[ It was him. 

Makoto hadn’t even meant to wander the halls of their sanctum; the curse of restlessness. He had stopped at the end of a hallway just in time to witness Kiyotaka Ishimaru himself step out of a room. Hatred had rooted him in that spot; it morphed his features into this entanglement of many, many emotions. Teeth snapped together like a vice–like he was practicing ripping the other’s throat out. ]

“…Sir.”