"One, you can't hurt someone who has nothing left to lose. Two, love what you already have, before they become nothing but memories."
Ayato slowly opened his eyes. The pale gray of the morning sky bled through the curtains like a memory trying to find its way back into reality. His breath came shallow, his body stiff from the night before. He hadn't even changed. The same clothes clung to his skin—creased, torn in places, and slightly damp with sweat. One pillow was tucked beneath his broken arm, its position carefully arranged by someone kind. Someone thoughtful.
But it didn't matter. Not to Ayato.
He shifted slightly, and a jolt of pain shot through his body—not from his injuries, but from something deeper. He turned his gaze to his trembling hand. Then, just like that, a single tear escaped the corner of his eye. Silent. Gentle. And yet, heavier than the world.
He was an orphan now.
That truth did not scream. It didn't roar or crash or burn. It just... lingered. Sat in his chest like a dying fire, casting no warmth. And in that quiet moment, his eyes dimmed. The light of youth faded. Something innocent inside him had died, and what remained looked at the world with hollow sadness.
Ayato pulled himself to the edge of the bed, moving carefully to avoid straining his broken arm. He stood, almost robotic, and made his way to the window. Raindrops clattered against the glass, racing downward in a thousand tiny rivulets. The world was crying too.
In the mirror of the windowpane, his reflection stared back at him—tired, thin, and drenched in grief. He turned away. The sight was too much.
He limped to the bathroom. There, under the dull fluorescent light, he washed his face with his good hand. Cold water met skin. It shocked him a little—but not enough. His right eye remained blurry, damaged but functional. It granted vision, but only just.
He dried his face and made his way downstairs, where the soft hum of conversation—or rather, silence—greeted him. Two familiar figures sat in the living room: Kauri, his aunt and Kasumi's mother, and her husband, Mr. Takasumi.
They looked up the moment they noticed him.
But something else pulled his attention—a smell. Warm. Nostalgic. Cooking. The kind of smell that made you stop and close your eyes just for a second, pretending everything was okay.
Ayato instinctively followed it, entering the hallway and finding someone he didn't expect to see in the kitchen.
Peter.
Wearing an apron, sleeves rolled to the elbows, Peter stood at the stove calmly flipping eggs and toasting bread. A thin cut of pork sizzled on the pan, releasing steam into the air. It was the kind of domestic scene that didn't belong to the day of mourning, and yet, it carried a quiet dignity.
Ayato's surprise lasted a mere second. Then, like everything else in his life now, it faded into numbness.
He stopped at the edge of the hallway. That's when Kauri rose from the couch. She crossed the room without a word and wrapped her arms around him.
Ayato didn't flinch.
Didn't cry.
He just leaned into her shoulder, head resting there like it was something he remembered how to do.
"I'm as sad as you are now, Ayato," she whispered, her voice tight with emotion. "She was my sister. And also... my best friend."
Her tears soaked lightly into his shirt, but Ayato didn't speak. The silence became his second skin.
Then came the question.
"Ayato," Mr. Takasumi said, breaking the silence with hesitation, "what happened to you?"
There was a pause. A dangerous one.
"What's with your long hair? Your eye... your arm? Why weren't you home? Did someone hurt you? Did you get jumped—?"
Peter cleared his throat—loudly.
Mr. Takasumi turned. Peter's eyes were sharp, not with anger, but with unspoken warning. The room tensed, the question lingering like a ghost.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Then, softly—
"Breakfast is ready," Peter said, turning off the stove. He began setting plates—four of them—on the table near the kitchen. Sandwiches: stacked toast with fluffy eggs and thin cuts of pork.
Everyone moved slowly toward the table. Ayato, especially, was like a shadow of himself. He sat beside Peter, his posture still and defeated.
Peter folded his hands.
"Dear God," he began in a low, reverent tone, "thank you for this food. Thank you for the strength to face another day, even when our hearts are broken. May those who suffer find peace, and may those who have lost find a path forward. Guide us... through this pain. Amen."
The others echoed, "Amen."
Peter looked at them all. "Enjoy."
They began to eat. And for a moment, it was like a normal meal. The food was delicious—balanced, flavorful, and warm. It filled their mouths with a comfort they didn't know they needed.
Even Ayato.
His lips parted slightly as the flavor hit him. It was familiar. Too familiar.
His mother's recipe.
The taste hit his tongue, and for a brief second, the air in his lungs caught. His hand trembled. Tears—uninvited, quiet, and aching—slipped down his cheeks and landed silently onto the porcelain plate.
Peter noticed.
He stood, walked around the table, and gently placed a hand on Ayato's shoulder.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
His hand rubbed Ayato's shoulder gently, offering nothing but presence and warmth.
Kauri watched from across the table, tears in her own eyes again.
Mr. Takasumi lowered his gaze in shame and sorrow.
And outside, the rain continued to fall. Not as a storm. Not as rage.
But as grief.
A sky that mourned alongside them.
Time passed. The meal ended. Plates were cleared. All but one.
Ayato was still eating—slowly, almost ritualistically. Every bite carried the weight of a thousand memories, and though his lips moved, his face never changed. No smiles. No light. Just sorrow.
Peter remained by his side. Watching. Not with pity—but with quiet resolve.
Eventually, Peter stood up and gently placed a hand beneath Ayato's good arm. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's get you upstairs."
Ayato didn't resist. He let himself be guided like a leaf on a river current.
Inside the guest bedroom, Peter took a moment to look around. The space was clean, humble. A room someone had tried to care for.
But then something caught Peter's eye—a drawer, half-closed.
He opened it slowly.
Inside... makeup supplies.
Peter stared, puzzled.
Before he could ask, Ayato's voice cut through the silence.
"I've got no reason to live."
The words hit like a hammer. Peter's breath caught, and his expression tightened—not in judgment, but in something more primal.
He walked over and sat beside Ayato on the bed.
"Ayato," Peter began, his voice low and calm, "I never saw my parents. I was born an orphan. And I know what it means to be alone."
Ayato's hands clenched.
Then he stood, rage flashing in his eyes.
"What do you know about my pain, huh?!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You know NOTHING about it! I was supposed to be their proud son—and now look at me! I've got nothing! My cousin betrayed me! My family left before I could even say goodbye! I. Have. Nobody!"
Another tear traced down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, frustrated by its betrayal.
Peter was still.
Then, with unshakable steadiness, he answered.
"You have me."
Ayato froze.
Peter continued, his voice unwavering. "I know I'm still a stranger. I know you probably don't trust me. I know that night I made a deal with you—to help you become stronger. But I'm not here just for that."
Peter's gaze softened. "Your father... he wanted you to live happily."
Ayato turned away. "But without them—"
Peter gently interrupted.
"You have me, Ayato. Me."
The silence returned, heavier than ever.
Peter sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "Maybe that sounds strange. Maybe even foolish. But your father left me with a mission."
Ayato looked up, eyes lifeless. "What mission?"
Peter met his gaze.
"To look after you. To guide you. And to make you the kind of man they would be proud of."
Ayato's shoulders slumped. His hands rose and covered his eyes, but the tears slipped through anyway. His body trembled, and a muffled sob escaped.
Peter stood, walked over, and knelt in front of him.
He didn't speak right away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Ayato—carefully, minding his injured arm—and held him close.
"I'll be by your side, little brother," Peter whispered.
Ayato sobbed harder, his tears soaking into Peter's shoulder.
But in that pain, there was something else now.
A promise.
A beginning.
And someone who refused to let him fall any further.
The room was quiet again. Outside, the rain softened into a hush, as if nature itself was listening.
Ayato had stopped crying. His breathing slowed. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, then stood up silently. Without a word, he crossed the room and picked up his phone from the small table near the bed.
He turned back to Peter and handed it to him.
"Read this," Ayato murmured.
Peter took the phone and unlocked the screen. His eyes scanned the message thread.
It was from Kasumi.
A timestamp from the night Ayato saw everything.
"dear ayato-kun, sorry for not telling you but, ajiro-san won't fuck me aound if i don't... even though this is before the test, I'll give you a straight reply for what you said back then.
I... I just can't see you as a man anymore..."
Peter didn't continue reading and he was in a bit of anger.
Attached below... a link.
Peter didn't need to open it to know what it was.
His jaw tightened. The room's air grew heavy. Something dark flickered in his eyes—not fury, but something colder, something older. Betrayal. Violation. And now, cruelty.
"She didn't just betray you," Peter said, his voice nearly a whisper, "She wanted to break you."
Ayato nodded silently. A slow, shallow breath left his lungs like smoke.
"Ayato," Peter said after a moment, still staring at the screen. "The blonde one. The guy in that video. Can you tell me more about him?"
Ayato's eyes lowered.
"His name's Takaya. He's not a student. He's an adult. Early twenties, maybe. His uncle... has some kind of power. Influence. People are scared of him. Police, judges... even teachers. They let things slide. Takaya thinks he can get away with anything."
Peter listened carefully, but Ayato paused—suddenly trembling.
The memory hit him like a knife to the ribs.
"He hurt me..." Ayato murmured, his voice cracking. "Really bad."
A silence fell.
Peter stood. He placed the phone down, walked toward Ayato, and put a hand on his shoulder.
Then came words like steel wrapped in silk.
"He might escape prison. Maybe even the police. But there's one thing he won't escape from..."
Ayato looked up slowly.
Peter's eyes were like frozen embers.
"The hospital."
Ayato's heart thudded.
Then Peter added, cold as the rain outside:
"...or death itself."
Ayato's mouth parted slightly. A chill ran down his spine.
What was Peter?
Who was he really?
Peter's voice returned, calm and controlled, but its edge was unmistakable.
"I'm not normal, Ayato. I can't watch scum like that walk away free. When I find men like him—or girls like Kasumi, who do worse—I give them what they truly deserve."
Ayato couldn't speak. Shock held his voice hostage.
Peter placed his second hand on Ayato's other shoulder.
"But being with me won't be easy. You'll face trials. You'll face your own demons. There'll be moments where you'll doubt me. Hate me. Maybe even fear me. But you'll grow stronger—physically, emotionally, spiritually."
Peter took a slow breath.
"There's a cost to that growth. You already carry the burden. So I'll ask you now..."
He leaned in just slightly, like sealing an oath.
"It's now or never."
Ayato didn't even blink.
He clenched his fists, his eyes burning—not with fear, but with will.
"Then you better stand on your promise!" he shouted, chest heaving.
Peter smiled.
"I will, Ayato," he said firmly.
Their hands met in a quiet handshake—a deal forged not with ink or blood, but shared scars.
"That's a deal."
The rain outside faded into a soft patter.
The world hadn't changed.
But Ayato had.
And so had the path he'd chosen.
The rain had eased into a steady drizzle when Ayato and Peter finally left the room. Downstairs, Kauri and Takasumi stood by the door, both dressed in somber black. There was no need for words—Ayato knew immediately.
Today was the funeral.
His stomach twisted.
He wasn't ready.
As they descended the stairs, a sharp knock echoed through the house. Kauri walked over and opened the door.
Standing outside was a boy—black hair, lean frame, a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His clothes were dark: a black hoodie, black jeans, black shoes. Even his expression was unreadable, like he carried shadows beneath his skin.
"How may I help you, young man?" Kauri asked, her voice polite yet cautious.
"I'm a friend of Mr. Rasel," the boy replied. "Name's Hikaru."
Peter, standing beside Ayato, recognized him immediately. He kept his expression neutral.
"Hikaru, what are you doing here, boy?" he asked, keeping the act alive.
"Just came here to join you," Hiroki—under his false name—replied smoothly.
"Alright then…" Peter nodded.
As the group stepped out of the house, something made both Kauri and Takasumi pause.
Parked right outside was a sleek, black Mercedes G-Class SUV. Its dark chrome gleamed despite the rain, and its tinted windows gave it a ghost-like aura.
Even Ayato blinked in surprise.
Takasumi leaned toward his wife and whispered, "Where did Ayato find this guy?"
Kauri's eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't know, but he seems rich… and those scars on his face—he looks like a Yakuza."
"I just hope he's not a killer or something," Takasumi murmured.
Unbeknownst to them, Hiroki heard every word. He cast a glance at Peter—sharp, brief, calculating. They had no idea who Peter really was. But Hiroki did. And today, more than ever, he needed to know something else too.
That memory still clawed at his mind: the one he kept locked away. The night he overheard them.
Nao.
Kukajin.
That bastard and his once-precious girlfriend.
Not now, he told himself. Not yet. But soon.
Kauri called Ayato over and told him they'd take him to the shrine for the funeral service. Ayato hesitated, nerves dancing under his skin, but eventually nodded.
Ayato climbed into the back seat of a simple white Toyota Corolla with Kauri and Takasumi.
Peter and Hiroki took the Mercedes.
They drove slowly, Peter keeping a respectful distance. The drizzle painted the city in silver sheets, a melancholy film over everything.
Inside the car, the silence lasted a few minutes. Then—
"Um… Mr. Rasel?"
Peter glanced over. "Hm? Yeah, Hiroki?"
Hiroki looked down for a second, gathering his thoughts.
"There's something I need to discuss with you."
Peter's expression changed. Serious. Focused.
"Go on."
Hiroki's voice dropped to a hushed tone. "The other day… I overheard something. A conversation between Nao and Kukajin."
Peter's grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly. "What kind of conversation?"
"I didn't get all of it," Hiroki admitted. "But I clearly heard Nao say, 'They arrived today.'"
Peter's brows furrowed. "They? Who's they?"
"I don't know," Hiroki answered. "But I plan to find out tonight. I was thinking of paying them a visit—if you're okay with that."
Peter didn't respond immediately. His eyes stayed on the road, reading every line, every car, every potential threat. Then, his voice came—flat but strong.
"Then I'll join you."
Before Hiroki could even react, Peter added:
"Just to make sure no one hurts you. Or tries to jump you."
That sentence sent a quiet comfort through Hiroki's chest.
He leaned back against the seat.
For once… someone had his back.
And this time, he wouldn't face betrayal alone.
Far away from the quiet sorrow of the shrine, in the heart of a city drenched in overcast gloom, the heavy glass doors of a police station opened with a firm click.
The sound of high heels echoed sharply through the marble-floored lobby.
Heads turned.
A woman stepped inside. Her long brown coat swept behind her, and she carried a dark leather suitcase in one hand. Her heels clicked with purpose. Her eyes were unreadable, razor-sharp and focused.
Detective Chloe had arrived.
Whispers bubbled instantly among the male officers scattered around the front desk.
"That's her, guys... the goddess of smartness and beauty."
"I heard she became a certified detective before she turned twenty-two."
"She's hella hot. Think I could ask her out?"
"Try that and she'll crush your pride—and your balls."
They snuck glances, pretending to read files, but no one wanted to get caught staring.
Even a female officer murmured to her partner, "She's got some cherry curves and hips like sculpture... is that weird to say?"
Her partner blinked. "From you? Yeah. A little."
Chloe ignored them. She always did.
She entered the central hallway. At the far end, the station's commanding officer—Superintendent Genda—stepped forward.
"Detective Chloe! Welcome to Japan."
A small round of applause followed as several officers gathered in the hallway to greet her.
Chloe gave a small nod. "Let's skip the ceremony. Show me the boardroom."
Genda grinned and gestured toward a set of double doors.
Inside, half a dozen officers stood, waiting beside a projector screen and a wall of whiteboards scrawled with maps, photos, and pins.
Chloe set her suitcase down beside the table and folded her arms.
"Let's go over the evidence," she said firmly.
A woman sitting at the computer stepped forward. Short hair, glasses, and a serious demeanor.
"I'm Akemi Onohara. I've compiled the latest field data. First case—six victims. Five hospitalized, one dead. Cause: internal hemorrhaging, cracked skull, massive cerebral trauma. Likely fists."
The screen displayed a grotesque image—a large man bruised beyond recognition. His body bore dark, necrotic patches from blunt trauma. The officers in the room stiffened.
Chloe gave a sharp nod. "Continue."
Akemi tapped the remote. "Second case. Seven gang members. Lower branch, known drug traffickers. Six sustained critical bone fractures. The leader..."
Another image flickered on screen.
"He was nearly gutted. Doctors say he may never walk again."
Chloe raised an eyebrow. "Brutality suggests intent. What about the third?"
Akemi hesitated.
The projector changed.
Chloe's eyes widened.
Forty-one photos.
Faces beaten, bodies bloodied. Some survivors in casts. One photo, however, stood out.
A man—his skull shattered like broken pottery. The brain visible. Eyes open. Dead.
Chloe instinctively brought a hand to her mouth.
"What the hell happened here?"
Akemi looked grim. "The dead man was a high-ranking Korean enforcer. He'd escaped prosecution three times. No known enemy. Whoever did this..."
"Wasn't just strong," Chloe muttered, "they were surgical."
Akemi nodded. "And possibly unhinged."
Another click. A new case appeared. A man with a buzzcut. Middle-aged.
"Name: Tougou Tensora. Forty-three. Local baseball coach. Recently arrested. Accused of sexual assault by two teenagers—Shoya Katase and Akane Nanao."
Chloe leaned in.
"What happened to him?"
"He's in a coma. Spinal damage. Neck trauma. Doctors say he'll be paralyzed for life."
Chloe stared at the image. "Any physical evidence?"
Akemi shook her head. "Almost nothing. No fingerprints. No DNA. But we did find... this."
She held up a flash drive.
"Audio recording from a memory card hidden in a locker."
She pressed play.
The room filled with the hushed voice of the coach.
"sexual guidance?
yeah... in order to prevent your young libido from bursting and exploding, i thought of a way on how to vent your libido until the compilation is over...."
A female voice whimpered. A door opened.
Static. Then silence.
Chloe's eyes narrowed. "They knew they were being recorded. They wanted us to hear it."
Akemi nodded. "Which brings us to yesterday's attack. Five assailants. Two South Koreans. One Brazilian. Two African-Americans."
Photos flashed on screen.
Bruised faces. Broken ribs.
Then the Brazilian.
His face was mangled beyond recognition. A jagged scar split down from his forehead through his nose. Teeth gone. Jaw broken.
Chloe winced. "That's not self-defense. That's a message."
She paced. Her mind spun.
"What about surveillance footage?"
Akemi grimaced.
"That's the strangest part. All camera feeds during the time of each incident... went black."
Chloe turned sharply. "Black?"
"Crashed. As if a virus hit the system. Then after the incident—bam. Back online. Clean."
Chloe rubbed her temples.
She had seen war zones. Cartel murders. Terrorist aftermaths. But this...
This was personal.
And calculated.
"Oh, one more thing," Akemi added, almost hesitantly. "All surviving victims described the same man. Scar across his lips. Left cheek slashed."
Chloe froze.
She whispered, almost too quietly: "Crossed lips..."
Akemi didn't hear.
Chloe's mind was elsewhere.
After dismissing the team, she moved to her private office. The superior had arranged a quiet corner room with wide windows.
She walked to the glass and looked out at the rainy skyline of Tokyo.
Her fingers reached for the pendant around her neck—a gold necklace. Oddly, it held a flattened pin tab from a soda can.
She held it tightly.
"Finally found you, Peter..."
Her voice was barely audible.
Who was she?
What past did she share with him?
And why now, after so many years, was she hunting him again?
Meanwhile, far from Chloe's storm of unfolding questions, in a place where the light dared not reach, something darker stirred.
A man sat in the heart of a concrete lair—a room choked with smoke, steel beams, and shadows. The ceiling lamp above him flickered with a faulty pulse, casting his face in fragments of light and gloom. On either side of him stood two silent bodyguards, each gripping a heavy .44 Magnum with cold discipline.
The man sat relaxed, legs crossed, a glass of dark liquor swirling in one hand and a thick cigar in the other. His jet-black clothes clung to an athletic frame inked with sprawling tattoos—dragons, skulls, ancient lettering in Korean. His face, though partially veiled by his low-hanging black hair, bore a fury deeper than skin. One eye gleamed beneath the fringe—black and dangerous.
This was Ye Joon.
He was 181 centimeters of ruthless intent—shorter than Peter by a few centimeters, but no less imposing. Korean-born, raised in shadow. A name whispered across borders. A myth among criminal networks. A nightmare to law enforcement.
He turned slowly to the man on his left.
"Any clue about that guy yet?" he asked, his voice like glass dragged across gravel.
The bodyguard hesitated.
Ye Joon didn't move.
"SPEAK UP!!" he roared, slamming his glass on the armrest, the sound sharp as gunfire.
The man flinched. "W-we didn't find any information about the incident, Sir Si-Woo..."
Silence.
Ye Joon stood. The room instantly dropped a few degrees in temperature.
He took a slow pull of his cigar, letting the smoke rise into the dim air like a curse.
Then he walked.
One step. Two. Three.
He drew his black Desert Eagle. The glint off the barrel flashed red in the flickering light.
He aimed it—
"Sir Ye Joon!" someone burst in.
A bullet screamed past the startled messenger's ear. He ducked, gasping, hands raised.
"Mr. Ki is here!"
Ye Joon lowered his weapon and waved the first man away with the barrel.
Moments later, another figure entered.
Tall. Blonde. Sharp cheekbones and a smirk that could start a war.
He wore a dark crimson button-up, the top two buttons undone, revealing a gold chain and a hint of ink beneath his collar.
"Gyeong," Ye Joon greeted.
"Ye Joon! My dear friend in crime," Gyeong replied as they embraced, giving each other a hard, street-hardened handshake and a brief hug only people who've bled together share.
But Ye Joon's smile vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Any leads?" he asked, voice low again.
"Yeah. Got something."
"Talk."
Gyeong nodded. "Some of our boys who got knocked out—before they blacked out—they all said the same thing. The man had a scar on his left cheek and—"
"A scar that crossed both lips," Ye Joon finished.
Gyeong blinked. "Wait... you know him?"
Ye Joon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted his hand and brushed his bangs aside, revealing a jagged scar etched deep across his forehead.
Gyeong's jaw slackened.
"Did he...?"
"Yes," Ye Joon said. "Peter D. Rasel did this to me. Six years ago."
Gyeong whistled low. "You never told me."
"Because it's a ghost I planned to bury myself."
He took another slow drag of his cigar, eyes lost in the smoke.
"Back then, I underestimated him. I thought he was just a reckless foreigner with fists and fury. But Peter... he was something else."
He paced slowly now, hands clasped behind his back.
"He ruined a deal with the Burmese... took my prize runner... and then marked me. Like I was cattle. That scar... was his way of saying, 'Never forget me.'"
Ye Joon's eyes burned with restrained wrath.
"Well now, Peter..." he whispered.
He looked toward a darkened map of Tokyo pinned on the wall. Red pins marked the locations of recent attacks.
"You've made your move. And I've seen your signature. You're not hiding. You're leaving a trail."
Gyeong crossed his arms. "You think he's calling you out?"
"No," Ye Joon said. "I think he doesn't care if I follow. Which means he's stronger now. Maybe even stronger than back then."
He smiled—vicious, eager.
"But I've grown too. I've made friends. Buried enemies. Learned patience."
He walked over to the bar and poured himself another drink. Swirled it. Stared at the crimson color like it held prophecy.
"Peter D. Rasel..."
He toasted the empty room.
"You won't escape this time."
To Be Continued...