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Code: CBA84
Ending: 10/08/25
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The gravel crunched beneath their shoes as Kenshiro, Misaki, and Daisuke left the cemetery grounds, the mid-morning sun shrouded behind overcast skies. A light wind tousled the leaves, rustling like whispers from the grave. Kenshiro walked with his head slightly bowed, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, but his sharp eyes darted subtly beneath his lashes.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it.
That unmistakable sensation was subtle, heavy, a quiet pressure brushing against his awareness.
It wasn't paranoia. No, it was far more refined than that.
The instincts of his former life as the Strongest Martial Master had never failed him before… and they weren't about to now.
We're being watched.
The thought dropped like ice into his gut. A second later, he twisted his body slightly under the guise of adjusting his coat, his eyes scanning the street.
Then he saw it.
A sleek black car was parked on the roadside just beyond the line of trees that bordered the cemetery's parking lot. Its blacked-out windows reflected nothing but distortion, making it impossible to see inside—but Kenshiro knew. He didn't need to see. He felt the weight of those stares, those eyes dissecting every movement he made, hiding behind the façade of tinted glass.
He counted three breaths… and then the sensation doubled.
Two of them watched them silently.
They were good at hiding, whoever they were.
Most people wouldn't notice.
But to Kenshiro? Their presence may as well have been neon lights.
He didn't react outwardly. Instead, he calmly turned toward Misaki and Daisuke.
"Shall we head back?" He said softly.
Daisuke gave a solemn nod. "Yes. Let's get some rest before the drive tomorrow."
They hailed a taxi parked outside the cemetery gates. Kenshiro subtly checked the side mirror as they pulled away.
The black car remained still. For a moment.
Then, like a panther slipping from the shadows, it rolled forward, keeping a careful distance.
There it is.
Kenshiro committed the plate number to memory with a glance. Every detail of the vehicle—its make, the gentle hum of its engine, even the slight tilt in the front tire—etched itself into his mind.
Years of martial mastery honed his perception to superhuman levels, and he used every ounce of it now.
Misaki sat beside him, gazing out the window. She hadn't spoken much since the visit to the graves, and Kenshiro could sense her grief as clearly as his own.
Daisuke broke the silence.
"You were strong back there, Kenshiro. I'm proud of you."
Kenshiro didn't reply. He kept his gaze forward, watching as buildings passed by.
"Losing family is like losing a piece of yourself," Daisuke continued. "But I want you to know, I won't let you go through this alone. Your parents… were like family to me. I owe them everything. From now on, you're not alone."
Kenshiro looked at the older man slowly. The sincerity in Daisuke's voice was real—warm, and maybe even comforting.
"Thank you," Kenshiro said, though his voice felt distant even to himself. His thoughts were elsewhere.
His rage, carefully banked under his calm expression, stirred beneath the surface.
They arrived at the hotel, and Misaki immediately went to their room to begin packing.
Daisuke lingered behind in the lobby with Kenshiro.
"You doing okay?" He asked gently, placing a hand on Kenshiro's shoulder.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore," Kenshiro said truthfully, his voice quieter now, almost brittle. "Grief… anger… confusion. It's all mixed up."
Daisuke gave him a comforting squeeze. "That's normal, son. Take your time. Cry if you need to. Talk if you want to. But don't bottle it all up, alright?"
Kenshiro nodded silently.
A pause hung between them before Kenshiro finally said, "Can I… go outside for a bit? I just need some air. It's hard to breathe in there."
Daisuke studied his face. He could see the pain—the storm quietly brewing behind those young, haunted eyes. With a soft sigh, he nodded.
"Alright. But don't go far, okay? We'll be leaving after lunch."
"I won't," Kenshiro lied smoothly.
With that, he turned and stepped out through the glass doors, his senses immediately sharpening like a blade drawn from its sheath.
The sun had now fully emerged, yet the cold air bit at his skin. He kept his walk casual, his pace unhurried, as he disappeared around the corner of the hotel.
And then, once out of sight—he moved.
Like a shadow.
He was effortless and silent.
He climbed atop the adjacent building's emergency staircase and crouched low, his eyes fixed on the road.
A minute passed. Two.
Then it appeared.
The black car. It drove past the hotel slowly, the tinted windows scanning, searching.
There you are.
Kenshiro narrowed his eyes, tracking its every movement. The car parked just two blocks away, hidden beneath the shade of a tree.
It was clearly tailing him.
He could feel the gaze again. Less curious now. More cautious. Testing the waters.
They're professionals, Kenshiro thought. But not assassins. No… they're gathering information. Seeing what I know. Trying to measure the threat I pose.
He smirked slightly, his lips barely twitching.
You're right to be afraid.
Meanwhile, inside the hotel room, Misaki folded the last of Kenshiro's clothes into his bag. Her hands moved mechanically, but her mind swirled in unrest.
He hasn't been the same.
He barely slept and barely spoke. There was a darkness in his eyes—a maturity and coldness that frightened her, not because it was cruel, but because it felt unnatural for a boy so young.
Kenshiro had always been sharp, mature even… but this? This was something else.
When she hugged him earlier, she'd felt it in his heartbeat.
He was far too composed.
She sat on the bed, her hands gripping the blanket.
"Please," She whispered to no one. "Come back to us, Kenshiro-sama. Don't lose yourself…"
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Back on the rooftop, Kenshiro crouched for another ten minutes, watching.
Then, slowly, he descended, vanishing into the narrow alley behind the hotel.
He circled around, doubling back with movements so precise and silent that no camera or person noticed.
By the time he reached a corner cafe, he stood just fifty meters away from the black car, shielded by a bus stop's concrete pillar. He stared at it, the gears turning in his mind.
Two people inside. No engine sounds. Professional stakeout.
He looked up at the power lines above, tracking the pattern of their vibration.
Then something caught his eye—barely a flicker. A camera lens. Just barely poking out of the window crack.
They're documenting everything.
His lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile.
Not bad. But now enough...