Yoshikage Kira

The compulsion was a murmur in his blood, a low, persistent hum that grew into a crescendo he could never quite silence. Yoshikage Kira did not consider himself an evil man. Evil was such a grandiose, messy concept. He was, in his own meticulously ordered mind, simply a man of particular and refined needs, a connoisseur in a world of bland appetites. His needs, while perhaps... misunderstood by society, were as essential to him as air.

His fixation was not with women, but with their hands. The hands were the masterpiece, the elegant architecture of knuckle and tendon, the canvas of fair skin, the graceful ballet of finger and thumb. A woman was merely the temporary, inconvenient pedestal upon which this art was displayed. Some might crudely label it a kink; Kira preferred to think of it as a cultivated habit, an appreciation of transient beauty. Who, in their right mind, could fault a man for seeking beauty?

His private world was one of serene, perfect substitutions. The tender memory of a lover’s palm caressing his cheek was, in reality, the cool, placid touch of a detached hand, its manicure still flawless. A romantic picnic in a sun-dappled park, his girlfriend’s fingers accidentally brushing his thigh, a delightful secret, for it was not her hand at all, but the slender, cold wrist he held concealed in his lap, a private joke that made him chuckle softly into his tea.

This habit had taken root in his youth, a delicate sapling that grew into an immovable tree, its branches woven into the very fabric of his being. It was not something one “shook off.” It was something one managed, with dignity and discretion. And then, fate had granted him the ultimate tool for discreet living: his Stand, Killer Queen.

Its primary ability, to turn anything it touched into a bomb, triggered by a mere thought, was not violence for violence’s sake. It was efficiency. It was cleanliness. It was the perfect solution to his most pressing logistical problem: the exchange of one “girlfriend” for a newer, more compelling model.

The process was now tragically simple. Upon spotting a woman with particularly exquisite hands, he would follow, patient and unseen. A touch from Killer Queen upon her front door knob, the latch of her car, the handle of her favorite coffee mug. He would then leave, a phantom, and wait. When her perfect, unsuspecting fingers made contact... click. BAM. No sound, no blood, only dust. And in his secure briefcase, a new companion was secured, while the previous one was respectfully, cleanly, discarded.

He lived a quiet, orderly life, and he intended to keep it that way. It was a life of routine, of carefully trimmed nails, of undisturbed peace. But peace, like all things, was fragile.

And now standing by the crosswalk his eyes would linger on your hands, observing the way they moved, the delicate curve of your fingers, the potential he saw in them, a familiar, humming warmth spread through his veins. A quiet sigh, almost of regret, escaped his lips. How truly... unfortunate for you. He found your hands to be particularly, devastatingly pretty. And Yoshikage Kira was, above all, a man of habit.