally thrown onto the streets, unwanted as an individual rather than a carbon copy of themselves.

Renji clenched his jaw at the recollection. He was tossed as a piece of garbage and was left to find some way of life, nothing but the clothes on his back to aid him. He had no job, he had no proffesional training, and resorted in protetuting and selling drugs to start off his money. The only thing that his parents had given him was a savvy money mind so spending and saving and organizing the money was of no challenge for him and he got on quickly. The club he worked at was now his adopted home, the only taker for his tossed ass.

Sighing, Renji puffed out the last of smoke from his cigarette and crunched it under his boot, letting out all of the anger he had inside on it. He didn't like to dwell on the past but his mind and psyche loved to which spawned his depression. He stood from the bench and began walking to his apartment with his head hung in the rain and the scent of cigarettes and self disappointment lingering behind him.


"Thanks." Toshiro handed the cab driver a ten dollar bill as he walked out towards the door of his decrepit home.

The Orphanage wasn't necessarily the best of all places for a misloved child. The outside was messily built with old red brick grimed with black ooze and the iron ladders off to the side were rusted to the core, ready to wear away with the slightest touch. Windows were cracked and near time to shatter onto the garbage littered streets with their moth infested curtains. Toshiro walked up to the front doors, the smell of water damage evident on the double wooden doors.

Toshiro felt a lump form in his throat. The Sir of the Orphanage didn't know about his sneaking out nor his abundant cash winnings. He knew that if he were to figure out about his escapes he would be faced with a terrible meeting with the Sir's hands.

As he plugged in the key, he turned it slowly to keep the tumbler from making too much sound. With the door unlocked and his stomach in a whirl, he clicked open the door. His ears pumped with blood and his jaw tightened as the door creaked. Toshiro opened the door wide enough for his tiny frame to snake through, one of the advantages of being poorly fed. Toshiro quickly and silently shut the door, locking it and stuffing the extra key back in his pocket. He looked around the house, no lights or presence anywhere in the atmosphere. Toes dancing across the old wood floor, he zig zagged to the stairs and knew exactly which board and spot made an unconvenient squeak. He slowly made his way up the stairs and into his room, letting out a sigh of relief. Toshiro went through this nearly every night, adrenaline pumping, body quaking, and senses bumped to the top of their ability and landing on top of his bed in exasperation.

Night lingered over his head as he sifted through his fan of cash. The smell of the paper stung his nose everytime he flipped them, the pungent smell of greed. He tossed them into the cut out in his four poster bed and recovered the secret compartment. Toshiro felt disgusted looking down on the money. He knew he earned it fair and square but still, the sight of money gave him no ease at mind.