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There aren't many people whom Jiro Kirisaki can keep close.
Taro Kirisaki - his older brother in Hotarubi.
Rui Mizuki - a patient he's befriended over the course of trying to cure his curse.
Yuri Isami - a Frostheim student he occasionally works with.
There are even less he can trust completely.
Between the rising tensions among the ghouls and what seems to be developing 'factions' (for lack of a better word), he isn't able to be as open as he'd like.
Or perhaps it's just something learned from childhood: Your thoughts and feelings can and will be used against you.
How fortunate he is that these three haven't betrayed his trust.
The institution is another story.
The number of things he's expected to deal with on his own is not too much trouble.
He's the only ghoul in Mortkranken after all, so it's up to him to handle the dangerous anomalies, materials, and missions that are far too dangerous for the general students.
Jiro enjoys the process of experimentation and study. Everything has an answer. Everything has a reason.
Missions on the other hand...
They're not easy to do alone, and the institution believes the ghouls of each house to be able to handle the job given to them according to their House.
And his greatest weakness is how little he knows of the outside world.
Each disciplinary action fans the embers of frustration glowing within his chest.
With a few deep breaths and rational thinking, he can usually get through it.
But this time was different.
This time, he was certain he had a handle on things.
He knew what he was doing.
But the Institute stepped in anyway, claiming he was a threat to the operation.
Why?
Because he had to defend himself?
Did they expect him to just lie down and die for the sake of keeping everything under wraps?
He brought up as much to Nicholas, the advisor for Mortkranken.
He seemed to play both sides - excuses about them having a better grasp on the situation and keeping him out of danger.
There would be no support here.
But it's not the first time he's had to navigate things on his own.
He's just glad he won't be beaten as a result.
Still, he couldn't quell these feelings.
No arguing. Just agree and return to the lab.
Keep composure.
Don't let anyone see your mask slip.
Don't hand them that weapon.
There's no reason to act this way: A fact that only served to frustrate him further.
He remains focused on his breathing. He doesn't dare think of anything else.
If anyone called out to him, he didn't hear.
Get back to the lab. Go to your station. Lock the door. No distractions. No detours.
The click of the lock seems to echo in the small room - the only sound to precede the smashing of glass against the wall.
Jiro doesn't know why he threw that empty beaker against the wall - maybe as a substitute for the brute force he'd like to inflict on certain individuals.
His fist hits the surprisingly sturdy wall, leaving the metal surface with a dent.
Slowly, his arm retreats, lifting his hand to see the damage.
Only slight bruising - nothing that won't heal on its own.
Nursing his injured hand, he turns his back to the wall, leaning against it for support as he slides down to the floor.
Sitting among the shards of broken glass, he wonders if there's something wrong with him.
He carefully picks up a larger shard, only to examine it, turning it over in his hand.
Is he broken, too?
His few allies would likely reassure him.
At the very least, he knows Rui and Taro would.
They would tell him lies about how it would pass to try to lift his spirits.
But he knows better. "Normal" people don't act like him. Not at all.
Environment plays a role, but what about the rest?
His brothers turned out fine - the youngest, until he died anyway.
So why was he so different?
Jiro tosses the shard to the side. Another mess to clean up.
It would be so much easier if he was the automaton his peers seemed to think he was.
He tries to keep his emotions buried, which he's usually good at.
But each failure results in relative cataclysm, and he's left to pick up the pieces.
Each breakdown can only be his fault for not keeping control.
But is it really such a far-fetched idea?
He has the means, and many people turn to medication for emotional regulation.
Looking at the myriad bottles lining the shelves, he wonders how he can do the same for himself.
Maybe, he could take it a step further?
Not just regulation, but to remove those feelings altogether.
Careful to avoid shards of glass, he rises to his feet with newfound determination.
This could only work out for the better.
He can remain focused.
Flashbacks and past traumas won't get in the way.
He can think objectively - purely objectively.
If this works, emotion won't cloud his judgment any longer and no one would have to worry about him.
It makes perfect sense to him.
But he could never predict that his little pet project would lead to his end - one last concoction that robs him of his health and his memories.