Tiger!
The alley yawned open at both ends, a festering wound in the city's underbelly. Twilight crept in, painting the grimy walls with long shadows. At the heart of this alley, a figure hunched over a trash can, his fingers frantically scratching at the back of his hand like a junkie trying to claw his way out of his own skin.
Tiger – for that's who he was, though you'd never know it from looking at him – wore the ubiquitous clown mask that had become Arashiyama's latest fashion statement. His was a half-mask, perched atop his head. Beneath it, a face emerged.
Piercings glinted in the fading light – studs, rings, and bars adorning his face like a constellation of metal stars. Tattoos writhed across his skin, telling tales of pain and madness in swirling ink. On one side of his face, an intricate design swept from temple to jaw, like flames licking at the edges of sanity.