The walk back home was a pain in the ass, every step felt heavier than the last. My ribs ached with each shallow breath, and the black eye throbbed in time with my heartbeat. Nothing felt right—not my body, not my thoughts, not the world around me. It was like the universe had decided to personally fuck me over. And the worst part? I knew I deserved it. All of it.
I felt used in every possible way—emotionally, physically, mentally. But for my luck, the only thing actually taken was my will to be happy. Not my wallet, not my card. Lucky me. I hated life. I hated myself even more for not knowing how to live it. And the question I couldn't stop asking myself burned in my head like a curse: Am I even a man?
She was there.
Kelly.
She wanted me, touched me, practically begged me to do something. And I… I fucking froze. I fucked it all up, just like I always do.
After Kelly left, everything spiraled out of control. Shit hit the fan so fast I couldn't even process it. Norm must've heard the struggle from the next room because he stormed in, his face a storm cloud of anger and disgust. And then Yaki—she saw it too.
Yaki. God, I couldn't even look her in the eye.
I'll never forget the way she stared at me, like I was the worst kind of trash. She didn't say a word, not at first. She just stood there, her wide, teary eyes cutting right through me. Then she started yelling, her voice cracking under the weight of whatever she was feeling—betrayal, anger, disappointment. I don't even know anymore.
Norm didn't bother yelling. He's always been more of an actions-speak-louder-than-words kind of guy. His fist collided with my face before I even registered he'd moved. Pain exploded behind my eye as I stumbled backward, crashing into the coffee table. Yaki screamed, but I couldn't tell if it was at me or Norm. I deserved it. Every punch, every curse, every tear.
Yaki ran out of the room sobbing, and I didn't stop her. How could I? I was the villain in my own story, and for once, it felt like everyone saw me for who I really was.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Yaki had once said her character would fight for me, protect me no matter what. And now? She was the first to bolt. I didn't blame her. If I could've run away from myself, I would've.
Walking back from the party, I tossed the broken mask I'd been wearing—a cheap, flimsy thing—into an alley. It landed in a pile of trash where it belonged, just another reminder of how much of a joke I'd become.
When I finally reached my apartment, it felt more like a tomb than a home. The stale air hit me the second I opened the door, thick with the stench of neglect and apathy. I didn't even bother turning on the lights; the dark felt safer. In the dark, I didn't have to see what a mess I'd made of everything.
I stripped out of my torn and bloodstained clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit my bruised ribs, and I hissed in pain, clutching the side of the stall for support. My skull pounded, my body ached, and my eye felt like it was about to burst. I closed my eyes and let the water run over me, hoping it could wash away more than just the sweat and blood. It didn't worked.
By the time I got out, the mirror was completely fogged up. I didn't wipe it clean; I didn't want to see myself. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I stumbled into my room and pulled on whatever clean clothes I could find. Each movement reminded me of how broken I was—not just physically, but in every way that mattered. I got dressed and put on a pair of sunglasses to cover the evidence of being beaten until my spirit stopped smiling.
And then the doorbell rang.
I froze. For a moment, I thought it might be Norm, back to finish what he'd started. My pulse quickened, and I instinctively reached for the nearest blunt object—a heavy bookend—before inching toward the door. Peering through the peephole, I let out a shaky breath. It wasn't Norm.
It was Amelia.
My stomach twisted into knots. I hesitated, but eventually opened the door. She stood there, arms crossed, her face a mix of worry and anger.
"Hey," she said, her voice softer than I expected. "I figured you might be... you know, not okay."
"Amelia," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "You really didn't have to come."
She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, brushing past me.
"Yeah, well, you didn't exactly leave me feeling reassured earlier," she shot back, turning to face me. Her eyes scanned my face, landing on the sunglasses I still had on. "And take those off. You look ridiculous."
Reluctantly, I pulled them off, revealing the swollen, bruised mess of my eye. Her lips parted in a soft gasp, but she quickly masked her shock with a glare.
"Who did this to you?" she demanded, stepping closer.
"It's not important," I replied, trying to deflect. "I'll handle it."
Her expression hardened. "Not important? You've got a black eye and bruises all over. Don't tell me it's not important, Yakumo?." "I don't want to talk about it, Amelia," I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. She flinched but didn't back down.
"Fine," she said, her tone icy. "Don't talk. But I'm not leaving until I know you're not about to do something stupid."
I sighed, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me. Amelia's stubbornness was equal parts frustrating and comforting. She wasn't letting me disappear into myself, even if that's all I wanted right now.
She grabbed my arm, gently this time, and led me to the couch. "Sit," she ordered.
I obeyed, too tired to argue. She sat down next to me, her eyes searching mine for answers I wasn't ready to give. For a moment, we just sat there in silence, the air between us thick with unspoken words.
"You don't have to do this, Amelia," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Do what?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"Care," I said bitterly. "You don't have to care about me. I'm not worth it."
Her hand shot out, grabbing mine. "Shut up," she said firmly. "Don't you dare say that. You're not perfect, Yakumo, but you don't get to decide you're not worth caring about. That's not your call."
Her words hit me harder than any punch Norm had thrown. I didn't know how to respond, so I didn't. I just sat there, staring at our joined hands, feeling more vulnerable than I had in years.
Amelia sighed and leaned back against the couch. "Look," she said, her tone softening. "I don't know what's going on with you, but you don't have to go through it alone. Whatever it is, I'm here. Okay?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself lean on someone else, if only a little. Amelia didn't press me for more, and I was grateful for that. For now, it was enough.
But in the back of my mind, I knew this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Before I knew it, I fell asleep, her hand resting on my head as I drifted off, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulling me into something resembling peace. But peace never lasted, not for me. Memories flooded back as soon as my eyes shut. Kelly—her words, her touch, her smugness.
She claimed me like she had a right to, like I was some prize she'd won. But the truth? I didn't want her. I never wanted her. Not like that. I wanted Yaki. I loved Yaki. And yet, I'd destroyed any chance I had with her, crushed it under the weight of my own stupidity.
Seeing Yaki cry—watching her break in front of me—hurt more than anything I'd ever felt before. Her tears cut deeper than any insult, any rejection. And when she walked away, it felt like she was tearing my heart out with every step. I should've gone after her. I should've said something, done something. But I didn't. I just stood there, frozen in my own failure, letting her go.
And then there was Norm. His fist came out of nowhere, the pain sharp and immediate. But even that didn't faze me the way Yaki's tears did. Norm's punch? That just enraged me. It was like a spark to the dry kindling of my frustration and self-loathing. But Yaki leaving? That was a slow, aching burn that wouldn't go away.
I woke up with a start, my chest tight and my breath shaky. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The last thing I remembered was Amelia's hand on my head, the way she stroked my hair as I finally let myself fall asleep. But now, I was spooning her on the couch.
My arm was wrapped around her waist, her body warm and soft against mine. The shock hit me like a slap, but it faded quickly, replaced by something colder. Numbness.
I should've felt something. Comfort. Relief. Maybe even love. But I didn't. All I felt was empty.
Amelia's face was calm, her eyes closed, her breathing soft. She looked so peaceful, so unbothered, like she didn't know the mess of a man lying next to her. Like she didn't know the depths of my failure.
I tightened my arm around her, not because I wanted to, but because I didn't know how to let go. If I was nothing more than a coward, then I might as well cling to this, to her, for as long as I could.
Amelia had always been there for me. Through everything—my mistakes, my failures, my spiral into self-destruction—she stayed. But I didn't deserve her. Not after everything I'd done. Not after I let Yaki cry and walk away without stopping her. Not after Kelly claimed me like a trophy in front of Norm, like I was something to own.
Kelly's smugness made my blood boil. Norm's punch left me seething. But Yaki? Yaki's tears haunted me.
I closed my eyes, trying to push the memories away, to bury the guilt and shame that had taken up permanent residence in my chest. If I could go back, if I could fix the mess I'd made, I would. I'd face Norm. I'd tell him the truth. I'd do whatever it took to make things right.
But it was too late for that.
For now, all I had was this. Lying here next to Amelia, pretending for just one night that I wasn't the disaster of a man I knew I was. Pretending that I hadn't already lost everything that mattered.
Because the truth? I was nothing. A coward. A failure. A man who let Yaki cry and walk away. And no amount of pretending could change that.
In the morning, she was gone. No note, no message—just an empty space on the couch where her warmth had been. I stared at it for what felt like an eternity, the silence in the room choking me.
I went through the motions of my usual routine, my body moving on autopilot while my mind raced. The bitch next door was at it again, blasting the same obnoxious news channel at full volume, her voice grating through the walls like nails on a chalkboard. I wanted to scream at her, to pound on her door, to do anything to shut her up. But I didn't.
Instead, I let the noise wash over me, a fitting soundtrack to the endless loop of regret and self-loathing playing in my head.
And then my phone buzzed.
At first, I ignored it, figuring it was another useless notification I didn't care about. But something made me check it—a gut feeling, maybe, or just the desperate hope for a distraction.
The email was from the head staff, part of the usual partners' update. Except this time, it wasn't the usual mundane information. This time, it was news that hit me like a freight train.
Yaki quit last night. Norm followed her. They left together.
I reread the message, my heart sinking lower with each word. It didn't feel real. Yaki—gone. Norm—gone. Together. And me? I was still here, stuck in this hell I'd made for myself.
Before I could process the news, another buzz. A text from Kelly.
"Looks like we're all alone now, Hiko. Just you and me. Perfect for me to eat you up, isn't it?"
Her words made my stomach churn, her mocking tone practically dripping off the screen. My hands trembled as I read the message again, the bile rising in my throat.
The phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. My breakfast followed, the plate crashing into pieces as the food scattered across the floor.
"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!"
The scream tore out of me, raw and guttural, as I spun around and slammed my fist into the mirror. The glass cracked under the force, splintering into a distorted web of shattered reflections.
I didn't stop. I hit it again, and again, the shards breaking away with each blow. Blood ran down my knuckles, warm and sticky, but I didn't care. The pain felt good. It felt real.
My leg lashed out, kicking the dresser, the impact jarring my entire body. I kept going, punching, kicking, breaking everything I could reach. My chest heaved with sobs, the sound mixing with the crash of destruction around me.
"It hurts," I choked out, my voice barely audible over the chaos. "It hurts, it hurts, it hurts..."
I fell to my knees, the adrenaline fading and leaving me hollow. Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless, as I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked back and forth.
"I can't do this," I whispered. "I can't... I need them. Please. This can't be happening."
My hands clawed at my hair, pulling at the strands as if the physical pain could drown out the screaming in my head.
"I'm not a bad person," I sobbed, the words a desperate mantra. "It wasn't even my fault. It wasn't my fault. Please don't leave me. Please..."
The image of Yaki crying flashed in my mind, her face twisted with pain as she turned and walked away. Norm's punch came next, the sharp crack of his fist against my jaw. And then Kelly's mocking words, her smug smirk as she claimed me like some trophy she'd won.
It was too much.
I collapsed onto the floor, curling into myself, my head buried in my knees. My body shook with uncontrollable sobs, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. I was a wreck, a failure, a broken shell of a man.
My mind spiraled deeper into the darkness, the weight of everything pressing down on me until I couldn't breathe. I wanted it to stop. The pain, the guilt, the emptiness. I wanted it all to just... stop.
But it wouldn't.
Because even now, even at rock bottom, some part of me still clung to hope. A tiny, fragile part of me wanted to fix this, to make things right, to be better.
I lifted my head, my tear-streaked face reflected back at me in the shattered mirror. My reflection was fragmented, broken, just like me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm sorry, Yaki. I'm sorry, Norm. I'm sorry..."
But the apologies didn't matter. The damage was done. And now, all I could do was sit there, broken and bleeding, hoping that somehow, someday, I could find a way to put the pieces back together.
I was on the floor, my body trembling, and yet it didn't even feel like it belonged to me anymore. My lips, my arms, my head—they all felt detached, like pieces of a puppet dangling from broken strings. I was hollow, a ghost inhabiting this shattered, useless shell.
The tears wouldn't stop. Hot and endless, they burned streaks down my cheeks, pooling beneath me as I hugged my knees tighter. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one cutting through my chest like broken glass. My ribs felt like they were caving in, collapsing under the weight of my failure.
"I fucked it up," I whispered hoarsely, the words catching in my throat. "I fucked it all up."
I could hear my voice echo in the room, hollow and pathetic, like some stranger was speaking for me. My whole life—everything I had built, everything I thought I was—was slipping through my fingers like sand, no matter how desperately I tried to hold on.
The guilt clawed at me, sharp and relentless, digging its nails into my heart and twisting. Kelly. Her name felt like poison on my tongue, like acid in my veins. She had forced herself into my life, into my space, into me—and I let her. God, I let her. And for what? A moment of weakness? A fleeting second of thinking I could salvage some dignity from the wreckage?
But there was no dignity left. Not anymore.
She was the cause of this—the unraveling, the pain, the suffocating guilt that pressed down on me like a thousand pounds of steel. Her voice echoed in my head, smug and mocking, her touch lingering on my skin like a stain I couldn't wash away.
I could still see Yaki's face, the tears streaming down her cheeks, the way she looked at me like I was a monster. Like I had betrayed her in the worst possible way. And I had. God, I had.
The memory hit me like a sledgehammer, and I doubled over, my forehead pressing into my knees as I sobbed harder. My whole body shook, wracked with waves of grief and rage and self-loathing.
I wasn't just broken. I was shattered. Cracked wide open, every ugly, worthless part of me laid bare for the world to see.
My life was a mess—a goddamn, irredeemable mess. I had destroyed everything. My career, my relationships, my sense of self. It was all gone, burned to ash, and I was the one who lit the match.
And now... now all I had left was Kelly.
The thought made me want to vomit. She was the last thing I wanted to deal with, the last person I wanted near me. The way she looked at me, the way she spoke to me, the way she took what she wanted without a second thought... it made my skin crawl.
I hated her.
But more than that, I hated myself. For letting her in. For letting her destroy everything I cared about. For not being strong enough to fight back.
The guilt was suffocating, pressing down on me from all sides, filling my lungs with lead. My chest felt tight, my heart a dull, aching thud that resonated through my entire body. My ribs felt like they might snap under the pressure.
"Why it hurts?" I muttered, my voice barely audible. "Why does it hurts this bad, it hurts more and more, fuck it hurts..."
But it wasn't just physical pain. It was deeper than that, a gnawing, relentless ache that burrowed into my very soul. My bones, my ribs, my skin—everything felt heavy, weighed down by the crushing realization that I had done this to myself.
I closed my eyes, pressing my palms against my temples as if I could squeeze the memories out of my mind. But they were still there, playing on an endless loop. Yaki's tears. Norm's punch. Kelly's smirk.
"I'm nothing," I whispered, the words spilling out of me like a confession. "I'm no one. I'm... I'm nothing."
The room seemed to shrink around me, the walls closing in, the air growing thick and suffocating. I couldn't breathe. My chest heaved, my lungs burning, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get enough air.
The spiral was endless. I was drowning in it, consumed by it, unable to claw my way back to the surface.
My body slumped against the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold, unforgiving tile. The contrast was jarring—my body burning, trembling, shaking, while the ground beneath me was still, unmoving, unfeeling.
I wanted to disappear. To vanish into the cracks of the floor, to cease existing altogether. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be.
But the pain kept me anchored. It refused to let me go, pulling me deeper and deeper into the darkness.
And all I could do was lie there, broken and bleeding, wishing for an escape that would never come.
For a moment everything seem to slow down, the tv noice fading as I can hear again my breath and my heart. In that momen I heard my father and his usless sayings "A man its defined by what he is, not by was he does. Its how you fix the things that you break, is how you become what you need to be, as now you are my son even if you become a worthless fucker"
In that moment, everything stopped. The noise from the TV next door vanished, the static buzz of the world faded, and all I could hear was the sound of my own breath—uneven, ragged—and the relentless pounding of my heart, each beat echoing in my chest like it was trying to kick my feelings out. The silence wrapped around me, heavy and suffocating, yet strangely comforting.
And in that moment, as I sat there on the cold, blood-streaked floor, a memory surfaced. It came unbidden, like a faint light breaking through the cracks of a dark, suffocating room.
This time I could hear my father clearly.
His voice was in my mind, the rough timbre of it cutting through the haze of despair like a blade. He had always been full of sayings—those little nuggets of wisdom he'd toss out casually, as if they weren't meant to shape the foundation of my life. At the time, I never thought much of them. I used to roll my eyes, thinking he was just another man with too many opinions and not enough action to back them up. But now, those words hit differently.
"A man is not defined by what he is, Yakumo," he used to say, his tone firm but kind, like he was trying to etch the lesson into my soul. "He's defined by what he does. What he chooses to do, especially when things fall apart."
I could almost see him standing there in our old kitchen, his hands covered in grease from fixing the ancient, rusted clock Mom always insisted on keeping. His face was lined with years of hard work, his eyes a mix of exhaustion and unwavering belief.
"It's how you fix the things you break," he'd continue, pausing to glance at me, making sure I was paying attention. "That's what makes a man. Not what the world wants you to be, not what they tell you to be, but what you choose to be for yourself. That's how you become the man you need to be."
And then, he'd always finish with a wry grin, his voice softening as he leaned in closer, like he was letting me in on some great secret.
"Even if you grow up to be a worthless nobody, even if your life turns into a shit show, you'll still be my son. And I'll still be proud of my son, the shit show."
At the time, I thought he was joking—just his way of keeping things light. But now, those words carried weight I hadn't understood before. I could almost feel his hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his presence grounding me, steadying me.
As I sat there, surrounded by the mess I had made of my life, his words echoed in my mind, louder and clearer than the silence around me.
It wasn't about what I was—a failure, a mess, a wreck. It wasn't about the mistakes I had made, the people I had hurt, or the things I had lost. It was about what I chose to do next.
Could I fix the things I had broken? Could I face the people I had let down and try to make it right? Could I fight to become the man I needed to be, even if the world had already written me off?
I didn't know the answers.
But for the first time in what felt like forever, I wanted to try.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath, the memory of my father's voice still lingering in my mind. He had believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself. He had seen something in me, something worth fighting for, something worth being proud of.
And maybe—just maybe—that something was still there.
I opened my eyes, staring at my reflection in the shattered mirror. The man staring back at me was a mess—bloodied, tear-streaked, and broken. But he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.
Maybe that was enough.
For now, I just had to take one step. And then another.
Because as much as it hurt, as much as I wanted to give up, I wasn't ready to let this be the end of my story. Not yet.
I stumbled toward the kitchen, eyes glazed with exhaustion. The room was too quiet—too still. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, and I couldn't shake the feeling that everything I touched was turning to dust.
The suit I had thrown into the corner a few days ago—when I ran out, when everything fell apart—lay there in a crumpled heap. I could almost hear my father's voice in my head again, the one that told me that a man's actions are what define him. I knew I wasn't living up to it. Not now. Not anymore.
But as I walked toward the suit, something caught my eye. A small, white slip of paper poked out from the inside of the jacket pocket. My fingers trembled as I pulled it out, unfolding it slowly.
It was the card.
Yaki's card.
The one she had left for me.
I froze, staring at it. Her name, the number—everything was there, reminding me of the kindness she had shown me. She had believed in me, even when I couldn't see it myself. And I had failed her.
The memory of her crying—of her leaving me behind—smashed into my chest like a tidal wave. I could still hear her voice, soft but broken, as she said, "I can't do this anymore, Hiko."
It hurt. It hurt in a way that was too deep for words. My chest tightened, my throat burned, and I almost dropped the card as the memory consumed me. I had caused that. I had made her cry, made her walk away, when all she wanted was for me to be better.
I ran my thumb over the raised letters on the card, the smooth surface feeling cold against my skin. It was like holding a piece of her—a reminder of what I had lost. And I knew it was my fault. I had thrown it all away.
But something shifted within me as I stared at the number. I wasn't going to keep making the same mistakes. I wasn't going to let her down again.
I grabbed the phone from the counter, my hands shaking, but this time it wasn't fear—it was something else. Something like resolve. My anger, regret, and guilt still simmered inside me, but beneath it all, there was a spark. This time, I wasn't running from it. This time, I was going to do something.
I dialed the number, the digits feeling foreign in my hands, but they were what I needed now. They were a bridge to fixing everything I had broken.
The phone rang, once. Twice. Then, the operator's voice broke through the ringing. Calm. Professional. But to me, it was everything.
"Hello, Public Safety. What can I be of service for?"
My throat tightened as I tried to speak. It felt like there was a thousand things I wanted to say, but they all choked me up. What could I say to make up for all the things I had messed up? How could I ever fix any of this? But I had to push through. I had to say it.
I swallowed hard and forced the words out, my voice cracking with something deeper than regret—something that felt like hope for the first time in forever.
"Recruitment department?"
The silence on the other end of the line stretched longer than I wanted it to, but it didn't feel heavy this time. It wasn't the silence of defeat; it was the silence of a new beginning. It was the sound of a chance.
"Hold on, sir. I'll transfer you to recruitment."
As the line clicked and the hold music started, I stared at the card in my hand one last time. Yaki's name. The number. It was a second chance. A way out. A chance to unfuck everything I had broken.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel completely lost. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't too far gone to fix it all.
The line clicked, and the hold music faded out. A quiet moment followed, the weight of everything that had happened settling over me. I stared at Yaki's card, my heart pounding in my chest. The music, barely audible now, was a faint distraction from the chaos in my head.
Then, the silence was broken by a calm, professional voice.
"Hello, sir. You've been transferred to recruitment. What service are you seeking today?"
I took a shaky breath, the words rising in my throat, heavy with everything I had carried. Hope, fear, regret—the same emotions from earlier surged back. I'd messed up so much, but this was my chance to do something right, to pull myself out of the wreckage I'd created.
And as the memory of my father's last words echoed in my mind, I spoke, voice steady but heart racing.
—"Where do I sign up?"—