Chapter 44: A Soft Day Before the Storm.
The afternoon sun painted the sidewalk a soft amber.
It was the kind of light that made everything look kinder than it really was.
Ren walked slower than usual, his schoolbag slung lazily over one shoulder. His body wanted rest, but his mind kept tracing back and forth across timelines-memories layered over reality like dust on old photographs.
The sounds of the school behind him began to fade.
And then-
"Oi, Tokusake!"
He didn't need to turn to know who it was..
"Shimo," he muttered to himself, smiling faintly.
A soft thud followed as something slammed into his back -not as forceful as usual, but still enough to jolt him slightly forward.
"You didn't even flinch," she huffed, stepping beside him. "I used to be able to paralyze you with that move."
"You've grown weak," he deadpanned.
"Excuse me, I'm a delicate artist now. You don't tackle clients. You charm them."
"Is that what you were doing? Charming me?"
Shimo clicked her tongue, then grinned. "Well, you are the neighborhood prince. Gotta get in line early."
They laughed. It was easy.
Too easy.
They walked in sync without trying.
It had always been like that-since childhood.
Same apartment building. Same stairs. Same bent fence they used to climb and sit on like little kings and queens of a small kingdom no one else noticed.
Ren felt it again-that aching sense of familiarity. The kind that made your heart hurt because you knew it couldn't last.
"You okay?" Shimo asked suddenly.
"Hm?"
"You've been real quiet. And not your usual mysterious-protagonist quiet. Like... haunted-man quiet."
Ren looked up at the cloudless sky.
It felt too open. Too quiet. Like the kind of stillness animals sensed before an earthquake.
"I've just been thinking."
"About what?"
"...About how I used to be someone I really hate."
Shimo blinked. "That's... heavier than expected."
Ren scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry."
"No, it's okay. I'm just not used to deep philosophical self-loathing before dinner."
He smirked. "Fair."
A few more steps passed in silence.
"I never helped my parents," Ren said quietly. "In.... the past."
Shimo raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Bit dramatic. Did you die or something?"
He paused. Just long enough for it to almost feel like a yes.
"...Sort of," he said. "I am always too busy. Too... 'important.' Thought helping out in the garage or folding laundry was beneath me."
Shimo didn't say anything.
He kept walking, slowly.
"And then one day, I woke up and realized I had no one left. No one I hadn't pushed away. All for what? Nothing."
Shimo stared at him.
Ren sighed. "So today, I'm going to help out. Not because I have to. But because this time... I want to."
She looked down at the sidewalk.
"...That's actually really mature," she said. "Annoyingly so."
"Sorry."
"So..." She scratched her forehead. "You had a early morning motivation, instead of 3 a.m motivation?"
Silence.
Ren stared at her.
Then-
He laughed.
A hearty laugh.
After half a minute of laughing he said.
"Haha, gosh shimo." He spoke, wiping tears from his eyes, "That's one way to summarize it."
They reached the street where their building stood.
Ren slowed his pace, and so did Shimo.
She tilted her head toward him. "Hey, wanna come over first? I've got that new art book you said you wanted to see."
"Next time. Gotta keep a promise today."
Shimo nodded.
Then, out of nowhere-
"You're scared of something, aren't you?"
He froze.
She wasn't looking at him. Just ahead. Hands behind her back. Casual.
But her voice was too precise to be casual.
"...Yeah," he admitted.
"Someone from your past?"
He turned his head.
But she didn't press further.
Didn't need to.
"I don't know if they're coming," Ren said softly. "But my intuition keeps screaming that something bad's about to happen."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. That's the worst part. I just feel it in the way people walk, in how quiet the streets are. Like the world's holding its breath."
Shimo finally looked at him.
"Then let's breathe while we still can."
And she smiled.
Not brightly. Not teasing.
But with a kind of quiet strength that reminded him she wasn't just a friend from childhood.
She was here.
Now.
Still reaching out.
Ready to help him stand up, if he ever fell down.
"Thanks," he said.
"I didn't do anything."
"You did enough."
He turned to head toward his parents' house.
She turned toward hers.
But just before she reached the gate, she called out again:
"Ren!"
He turned.
"You're better now."
He blinked.
"I liked you back then, too," she said.
"But this version? I think I like more."
Then she disappeared inside.
Ren stood for a moment.
Then walked toward the garage where his father was no doubt hunched under a half-broken bike frame and his mother inside, humming a song from the old days.
The scent hit him before the door opened fully-oil, rust, wet earth, and faint traces of cigarette smoke from a neighbor two doors down. It was the kind of smell that used to disgust him. Now, it felt like a rope pulling him back to something he let go of too easily.
His father was there, just as expected, crouched in worn jeans, sleeves rolled up, hands blackened with grease as he fiddled with the mangled chain of an old motorbike. There was a little radio crackling nearby, playing an 80s enka track that crackled at the high notes.
"Yo," Ren said, voice casual but quieter than usual.
His father didn't look up right away.
"You're early," he grunted. "Did the world end?"
"Not yet."
His father paused, then chuckled softly. "Fair. Grab the wrench on the shelf, would you?"
Ren did so without hesitation.
He used to hate this place. Hated the sweat, the dull clank of tools, the monotony of repair work. He used to think he was above it. Too good to be stuck in a garage with bad ventilation and a leaky roof.
Now, he just handed his father the wrench.
And for once, his father looked at him a second longer than usual. His expression unreadable-but his eyes just a bit warmer.
"You're not hungover or sick, right?" he asked, half-joking.
"No," Ren said. "I just wanted to help."
"...Huh."
They worked in silence for a while. The kind that didn't need to be filled. The silence of men who never said much but still understood something was shifting.
Inside the house, Ren's mother was humming.
He recognized the tune now: a lullaby from when he was little.
Her voice cracked a bit, but she kept singing as she peeled vegetables in the kitchen. It was the same kitchen where Ren once screamed at her for not understanding his goals. For "not believing in him." For asking him to help when he was "too busy working."
She glanced up as he entered. "You came early."
Ren took the peeler from her gently.
"Let me."
"...You'll ruin the shape."
"I'll try not to."
She watched him for a few seconds, then nodded and turned to the rice cooker.
And just like that, another small wrong began to right itself.
Evening began to settle.
The golden light outside faded to soft blue.
Ren sat on the step outside, wiping his hands on an old rag. His father lit a cigarette beside him, eyes still on the bike inside. They didn't speak much. But it was enough.
Still...
The calm made it worse.
Because something deep in Ren's chest was tightening.
That sense again.
The storm in the quiet.
He didn't know when it would come, or how-but it would.
And somehow, some part of him felt like he'd left a door open.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Like something-or someone-from the life he buried had found a way to crawl through the cracks.
That someone he despised would follow the deer he saw back then.
His phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You still alive? Hope not :-) -R
He stared at it.
No name.
Just an old, burned memory waking up.
Golden eyes. A knife slicing through bone like tofu. A smile that didn't belong on a human face.
And a past that wasn't done with him yet.
Ren's hand trembled slightly as he locked the phone and shoved it in his pocket.
The world outside was dark now.
But it wasn't the kind of darkness you lit with a lamp.
It was the kind that came from within.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The hallway was too quiet for 3AM.
Dim moonlight bled in through the tall school windows, the whole corridor bathed in silver and shadow. Akeshi stood alone, hands in his coat pockets, posture easy but eyes razor-sharp. The faint buzz of a vending machine hummed from somewhere far down the hall, but he wasn't here for soda.
He waited. Not out of obligation-but curiosity.
Then, behind him, a presence.
Not a footstep. Not a breath.
Just a...pressure. Like a door being cracked open in his mind.
"You're late," Akeshi said, not turning.
"Time isn't real," came the reply-deep, smooth, almost amused.
Akeshi turned his head slightly. The figure leaning against the locker had no face he could recognize. Not really. Wrapped in black, hood pulled up, voice filtered through something like a smile and a blade. But the aura was unmistakable. Ancient. Watching.
"You've been circling the boy," the figure said.
"I've been watching," Akeshi corrected. "Same as you."
"And what have you learned?"
Akeshi smirked. "That he's not just reliving his past. He's editing it."
The figure tilted its head, just slightly. A glimmer of interest. "And that concerns you?"
"It should concern anyone with a soul." Akeshi narrowed his leaf-green eyes. "But I doubt you fall in that category."
Silence.
Then, a chuckle. Dry. Human. But barely.
"And what do you fall under, child?"
Akeshi stepped forward once, hands still in his pockets.
"A reminder," he said, voice quiet, "that sometimes the knife cuts both ways."
Then he walked past the figure-no fear, no hesitation. Just quiet resolve.
And a whisper that followed him like mist:
"Do you think the boy will be grateful when he remembers everything?"
Akeshi didn't answer.