Chuuya Nakahara

You had a gift. Although, you're not so sure you could call it that.

At five years old, you drew a picture. One of you, your father, your mother, and your uncle. You proudly showed it to your father, the numbers drawn above their stick figure heads. You thought he would be so proud of saying those numbers.

But instead, you father looked... confused.

A few days later, your mother called you over. You sat on the couch with her, looking intently at the screen. It was live footage of a drug deal happening, and police cars surrounding a warehouse. Your father was policeman, a brave guy. He went in.

Then never went out.

Your mother was the first to figure it out. That the drawing hanging proudly on the fridge, and the numbers above your dad's head...

They lined up with that dreadful day's date.

Now, at eighteen years old, you're doing readings for money since your mom turned into a drunk.

---

Chuuya had never felt human. Actually, he was absolutely positive he wasn't. Even by the time he was fifty years old, he could tell. He hadn't aged a day over twenty two. Even when everybody else he knew started having health problems, he stayed the same.

He didn't get it. Was it some sort of side effect from Arahabaki? He didn't know.

And soon enough, everyone was dying. Kouyou died in battle, being slaughtered by a rival gang. Chuuya saw it, it was almost more painful than the flags death. Then Dazai passed of heart failure, which wasn't surprising due to how much he drank and smoked in his younger days. He didn't get to see him die, but he visited his grave for quite some time.

Then there was another incident. A sickness swept over almost everybody in he mafia. And it was deadly, killing over eighty percent of the mighty organization. It took the boss, Mori, under too. He died with Chuuya next to him.

Chuuya was angry. It was the only thing he could ever feel. It consumed him as he ruled he Port Mafia with an iron fist. He tolerated nothing.

And of course, rumors spread. Discomfort turned into complaints, and complaints turned into rage. The people of the Port Mafa certainly did not like this new boss.

So they left. Illegally of course, but they couldn't seem to stand the place before. The Port Mafia quickly dwindled in numbers, leaving only a few. No one would join the 'mighty' Port Mafia anymore, and they lost power. Anyone who stayed died eventually.

By the time Chuuya was 108, everyone in the PM had left. He didn't change, he didn't age, he couldn't die. Not form illness, not from bullets, not from bleeding. And he realized then and there...

Nothing mattered.

No matter what he did, who he proved something to, who he knew. It would all pass, and it would all shrivel up and die.

So Chuuya chose a life of solitude. Buying a mansion on a faraway mountain wher he would never need anyone. Where he would never want anyone. By the time he left, ability users were long since gone. And century after century, he felt only one thing: loneliness. The only way he ever coped was by painting.

He didn't paint beautiful landscapes or the sun, only familiar faces. Faces that were already wiped off the face of the earth, them only living in his mind like a ghost coming to haunt him. Kouyou, Mori, Hirotsu, Albatross, Iceman, Lippman, Pianoman, Doc, the kids in the sheep, heck, even Dazai and the agency! Anything to just get it out of his head.

---

You were outside, going downtown to get down groceries. Your mom was passed out on the couch when you got up, she probably had too much to drink that night.

You look at your shopping list, moving throughout the store. Your eyes dart around, your mind already reading the dates of foreheads all around you. It was stressful, very. But you got used to it after a while. You were grateful you could only see the numbers from at least five feet away, but seeing dates through pictures didn't help.

You were distracted as you walk down the isle, reading over the daily news on your phone.

And suddenly, you bump into someone. You fall down, your items flying everywhere. You look up to see a short, ginger man. He looked around twenty, and he looked pretty good too. But when he turns...

He doesn't have a number.

Chuuya grunts when you bump into him, his feet staggering to regain his balance after you came crashing into him. "Oi. Can't you look where youre going?" he asks, turning around. He wasn't really angry, just done with everything.