The door clicked shut behind Yoru, the soft sound swallowed by the quiet of his apartment. The only light came from a single lamp in the living room, casting a weak glow that barely pushed back the night. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door like he was discarding a burden, then kicked off his boots and didn't bother lining them up the way he usually did.
The faint rush of water drifted down the hallway. The bathroom door was closed, steam curling through the narrow crack beneath. Someone humming a tune that was almost cheerful, horribly out of place in a Peaceful Executioner's home.
Rika.
Rika A. Rika.
He always found it ridiculous that her name looped like that.
Yoru didn't even make it to the couch. He stumbled into his room and collapsed onto his bed face-first, letting the mattress devour him whole.
His eyes closed. But closing them didn't help. He still saw faces. The mother's faint smile. Yuki Yamai's resigned eyes.
Water stopped running. The bathroom opened.
Bare feet on the floor. A rustle of fabric. A soft knock on his half-open door.
"I thought that was you," Rika said gently, leaning against the frame. She towel-dried her hair, drops of water clinging to her cheeks like fake tears. "Long shift?"
He nodded into the pillow. "Three today."
Rika's shoulders tensed.
Rika sat beside him, towel draped over her lap. She stared at her hands as if they held the whole world's cruelty. "It's horrible," she whispered. "Taking someone who mattered. Someone's favorite person. But it has to be done. Someone has to do it."
"That doesn't make it less wrong."
Silence stretched like a tight wire.
Rika's voice dropped even lower. "If I ever lost you…" She inhaled sharply. "If you're gone, Yoru, I'll just… I'll just follow. I can't breathe in a world without you."
He flinched upright, his heart punching his ribs. "Rika. no. Don't say things like that."
She stared at him stubbornly, a child refusing a cruel truth. "You're the only reason this world feels like anything. I wouldn't make it a single year."
He grabbed her shoulders, not hard, but fierce. "You live, even if you hate it. You fight. You don't give the world what it wants."
She looked away, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "It would be unbearable."
His grip loosened. The room felt too small, too fragile. "…Fine," he said, voice barely more than breath. "If it ever truly becomes unbearable… you wait. One year. Same day. You give yourself that."
Her eyes flickered, surprised by the compromise. "One year?" she repeated.
"One year," he insisted. "Promise."
Rika sucked in a slow breath, then shrugged like it was a silly agreement over dinner plans. "Okay." She tapped his knee gently, a tiny gesture of relief. "Deal."
Then her expression changed, brighter, almost playful but still hiding a storm. "Speaking of dinner. I cooked. And I'm starving."
The bar didn't deserve to be called a bar. Its neon sign flickered like it was choking on its last breath, and inside, the place smelled like sweat, spilled beer, and the kind of desperation that stuck to your skin even after a shower.
Two men stepped inside, boots tapping against the sticky floor. They weren't trying to look threatening, their hands casually tucked in their pockets, shoulders loose, faces bored. That alone made everyone tense. Wolves never roar before the bite.
"Evening gentlemen," the taller one announced, wearing that smirk exclusive to men who carried a badge and enjoyed the weight of it. His voice cut through the air, silencing even the jukebox for a moment. "Death Patrol here. Uhh, I'm looking for a fellow called Shina Marusa. I heard he hangs around here a lot."
A husky-voice sounded, "Right this way, pussy."
Shina was impossible to miss. He was built like he'd been carved out of the gym and left to marinate in protein powder. His shoulders were boulders beneath a sweat-stained tank top, and his beard looked like it could punch someone. He sat alone, glass in hand, dead eyes turned toward the incoming trouble.
The smirking officer slid into the chair across from him, elbows lazily resting on the table. The partner stayed standing, scanning the room with the expression of someone checking for the bathroom exits.
"So," the smirk said, "how's your day going?"
Shina tossed back his shot, throat muscles tight. "It was going fine," he grunted. "Right up until you two showed up."
The officer clicked his tongue, fake sympathy oozing from him. "Never any gratitude anymore. We're just here to do our jobs. You know how it works."
Shina didn't respond. He only stared back, muscles flexing like they were growling.
"Let's go outside," the officer continued, voice almost cheerful. "No need to make a mess in here."
Shina stretched, the chair creaking under his weight. "Screw that."
he first officer's smile faded, "Look man, I got a nice thick woman waiting for me at home. I don't have time for this crap. I'll ask you one more time… let's go outside."
Shina answered by spitting on his shoe.
The officer stared at the wet mark like it personally insulted his childhood. His partner tilted his head, silently asking if he should step in.
The smirk didn't fade; if anything, it grew like a wound. "Wrong answer."
"Fuck you," Shina muttered, calm as a grave.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Even the bottles behind the bar seemed frozen, holding their breath, praying to whatever gods liquor bottles believe in.
The two officers exchanged one small glance. Barely a communication. More like a reflex.
Guns slid from their pockets faster than thought.
Two shots erupted at the same time. The sound crashed through the bar, glass rattling, customers ducking beneath tables though they already knew it was too late. Shina's body jerked as the bullets hammered into his chest, one near the heart, one through the lung. His glass dropped, shattering into amber shards that bled across the counter.
He didn't fall immediately. He stared at them, mouth opening like he had something clever to say. But the words drowned in blood. He toppled sideways, hitting the floor like a tree carved down by machines.
The partner holstered his weapon and immediately headed for the door, shoulders slouched like a man clocking out of work. Like this was just a box to tick.
The smirking one lingered. While customers stared at their drinks, pretending they were invisible, he walked over to Shina's body and fired two more rounds into him. One in the stomach. One in the neck.
He said to the corpse, kicking the chair aside."Should've listened,"