The hospital lights were too bright.
Too clean.
And wrong.
No security at the entrance. No guards by the doors. No one stopping a blood-soaked man carrying a weapon from running straight into the hospital.
Not because it was safe.
Because no one was watching closely enough.
They burned white against my eyes as I burst through the automatic doors, rain dripping from my hair, shoes skidding across the polished floor. The doors slid shut behind me with a soft hiss, sealing out the storm like it had never existed.
It hadn't even been an hour since I fell.
Time felt wrong.
Not stretched. Not fast.
Disconnected.
Like the hospital existed on a different clock than the street outside — one that didn't care how recently everything had shattered. The storm had been violent, chaotic, loud.
In here, it was sterile. Controlled.
As if the world had already decided what mattered — and what didn't.
Less than that, maybe.
My life already felt unrecognizable.
"Mom—!" My voice cracked as it echoed through the lobby. "Where is she?!"
Conversations stopped. Shoes slowed. Heads turned.
A nurse hurried toward me, then faltered halfway across the floor.
Her eyes dropped to the sword in my hand.
To the darkening bruises along my arms.
To the blood smeared across my clothes — dried in some places, fresh in others.
Her posture changed instantly. Shoulders tightening. Feet bracing. One hand hovered near the emergency desk.
For a moment, she didn't see a son or a brother.
She saw a problem.
"Sir…" Her voice stayed calm, practiced. "Please don't panic. Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention? What happened?"
"Aiko," I gasped, stepping closer. "My mom. Renya — my nephew. My family—"
Her gaze flicked again to the blood soaking my sleeve.
"Sir, you're injured," she said gently but firmly. "We need to treat your wounds first. Then I can take you to your family."
"No." The word tore out of me sharper than I meant. "I need to see Renya. Now. Where is he?"
For a second, she hesitated.
Then something shifted.
The tension in her face eased, replaced by recognition. She could hear it — the difference between aggression and desperation.
"First floor," she said quietly. "Emergency care. Room 207."
She stepped aside, palms open. "Please… be careful, sir."
I didn't answer.
I was already moving.
The corridor swallowed me.
My legs barely felt the ground as I ran. Stretchers rattled past in the opposite direction, wheels clattering against tile. A curtain was yanked closed somewhere, cutting off a scream mid-sound. Monitors beeped in uneven rhythms — some fast, some frighteningly slow.
The smell hit me hard then.
My body reacted before my mind could.
My throat tightened. Saliva turned thick and sour. My vision tunneled briefly, the edges dimming as my pulse spiked too fast, too uneven — like my heart was trying to escape my ribs.
I swallowed hard and kept running.
Stopping meant thinking.
Thinking meant breaking.
Disinfectant layered over blood.
Something metallic beneath it.
It turned my stomach.
Doctors glanced up as I passed. Patients watched from beds, IV lines snaking into their arms. People wrapped in gauze and plastic and exhaustion.
Their eyes followed me.
Not with sympathy.
With alarm.
Like a disaster moving down the hall.
Room 207.
I stopped so suddenly my shoes squealed against the floor.
The door was right there.
And I couldn't step inside.
My legs locked.
Not from exhaustion.
From refusal.
Every instinct screamed that once I crossed that threshold, I wouldn't be able to go back to the version of myself that still believed this could end cleanly.
That once I stepped inside, something permanent would be decided — whether I was ready or not.
The sword hung heavy at my side, its weight dragging against my wrist like it didn't belong in a place this clean.
My chest locked. My vision blurred. My body refused to move.
If I stepped through that doorway, everything would become real.
As long as I stood here — frozen, stupid, breathing too fast in the hallway — there was still a chance. Fragile. Desperate. Irrational.
A chance that this was all wrong.
That I could open the door and hear her voice, sharp and familiar, scolding me for tracking rain across a hospital floor.
My hand hovered inches from the doorframe.
I had faced starting blocks with thousands watching.
Roaring crowds. Crushing expectations.
I had trained my body to endure pain, fatigue, oxygen deprivation. Endless laps. Breath control. Underwater drills until my lungs screamed.
And yet now—
I was gasping.
Each breath scraped my throat raw, shallow and uneven, like my lungs had forgotten what they were built for.
When was the last time I breathed like this?
Not during training.
Not during competition.
Not even when my muscles burned and my vision blurred.
This wasn't exhaustion.
This was fear collapsing inward.
My hand pressed against the cold wall. I forced air into my lungs.
Breathe, Kaien. Just breathe.
It took everything I had to take one step.
Then another.
And finally—
I crossed the threshold.
The bed was the first thing I saw.
Empty.
The sheets were pulled back, uneven and small — like someone had climbed out in a hurry.
On the pillow sat a teddy bear.
Renya's.
The old one he never went anywhere without.
He slept with it. Ate with it. Clutched it even when Mom told him to let go.
He would never leave it behind.
My stomach dropped.
I picked it up slowly. The fabric was still warm — like he'd only just let go.
Something cold spread through my chest.
Then I saw her.
My mother lay collapsed near the wall, one arm stretched toward the bed, her body twisted awkwardly against the pale tiles. Blood smeared across the floor, splashed up the wall in violent arcs like someone had thrown red paint and missed.
"No—no—no—!"
I dropped beside her, hands shaking as I lifted her head. Her skin felt cold. Too cold.
Her eyes fluttered open.
"Kaien…" Her voice barely existed. "Renya…"
"I'm here," I choked. "I'm here. Where is he?"
Her fingers trembled as they clutched my sleeve, leaving dark stains behind.
"Save him," she whispered. Blood bubbled at her lip. "Please… Renya…"
Her grip loosened.
Her hand fell.
Something inside me broke.
"Mom—!" The sound ripped out of me, ugly and raw. "No—please—no—"
As the heat left her fingers, the sword in my left hand reacted. The steady blue-violet veins didn't just brighten—they curdled. For a single, violent heartbeat, the light flashed a jagged, poisonous red. It didn't feel like a glow; it felt like a snarl. The hilt burned against my palm, not with fire, but with a cold, hungry resonance that seemed to feed on the hole opening up in my chest.
The red faded back into violet, but the pulse remained faster. Aggressive.
Tears came hard and uncontrollable. The room blurred. My chest felt like it was collapsing inward.
The hospital noises dulled, like someone had turned the world's volume down.
A monitor beeped once — then again — the second sound arriving just a fraction too late.
Even the rain outside felt far away.
And then—
I felt it.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. Wrong.
The same sensation as my apartment. Not just danger.
Intent.
I didn't scream.
I didn't curse.
The panic burned itself out, leaving something colder behind —
heavy, focused, immovable.
If they took Renya—
Then they made a mistake.
I don't know how yet.
I don't know who they are.
But I will find him.
And when I do—
this stops being a chase.
A tear in the air —
pressure against my skin.
Unfinished grief.
Unfinished business.
And now—something that would not stay unfinished had begun to hunt.
✦ End of Chapter 7 — The Room With No Answers ✦