Days bled into nights, but Itsuki refused to leave Miyu's side. Her room smelled faintly of antiseptic, and the rhythmic beeping of machines had become his only company. Her parents, wary and exhausted, were often away, giving him the space to quietly do what he felt he must.
Every morning, while the world outside moved on, Itsuki would sneak into her room. He brushed her hair with careful precision, untangled the knots, and trimmed her nails, whispering softly as if she could hear him.
"I'm sorry… I should have protected you, Miyu. I failed… but I swear… I'll find him. I'll find the one who did this," he murmured, his voice breaking. "I won't let him get away. I promise you… I'll make him pay."
For a week, this became his ritual. He cleaned the room, prepared her meals, and even talked to
her about trivial things small stories from school. His words hung in the silent room, unanswered, but he clung to them as if they could reach her in her
unconscious state.
The police had given up. The investigation yielded nothing. But Itsuki refused to give in. He exercised daily, often running or working out on an empty stomach, letting his insomnia drive him further. His hair grew longer, messy, and his eyes hollow yet burning with determination. And the glove black, with the strange white marking haunted him, a single thread connecting him to the attacker.
One night, while chasing a faint lead, Itsuki collapsed in a dark alley. Hunger, exhaustion, and sleep deprivation finally caught up with him. He was unconscious, sprawled on the cold pavement, the glove still clutched in his hand.
Hayato Kuroda, a tall, lean man with the eyes of someone who had seen too much, happened to pass by. He noticed the figure on the ground and knelt beside him, assessing the situation. Without asking questions, he lifted Itsuki into his arms and carried him to his home.
Once there, Itsuki, still dazed and barely conscious, caught sight of food on the table. Hunger consumed him. Without a word, he dug in, shoveling food into his mouth, trembling hands barely managing the utensils. He couldn't speak, couldn't explain, couldn't even acknowledge the stranger who had saved him.
Hayato watched quietly, silently assessing him. No questions. No judgment. Just observation. The man understood instinctively that Itsuki needed to recover before he could even begin to explain anything.
"You're a mess," Hayato said finally, breaking the silence. "But if you keep destroying yourself, you
won't get anywhere. Rest first. Then we'll see what we can do."
Itsuki's grip on the glove tightened, his eyes still hollow but flickering with determination. For the first time since Miyu's attack, he felt a faint thread of hope that someone might help him bear this weight, even if just a little.