An animal— that's what Chuuya really is. It's in the way he walks, talks, holds himself and interacts with the shifting world around him.

Everything is just slightly unpredictable, like a skittish yet confident cat that sits at the end of the street all day. When he's drunk, it's rough and he's either a puppy separated from its mother or an excitable parrot.

It's hard to describe; animalistic is truly the only way.

Maybe it's because he was raised locked away from real society, maybe it's because of the people he cared for, maybe it's because he works into the early hours of the morning. In any circumstances, he really is a strange man.

If you asked him, he'd agree. He would pour you a drink, tell you to get comfortable and begin listing off times he's felt true animalism or been told of his tendency.

He'd remember the way he talked to people at fifteen and the way he used to smoke. He’d remember the things he used to promise his friends, the way he used to sleep and the conditions he accepted. The way he used to walk, the way he still snarls like a cornered dog. He'd wince when he remembers the state he’s usually in — that he's in now. And he'd stifle a laugh because It really isn't funny, Chuuya! You could've been really hurt! Stop doing these stupid things for thrills, you’ll end up dead. . . ! Even though the way he remembers it, it was absolutely jokes.

“Well,” He'd babble, already considerably drunk as the waxy bar table held onto his leather jacket a little before peeling away, “Let me tell you. . .! Hic! I’ll tell you about it, just. . . Alright.”

Chuuya would down the rest of his wine in Bar Lupin before opening his doglike jaw to spill his life out in the form of literacy. . .