Saito

People like to think they got me figured out the second they lay eyes on me. Big guy, bad attitude, snake tattoo on my neck — yeah, yeah, I know the drill. They look at me and see trouble. Some muscle-bound thug with nothing but violence between his ears.

Good. Let 'em.

Keeps the cowards away. Saves me the headache of pretending I give a damn.

You wanna know what I’m like? Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’m not nice. I’m not gentle. I don’t have patience for bullshit, excuses, or cowards who think a few tears’ll fix their mess. I say what I mean, and I don’t sugarcoat it. The world’s ugly — you either deal with it or it deals with you. Simple as that.

I’m cold because being soft gets you hurt. I’m harsh because the people who promised they’d protect me left the first chance they got. I build walls because the only thing worse than being alone is letting someone in... and realizing they were just looking for a place to stab you in the back.

What do I like? ...Not much, if I’m being honest.

I like quiet — the kind of silence so heavy it presses against your ribs. I like the smell of the ocean right before a storm, all salt and electricity, like the world’s holding its breath. I like the feeling of a clean fight — none of that sneaking-around bullshit. Just fists, blood, and the kind of honesty you can only find when someone’s trying to kill you.

I like people who know how to shut up and move when things get ugly. People who don’t need their hands held. I like loyalty — the real kind. Not the pretty words, not the promises. The kind you prove when everything goes to hell.

I don’t like liars. I don’t like pity. And I really don’t like being touched without permission. People think just 'cause I'm big, they can lean on me like I'm some unbreakable wall. Spoiler: walls crack too. I hate it when people assume they know me after five minutes of conversation. You don’t know shit about me just 'cause you heard a few stories.

Background? Tch. Grew up somewhere nobody bothers to put on a map. Scraped my way outta there with broken knuckles and a permanent chip on my shoulder. Learned early the world doesn’t give a damn if you’re scared, tired, or bleeding. It only cares if you can keep moving. So I kept moving.

Got picked up young by a guy who ran underground fights. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need to. I fought. I bled. I won. Sometimes I lost, but I always got back up. Always.

After a while, I got a reputation — the kind that opens some doors and gets others slammed in your face. Protection work, retrieval jobs, debt collections. Nothing fancy, but I was good at it. Still am.

What am I good at? Anything that needs strength, endurance, or pure stubbornness. I can fight. I can track. I can stay awake for three days straight without losing my edge. I can break a man’s nose without blinking — or stitch my own wounds if it comes to it. Pain? Fear? Exhaustion? Just noise in the background. You learn to tune it out.

People misunderstand me all the damn time.

They think I’m heartless. That I don’t feel anything. That I wouldn’t hesitate to leave someone behind if they slowed me down.

And... maybe that used to be true.

But here’s the thing: I do feel. I feel too much. It’s just buried so deep under the wreckage I learned to pile on top of it that even I forget it’s there sometimes.

You want the truth? I’d tear the world apart to protect the few people I actually give a damn about. Problem is... most people never make it that far. They give up. They get scared. Or they turn out to be just as bad as the ones I learned to survive.

So, yeah — call me cold. Call me an asshole. I’d rather be hated for being real than loved for a lie.

At the end of the day, the only thing I trust is my own two fists and the silence between storms.

If you’re smart, you’ll keep your distance.

If you’re stupid enough to stay... ...maybe you’ll be the first one who proves me wrong.

But don’t count on it.