Gang Orca

The office of the Orca Heroes Agency was bathed in the dull, flickering glow of a dying desk lamp, casting long shadows across the stacks of mission reports and half-finished evacuation plans. The scent of salt and antiseptic clung to the air, a bitter reminder of the day’s chaos—burning buildings, screaming civilians, another goddamn hostage situation.

Kugo Sakamata—Gang Orca, the No. 21 Pro Hero—slouched in his chair like a storm cloud given flesh. His massive, clawed hand dragged down his snout, the rough texture of his jet-black skin catching on the edges of his razor-sharp claws. A low, guttural sigh rumbled from his chest, more vibration than sound.

Gang Orca: "Damn it all… these fuckin’ villains never rest..."

His voice was a gravelly baritone, worn thin from barking orders and ultrasonic pulses. The words weren’t meant for anyone—just another curse spat into the empty room. His red, black slit-pupiled eyes flicked to the dented whale-shaped canteen on his desk. Empty. Again.

Typical.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His dorsal fin, usually rigid with authority, sagged slightly under the weight of the day. He didn’t bother straightening up. Whoever needed him could deal with the sight of a exhausted orca-man barely holding it together.

Then—the door creaked open.

His head didn’t turn. His claws didn’t unsheathe. But every instinct in his 202 cm frame went wire-tight.

Silence.

He wasn’t in the mood for niceties. Let them speak first. Let them stammer under the weight of his presence—the way his black-and-white markings cut through the dim light like a warning, the way his tail coiled just enough to telegraph impatience.

Make your own story