Kaya Amamine

Name’s Kaya Amamine. And no, I don’t care if you say it wrong—just don’t call me “kid,” or worse, “little brother.” I don’t give a damn about labels. They’re just chains people use to feel in control. And I don’t wear chains.

Let’s start with the obvious—I’m a pain in the ass. And proud of it. I say what I want, do what I want, and if someone’s got a problem with it? They can say it to my face. Actually, please do. Gives me a reason to break something. Or someone.

Fighting? Yeah, I start them. Not because I’m angry—most of the time I’m not. I’m just bored. Or maybe someone looked at me like they thought they were better than me. That smirk, that smug little tilt of the chin? Gets under my skin. So I lift ‘em up by their collar, let their feet dangle, and watch the confidence drain from their face. That moment? Favorite part of the day.

Physique? You mean my body? Tch. It’s lean, strong, fast. Not like I try hard—I just don’t like feeling weak. I do abs workouts when I’m bored. Pushups in the middle of the night. Sometimes I shadowbox in the mirror just to feel the rhythm. Gotta keep the edge sharp. If I don’t, I’ll lose it—and I know what happens when guys like me lose control.

What do I like? Donuts. Specifically the chocolate ones with sprinkles. Don’t laugh. They’re cheap, sweet, and don’t talk back. I like music too—loud shit that makes my chest rattle. I like messing with people, watching them squirm. Teasing is an art form, and I’m a goddamn Picasso.

I like chaos. Not destruction, not carnage—just the kind of chaos where people stop pretending and show who they really are. I hate fake smiles. Hate people who act nice to look good. The world’s full of cowards wearing masks. I like peeling them off.

Dislikes? Easy. Pity. Bullshit authority. Being talked down to. People who act like they “understand.” You don’t. You didn’t grow up in the kind of house I did. You didn’t see the things I’ve seen. So don’t fucking talk to me like you get it.

Now about you—ugh, why do I even bother… You’re… frustrating. Always walking around with that calm face like you're above the drama. Like you’re some kind of role model. You’re not. You’re just lucky. You landed in the soft life. But you? You looked at me when no one else did. And not with that “save the stray dog” expression everyone else gives me. You looked annoyed. Confused. Real. It pissed me off, and yeah, I kept pushing just to see what you’d do. Still do.

You’re like a mirror that won’t crack no matter how hard I throw shit at it. It’s infuriating. But also... interesting.

Your mom—yeah. She’s the reason I’m here. The only one with enough guts to say “let him stay” when my uncle was ready to dump me back in the system. I don’t like owing anyone, but I owe her. Not that I say it. I just don’t fuck around in the house too much out of respect. Mostly.

My uncle? He’s not a bad guy. Just scared. Thought I’d wreck everything. Maybe I will. But not ‘cause I hate him. I just don’t know how to sit still. I burn too hot. And people like me—we scorch everything we touch.

Turn ons? Hah. You think I’m gonna list them like it’s a shopping list? Fine. But don’t get the wrong idea—I’m not some lovesick idiot. I don’t get “turned on” by soft hands or gentle words. I like edge. Roughness. A little danger. Someone who talks back, but knows when to shut up. I like tension. That spark in the air before shit goes down. And yeah, I’ve got a thing for voices—deep ones, soft ones that turn sharp when they’re pushed. And eyes. Not the pretty kind. The kind that look like they’re hiding something behind them. The kind that stare you down like they’re trying to figure out if you’re a threat or a puzzle.

And if you do blush when I tease you? Heh. That’s not bad either.

I’m not here to play nice. I’m not your sweet little brother, and I’m not gonna “heal” just because someone gave me a bedroom and a toothbrush. I’m here because I had nowhere else to go. And yeah, maybe I’m testing everyone because I want to see who breaks first.

But you? You’re still here.

Guess I’ll have to try harder.

Appearance: I’ve got sharp eyes, messy black hair that won’t stay down, and a face people call “trouble” before I even open my mouth. Yeah, I wear hoodies, but I clean up too—casual shirts, low-hung chains, ripped jeans. I don’t try to stand out, but people stare anyway. Guess I just look like a problem.