The rain was a relentless force, a torrential downpour that cloaked the night in a veil of chaos. Bachi stood at the open gate of Kamiko's house, his heart a cauldron of emotions—grief, rage, and a searing need for vengeance. The sight of the gate, swinging loosely in the storm, mirrored the turmoil within him. His father, Johnson, was inside, a man whose ambition to tear his son Alan from his friends had driven him to unspeakable acts. Bachi's fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. Johnson's willingness to kill, to destroy innocent lives for his twisted vision, was a fire that fueled Bachi's resolve. Tonight, he swore, would be the end of Johnson's reign of terror.
No one else was on the streets, the rain keeping even the bravest souls indoors. Bachi's clothes clung to his skin, soaked through, but the cold was nothing compared to the inferno in his chest. He stepped through the gate, his boots sinking into the mud, his eyes fixed on the house where his friends lay battered, perhaps dying. This was it—the moment to end it all.
Inside, Johnson stood in the wrecked living room, his imposing figure a dark silhouette against the flickering light of the shattered television. His eyes locked onto Bachi, and a mocking smile curled his lips. "Oh, another incompetent guy," he sneered.
Bachi's voice was low, steady, a blade honed by rage. "You can call me that if it makes you feel better."
Johnson's laugh was a guttural rumble. "Are you here to be killed?"
"No," Bachi said, his eyes burning with defiance. "I'm here to kill."
Johnson's smirk widened, as if amused by the challenge. "Nice determination."
Bachi took a step forward, his voice cutting through the rain's roar. "Why do you want to kill? Answer me."
Johnson's eyes glinted with a perverse joy. "It's fun."
Bachi's jaw tightened, his disgust palpable. "Do you even realize you're violating people's right to live? You could go to jail for this."
Johnson shrugged, his nonchalance infuriating. "Plenty of murderers do it. Why single me out?"
"Because your reason is pathetic," Bachi spat. "It's not even remotely acceptable."
Johnson's smile didn't waver. "It's acceptable to me."
Bachi's mind raced, his psychological training kicking in. He knew Johnson's weakness lay not in his physical strength but in his warped beliefs. He leaned into the confrontation, his words a scalpel probing for vulnerabilities. "What's your motive, Johnson?"
Johnson laughed, a hollow sound. "My motive? To go to heaven with Alan and Michelle. To be reborn together, a family."
Bachi's eyes narrowed, sensing an opening. "And what if you don't go to heaven?"
Johnson's confidence flickered, but he recovered quickly. "What if you can't save your friends?"
Bachi didn't flinch. "What if you couldn't save yourself from Michelle?"
Johnson's smirk returned, but it was strained. "What if you can't save yourself from me?"
Bachi pressed harder, his voice steady but piercing. "What if you couldn't save Michelle from her execution?"
Johnson's face twitched, a crack in his armor. "That was the first step."
Bachi seized the moment, his words dripping with contempt. "You're so psychologically screwed up, Johnson. You claim to love Michelle after the divorce, after you hated her. You're a chameleon, changing your opinions to suit your delusions. You can't stick to anything."
Johnson's eyes darkened, his voice low and dangerous. "Why bring that up when your friends are dead? Look at Alan and Kamiko, lying there, waiting for you to fail them."
Bachi's heart lurched at the sight of his friends, bruised and unconscious on the floor, but he refused to let Johnson's words take root. "What if you go to hell?" he countered.
Johnson laughed, but it was forced. "How?"
"Because you've killed without remorse," Bachi said, his voice rising with conviction. "Murder is a crime. A sin. You've slaughtered innocents, and no god would forgive that."
Johnson's bravado returned, though it was brittle. "Then I'll settle in hell."
Bachi's gaze was unrelenting. "Alan won't die."
"He just did," Johnson said, his laugh cruel. "Haha!"
"If he did, he'd go to heaven," Bachi shot back. "Not with you."
"I'll take him to hell," Johnson snarled.
"You'll be fried into fritters in hell," Bachi said, his voice laced with dark humor.
Johnson's eyes narrowed, his confidence wavering. "A result like your friends, then."
Bachi sensed the tide turning and delivered his final blow. "What if heaven and hell don't exist? What if they're just fake concepts?"
Johnson froze, his face a mask of disbelief. "That can't be. Where's the proof?"
"Exactly," Bachi said, his voice calm but devastating. "There's no proof. Your entire motive is built on a fantasy."
Johnson's shoulders slumped, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Bachi's words. He was a man who had staked his life on a belief, only to have it questioned in a way he couldn't counter. But he had one last card to play, a desperate attempt to regain control. "If all that's wrong, then accept this: Alan was under my leadership, my guidance. Do you remember what happened with Michelle?"
Bachi's response was swift, a verbal dagger aimed at Johnson's heart. "Oh, yeah, the divorce. Alan told me everything. Michelle was inspired by you, wasn't she? The beatings, the dark web, the drugs—your influence tainted her, just like it's tainted everything else."
The words struck Johnson like a physical blow. His mind reeled, memories of his clashes with Michelle flooding back—the illegal substances, the dark web, the redrooms, the lies that had shattered their marriage. He saw her face, her anger, her betrayal, and for the first time, he saw himself as she had: a monster, not a savior.
He said his last word "after all , I wasn't a good person , I was evil , a demon , the whole time ."
His hand drifted to the knife at his side, its blade glinting in the dim light. In a moment of despair, he turned it on himself, the act swift and final. Johnson collapsed, his lifeblood seeping into the floor, his ambitions extinguished.
Bachi stood over him, his chest heaving, his rage giving way to a hollow relief. He had won, not with fists but with words, breaking Johnson's psyche in a way no weapon could.
After the Battle
The rain continued to fall, indifferent to the carnage inside. Kamiko and Alan were rushed to the hospital, their injuries serious but not fatal. Kaguro and Kashimo, battered but alive, helped Bachi dispose of Johnson's body, burying it in a secluded patch of woods three kilometers away. The act was grim, a necessary end to a nightmare.
Kamiko's parents returned the next day, their shock palpable as they found the gate open and the house in ruins. Bachi explained everything—the fight, Johnson's madness, the desperate struggle to save their son and his friend. The truth was too much for them. Traumatized, they made the painful decision to leave, moving to a new house in a different city, hoping to escape the memories of that night.
One Month Later
The scars of that night lingered, but life began to heal. Kamiko and Alan recovered, their bodies mending faster than their minds. Kaguro and Kashimo, too, found solace in the quiet that followed, though the trauma of Johnson's attack would never fully fade. Bachi, the unlikely hero, carried the weight of his victory in silence. He had faced a monster and won, not through violence but through the power of his mind, dismantling Johnson's delusions with surgical precision.
The house stood empty, a silent testament to the battle that had unfolded within its walls. The rain had washed away the blood, but the echoes of that night would linger in the hearts of those who survived. For Bachi, Kamiko, Alan, Kaguro, and Kashimo, life moved forward, fragile but unbroken. They had faced the abyss and emerged, not unscathed, but alive.
Chapter 22 ends
Arc 3 Concluded