𝕮𝐇𝐎 𝕲𝐄𝐍𝐊𝐀 .

still, on the pavement. green liquid leaking from the corners of her lips. her gaze unbroken, staring to the ground beneath her.

every breath took monumental strength. she couldn’t move.

she couldn’t even cry.

ㅤ
“ how… will you sleep at night? “
ㅤ

this really is familiar.

𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗲.

“how….” she’d choke. not on blood, not on her own viscera… but on tears.

and like that, time would move normally.

her body crashes against the ground, tumbling ‘round and round before colliding with the concrete walls.

she falls, face down on the ground. her body only able to twitch, refusing to move and stand.

“ugh… nghh…”

her vision would fade.

the air.

she’d soar through the sky, her eyes glistening beneath the stars. her lips pulled into the most subtle frown.

this feels familiar.
something that had been stamped onto her time and time again.

failure.

she knows.
she can’t keep going.
it is completely and utterly 𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨.

- -

downfall.

every hit was slow, as if time would slow in such a twisted way to prolong the pain brought by the ultimate hope. the impacts tenfold, the tactician able to feel the pain shooting through every nerve in her body.

her ears would start to ring, and she would suddenly be launched into - -

green liquid from the numerous vials stored in her boots soak into her skin. her breath hitches, as if overwhelmed by the serum’s power. stumbling over herself as her vision blurs.

disoriented, the tactician would swing in desperation. what was supposed to be her saving grace would soon be her - -

i do NOT want to be like kohaku.

i really hope that shit doesn’t make me addicted to it.

really hoping.

aims to plunge the hunting knife straight into his abdomen.

no more quips, no more laughs.

𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙖 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙙.

her jaw snaps back into place.

...

she presses off the ground, sprinting as fast as she can. she jumps into the air, the bottom of her boot colliding with his face, then the other- bicycle kicking before flipping away onto her feet.

she rushes him. gripping her knife in both of her hands as - -

arms to shove him off of her.

she hops to her feet, knife falling directly into her hand.

her veins glow a neon green, the serum circulating through her body. even her eyes shine emerald.

she stares to the monster of a man before an unsettling 𝘾𝙍𝙐𝙉𝘾𝙃 echoes across the battlefield. - -

before stabbing the ultimate hope in the back. again. then again. then again. then again. then again.

from her gaping, broken and shattered maw, she screams. rage, hatred and malice erupting from the depths of her soul.

throwing her knife into the air before using the full force of both her - -

plunger as hard as she could.

pure adrenaline. pure strength. pure 𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆.

𝗻𝗼. 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹.
and that was her opponent's exact weakness.

her free hand, now filled with a life of rage, slides her hunting knife from her boot. she twirls it between her fingers - -

guides her hand towards her boot, weakly taking hold of a syringe filled with a shining green liquid. a concoction. a serum her creator, the alchemist, told her to use in dire situations.

its effects? unknown. so, she'll put it to the test. she jabs herself in the leg, pressing down on the - -

smeared across the pavement.

and they prepared her.

what was it? what was it that made her continue?

hate? jealousy? envy?
all three?

the pure unbridled hate was a flame that could never be extinguished. and as long as it burns, cho genka lives.

hate, controlling her very soul, - -

savage attacks merely a murmur echoing in her head.

the tactician's body would fall limp, life seemingly forfeiting itself from her vessel.

𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿?

her creator warned of this moment.
that kamukura would ultimately emerge victorious and leave her to be nothing but shredded meat - -

than humanly possible. a guttural, ear-piercing scream rips from her throat before the pain overwhelms her vocal cords.. nothing but silence.

tears pricked at her eyes, yet she wouldn't even get the chance to cry.

it all went numb.

her vision blurred. her ears ringing, the impacts of his - -

to its life, she'd viscously claw at his face. blood red nails digging into his flesh, even if she knew it was pointless. the adrenaline coursed through her as the possibility of her end became more and more real.

it hurt.

oh, god. it hurt.

the prying of her maw, her jaw pulled much farther - -

the grin on her face dissipated, not even having the chance to fire back her own punch. not even the chance to defend herself. not even the chance to scream.

her breath hitches as she hits the ground, breath stolen by the tight grip on her throat. like a cornered animal desperately holding on - -

temple. again. then again.

“you’re hardly a challenge. you’re not even worth a fucking medal—!”

pressing her boot to his chin, using it as leverage to tear her hand away from its flesh prison.

“especially not with your cheap tricks.“

through muscle and skin. she screams as she slams his head back down to concrete, forcefully turning it to the side.

his blood mists into her right eye, yet she holds back her baser instinct to wipe away at it.

through the stinging, her free hand forms a fist before punching down at his own - -

grimacing at his punch, yet reacting all the same.

she lifts his head from the ground, tearing a hand away from the flesh stitching itself together. her thumb, still digging through his eye socket, pushes itself deeper and deeper.

she forms a tight grip, as if holding his skull - -

grip.

with the deduction and blueprints of the 𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗻, she’d carry out her plan.

her gloved hands grasp at his face, palms pressing hard into his cheek bones as her thumbs dig underneath his own eyes.

her hands push down on to him, as if leverage to push herself up and away from his own - -

𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘫𝘢𝘣 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘫𝘢𝘸. 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵.

𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦. 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦. 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.

𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯, 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯. 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘪𝘧 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘩. 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 - -

𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘪𝘻𝘶𝘳𝘶 𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘶𝘳𝘢, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘦 𝘪’𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘫𝘢𝘮, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘴. 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦. - -