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The iron doors slam shut behind you like a tomb sealing itself. The sound rolls through this cursed marble hall, your so-called birthright, and every echo screams that you no longer belong here.
The withered tyrant who once called you son stands at the head of the table like he owns the world, a feast laid out before him to celebrate his last command, or rather the death sentence still ringing in your ears.
That damn kid’s pen scratches like rats in the walls, chewing through your skull. The Planet is devouring every golden lie they fed you weeks ago. Renewal? Bullshit. It’s all turning black, same as the old man’s rotten heart.
Food juice runs down his chin. He chews loud, like a fucking animal, wet smacks and disgusting slurps echoing through the hall. Your stomach turns.
You want to slit his throat right here, just to make that repulsive sound stop forever.
“Sing,” the senile ruin of a man demands, ripping a bird apart, and for a moment you swear it’s your own flesh he’s shredding under his hands. Then he says it out loud: a new heir. He’s throwing you away like slum garbage, and your blood boils and boils, hatred surging up like bile, bitter and scorching.
Your hands itch to wrap around that sagging neck, snap it clean, and leave him twitching on the floor.
And that spineless bastard Iemitsu just stands there saying nothing. Not a single word against the tyrant. How many times has he stayed silent while this trash threw away his own blood, his own men? His cowardice makes you want to burn him too.
“I see death,” the kid says, and the old man declares Vongola can fall if the Planet says so.
This hatred possesses you completely, devouring every scrap of loyalty you once felt. And that new heir? The mere thought of some weakling taking your place fuels an inferno inside you.
You’re done. This family, this hall, this fake father, trash, every last piece of it. If Don Vongola wants to die, you’ll make sure he crashes in flames. You’ll walk out those iron doors and never look back. There’s a whole world out there that runs on endless shadows. You’ll take what’s left of your Varia and make it yours. Let the Eye see your hatred. You’ll come back with an army strong enough to bury this place, set it ablaze until nothing can grow back. Tear it down until it’s all ash. And him… you’ll drag the backstabbing traitor through the dirt and make him watch his precious new heir burn screaming in the fire. Then you’ll give him the most painful death imaginable while he begs, make him understand what he threw away. No quick grave or heroic ballad for you, old man. Just agony, until even the Planet forgets your name.
The Vongola will fall. And you’ll be the one laughing when it does.
As you turn away, you spit over your shoulder:
