He sighs, a cloud of air drawing from his lips: white, whispy, and empty. With pocketed hands, Kano wanders about aimlessly in the dead of the night, acquiring a calm state of mind being his objective.
Minutes pass, and he opts to situate himself on the ledge of a sidewalk. The deceiver buries his face into his hands, a pained expression covered by his makeshift "mask."
( It's late. The streets are empty. No one'll witness his disgusting display of weakness. ) He doesn't care, so he lowers his guard – ability nullified.
Oh how he wishes for apathy . . . to be free from the chains of guilt, regret, and loathing. How he despises the deafening monsters in his head. How he hates himself and his worthlessness. How he fears being replaced. How he has no right. He's unnecessary – nothing but an inconvenience; he can easily be disposed of and should be.
In essence, he'd be better off dead.
