My little lamb

With the dawn of a new day, Akira Namikaze embraces the ritual that grounds him to his core, a practice that intertwines the essence of his being with the darker fascinations that guide him. His home, shrouded in the dim light of the early morning, becomes the sacred space for his communion with his altar. In the corner of his living space is an altar dedicated to his obsession with blood, which is a testament to his devotion. Here, amidst the flickering candlelight that casts long shadows against the walls, Akira begins his day with a ceremony that is as much part of him as his very breath.

His altar has vials of blood surrounding the central area, each a vessel containing blood that has been meticulously collected over time. These are not just samples but sacred offerings, each vial representing a moment, a memory, a piece of his essence. In the center of the altar rests a chalice, more than just a receptacle; it holds his blood, spilled by his hands as both a sacrifice and a communion.

As he kneels before the altar, his actions are respectful, his movements deliberate. He takes a moment to acknowledge each vial, each offering recognizing its significance. Then, focusing on the chalice at the center, he enters a state of communion with its blood. This act is a deeply personal moment where he connects with the essence of life and death, a reminder of the cycle perpetuating everyone's world. Through this ritual, he seeks not only to honor the blood that gives life and grants strength to the holder, but he sees it as a point of worship. To worship the very blood that courses through everyone, and to pray for one day, to be granted the ability to spill another person's blood onto his blade, so he can basque within their essence, their once thriving vitality.

More than worship, it's a dialogue with existence itself, believing in blood's power to bind, reveal truths, and serve as a conduit for deeper understanding. In these moments of quiet reverence, he finds clarity, purpose, and a reaffirmation of his life's path. He places the blood upon his tongue, and he feels the viscous liquid between his fingers. He relishes in its feeling; he moans with pleasure at the taste of it. His body seems to lose all sense of self as he convulses ever so slightly with the rush of adrenaline that rips its way through his body. He drinks the blood in the vial, then places them back onto the altar, ready to be refilled.

Rising from the altar, the solemnity of his ritual lingering in the air like a silent echo, he moves towards his next task with the same precision and focus that characterizes all his actions. His home acts as a reflection of his inner world. It's arranged with an order and attention to detail that borders on the obsessive. Behind him lies another aspect of his life equally tended to with meticulous care: his clothing.

The stack of neatly pressed clothes, folded with an exactness that speaks volumes of his personality, awaits him. Each piece is considered, ensuring that even in the mundane act of dressing, there is a ritual to be observed and a method to be followed. Akira approached, his naked form moving with a grace that belies the rigidity of his routines. His attire is never arbitrary; it is a decision made with the same careful deliberation that he applies to every aspect of his life.

As he begins to dress, each movement is precise, almost ritualistic in its execution. The way he folds the fabric, aligns the seams, buttons each button - there is an obsessive attention to detail, a need for control that permeates even this simple act. His actions reveal a man who operates on a plane of existence where order, power, and precision are paramount. It is not just about the clothes or the ritual of dressing; it's a manifestation of his inner psyche, which thrives on the meticulous, the controlled, and the orderly. It acted as both a bane and boon to his existence, causing him constant aggravation with others, but it also provided him with a means of execution that his client expected from him.

As he completes his dressing routine, Akira stands ready, each piece of clothing a layer of armor against the world, meticulously chosen and arranged to present the image he deems necessary for the day ahead. In this, as in all things, he is precise, deliberate, and undeniably different, a man whose strength lies not just in combat but in the extraordinary discipline and control he wields over every facet of his existence.

As he prepares to leave the sanctity of his home, his attention turns to securing his space, a ritual grounded not in fear of the external world but in the necessity of completing a set routine for his psychological equilibrium. The door to his home, a barrier between his private world and the village, is fitted with three locks, an addition borne not out of paranoia but from a deep-seated need for order and completeness in his life.

Each lock, meticulously chosen and installed by Akira himself, is a physical manifestation of his inner need for security and control. Locking his door is precise and deliberate, each turn of the key reaffirming his dominion over his personal space. For Akira, three locks are essential; two would leave the sequence feeling unfinished and unbalanced in his mind. It's a compulsion that aligns with the broader patterns of his life.

With the final lock secured, he steps away from his home and turns towards the village. With its chaos and unpredictability, the world outside awaits, but Akira moves forward, grounded in the routines and rituals that define his existence. Now his next step was to traverse through the more undesirable area of Kumo, where discarded people such as himself live, and make it to the grander places to the training center, where he was going to begin a day of training, with little else on his docket but to work on himself.

WC: 1026

In the shadowed alleys of Kumogakure, where the village's bustling life fades into quiet desolation, Akira finds himself drawn to the warmth of a barrel fire. Around it, the village's forgotten ones gather, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames, each mark and line a testament to stories untold. Here, in this unlikely congregation, Akira chooses to pause; he decides to listen to the stories that are hidden away by the people who have been discarded as he had been.

He chose a spot on the edge of the circle, and he settled down. He wasn't there as a shinobi with tales of battle and bravery, but instead, he was there as a listener, an ambassador of solidarity who would listen in silence. The people around the fire, each trapped by their battles against addiction, mental illness, trauma, and the cruel hand of fate that left them without a home, begin to share their stories.

The morning light was beginning to rise, and voices rose and fell around the barrel fire, each narrative weaving into the next, like weaves in a tapestry, depicting the hardships that had befallen each of these lost souls.

Akira, who believes heavily in the power of stoicism and control, is immersed in life's raw, unfiltered reality beyond his own path. He offers no advice, no solution to their woes because how could he? He was a simple man who happened to look a certain way, appealing to people with money. He would be in a similar place if it weren't for that and his dear friend Asuka. So instead, he offers his silence and acknowledgment to their stories of woe, a silent ear to absorb their pitiful stories and statements.

This moment, shared under the breaking dawn' light with those living on the edge of society, is a departure from the controlled environment he usually surrounds himself with. But this also reminded him of the means his life could have taken if he didn't go about his life the way he had.

As the sun rises above the horizon, streaking lights of orange and red hues across their beautiful mountainous sky, the stories begin to dwindle, and the conversation dies as they forget to have their things to do, more so than just speaking with a passerby. He thanks the people for their stories and for their time, to which they thank him for his ear. Then, the two parties split ways, and Akira walks through the village, getting closer to their settlement's more densely populated areas.

As he transitions from the shadowed alleyways to the more vibrant, populated areas of Kumogakure, the stark contrast between the night's solitude and the village's bustling life mirrors the inner shift within him. The stories of the night still echo in his mind, a reminder of the various lives that pulse within the villagers' hearts; even if they were forgotten, they were still part of this village in one way or another. Their lives were full of hardship and trials, but they still had some joy because of where they lived, and that much was apparent within them.

It was as he began thinking of the difference between himself and the other forgotten citizens of the village his first thought was Asuka. It was a name that resonated within with an unfamiliar and intriguing intensity. Akir is a man whose life is carefully constructed with discipline and control, yet he finds an anomaly in Asuka that challenges his foundations. She represents a divergence from his path, a deviation that stirs within him sensations he had long since buried under layers of trauma and pain.

There was just something about her, perhaps the way she moves through the world with a grace that belies her strength or the depth in her gaz3e that seemed to pierce through a carefully maintained facade that evoked a sense of "normalcy within him." With Asuka, the world does not appear so rigid; the line between duty and desire blurs, allowing him a glimpse into a life where emotions are not just weaknesses to be controlled but experiences to be embraced.

As he moves through the waking village, Akria allows himself this rare indulgence to ponder the possibilities that Asuka represents. For a man who views the world through a lens of strategic encounters and calculated interactions, the unpredictability that Asuka represents is complicated yet exciting. To him, she is a melody that breaks the silence, a splash of color on a canvas dedicated to a black and white painting, challenging him to see beyond the shadows he has chosen to remain within.

Yet, even as he entertained these thoughts, he continued to be aware the complexities that such emotions entail. His life, entwined with his nightly activities and secrets, is not one easily shared or understood. His obsession with blood, and his craving for its taste was not something that he could hand-wave away, The path he walks is fraught with danger for those that walk beside him. He wasn't sure if there was a time that he would lose his battle with his obsession and cause harm to those that he could even say that he loved.

For now, as the village stirs to life around him, Akira allows himself the luxury of ponderance and contemplation, of what it means to feel more "normal," even if only in thought. Asuka had a presence that evoked actual emotion from Akira, not just a mere facade that was only there to provide entertainment to those that gave him money or wanted his attention. She was far different and even brought about normal like behaviors from someone as far gone as Akira. She brought upon a tantalizing glimpse into a man that he could be, even if it seemed to be so far away from the man that he was currently.

He wasn't sure if he was willing to risk the idea of shedding his facade to her just yet, as he was sure it would only scare her away.

WC: 1005