Haruto's one step forward wasn't enough to reach the stage.
But it was enough to change his angle of view.
From here, he could see more clearly: the black-jacketed man in the back row was no longer recording the stage. His phone was lowered slightly. His eyes—focused on a point on the ceiling.
Haruto followed his gaze.
On the ceiling, near the main spotlight, there was something that shouldn't be there.
A small box. Gray. Stuck between the acoustic panels.
Not part of the building's installation.
Haruto didn't have time to process—
EXPLOSION.
Not from inside the room. From outside.
The sound of shattering glass, metal impact, short, cut-off screams.
Everyone turned towards the east window.
Beyond the frosted glass, something moved quickly. Shadows.
Three seconds.
Guard Nakamura had already grabbed Haruto's arm. "Backstage. Quick."
But before they could move— The main door flew open with a hard kick.
Four armed men entered: Black clothes. Half-face masks. Short-barreled weapons in their hands.
The first one shot at the ceiling.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Three shots. Ceiling debris fell to the floor. Screams filled the room.
"NO ONE MOVE!"
His voice boomed, echoing off the walls.
People froze. Some fell to the floor, ducking. Others remained seated, hands raised.
Haruto saw Nakamura draw his weapon—but didn't fire. Too many civilians. Too cramped.
On stage, Reiji was already secured. Two guards were pulling him backstage. Tanaka, the chief of staff, ran beside them.
The backstage door closed.
Haruto saw his father disappear behind that door.
Without looking back.
Without looking towards him.
19 seconds after the first shot.
The room was chaos. Cries. People crawling to find shelter under chairs. Some fainted.
The armed men moved quickly and trained. Two controlled the main door. One guarded the side door. The fourth—their leader, judging by how they looked at him—stood in the middle of the aisle, assessing the situation.
Haruto was still at the side of the stage.
Nakamura pulled him deeper into the corner, behind thick curtains.
"Don't move," Nakamura whispered. His voice was tense but controlled. "Don't make a sound."
Haruto nodded.
But his eyes didn't stop observing.
The group's leader—tall, broad-shouldered, movements efficient—glanced at the stage. Saw the back door was already closed.
His jaw tightened.
Then his eyes turned to the corners of the room.
Searching, Scanning one by one.
And stopped, at the curtain.
Behind the curtain.
Where Haruto stood.
"They're backstage!" the leader shouted.
Not towards the stage. But towards the door guard.
The man at the side door nodded and ran outside—probably to cut off the back route.
The ones at the main door stayed in position.
The leader began walking towards the stage.
His steps were calm. Measured. Not rushed.
Like someone who knew time was on his side.
Nakamura Moved.
"We have to get out," he whispered. "The emergency exit behind the dressing room. Follow me."
They crawled behind the curtain. Dust from the shots still hung in the air. The smell of gunpowder was sharp.
Behind the curtain, a narrow hallway led to the dressing room. Dark. Only a red emergency light at the end.
Nakamura moved quickly. His right hand held his weapon, his left hand pulled Haruto's arm.
Haruto followed.
But halfway there, he stopped.
A sound.
From outside the curtain.
"Hold everyone at the main door."
The leader's voice. Close. Very close.
Nakamura pulled him harder. "Haruto, quick!"
Haruto stepped again.
Three steps.
Then— The curtain parted.
An armed man in front of them.
Not the leader. Another one. Shorter. But his weapon was aimed directly at Nakamura's head.
"Drop your weapon."
Nakamura didn't move.
The man cocked the trigger.
Click.
Ready to fire.
Nakamura looked at Haruto for one second. Then placed his weapon on the floor.
The man kicked it aside. "You two, come with me."
They were dragged to the center.
Haruto, Nakamura, and six other people who happened to be near the stage—a middle-aged woman, two old men, three teenagers who were probably intern students.
Kneeling on the floor. Hands on heads.
Around them, dozens of other hostages remained in their seats. Some cried softly. Some sat frozen.
The group's leader walked among them.
Slow. Savoring it.
His eyes swept over them one by one.
Then stopped.
In front of Haruto.
"Here he is."
His voice was soft. But loud enough for everyone to hear.
The leader crouched. His face was only about a meter from Haruto.
His eyes—dark, tired, but full of something burning.
"Kurogane Haruto. The Reform Minister's son."
Haruto didn't answer.
Didn't look away.
Just stared back.
The leader smiled thinly. Not a friendly smile. "Do you know what your father did?"
Haruto was silent.
Two seconds.
Four seconds.
The leader nodded, as if he'd expected it.
"Of course you don't know. Good boy. Always behind his father. Smiling politely. Nodding politely."
He stood. Walked back two steps, but kept staring at Haruto. "Your father destroyed our lives."
His voice rose slightly. Began to tremble.
"The public housing project in Saitama. Two years ago. Our families were evicted. The contractor went bankrupt. My father killed himself because of debt."
He stopped. Took a breath.
"Your father called it 'budget efficiency'. On television. Smiling. Polite."
Haruto listened.
Didn't argue.
Didn't plead.
Inside his head, his mind worked:
'Victim of the system. Accumulated anger. Seeking a focus. I am that focus.'
'But they're not killing me now. They're waiting.'
'Waiting for what?'
---
Outside, the sound of sirens filled the streets.
Police. Armored vehicles. Negotiators.
A megaphone sounded, but it was too far to hear clearly.
The group's leader—his name later known: Takeshi Yamamoto, 43, former construction worker—received a call on his phone.
He listened. Nodded. Answered briefly.
Then looked at Haruto again.
"Your father refuses to negotiate."
Haruto didn't react.
"Weird, isn't it?" Yamamoto grinned bitterly. "His son is taken hostage, but he's 'busy with a national emergency'."
Some hostages began to sob.
An old man beside Haruto whispered, "God... we're going to die here..."
Haruto remained silent, but his mind kept spinning.
His father refuses to negotiate? Or they say he refuses?
If he really refuses... that means...
He's sacrificing him.
Or he knows something I don't.
One of the armed men turned on the television in the corner of the room. A large screen usually used for presentations.
News channel.
"Hostage crisis at Harumi community center..." text scrolled at the bottom.
Image: the building from outside, surrounded by police. A journalist stood in front of the camera with a microphone.
Then an image of Reiji.
Sitting in an emergency room—probably police headquarters. Tense face. Confident eyes. Speaking to the camera.
"...the top priority is the safety of all hostages. We will negotiate with the best approach."
Haruto heard.
Saw.
But his eyes caught a small detail others wouldn't see.
His father's hand under the table.
Slightly clenched.
Not an angry fist. Not a scared fist.
But a waiting fist.
Like someone who already knows how this will end.
Yamamoto began to get restless.
He paced back and forth in front of the hostages. Occasionally looked outside the window—more and more police. Occasionally looked at the television—the news kept repeating.
No progress.
No offer.
No way out.
One of his men—the younger one, looking nervous—approached.
"Yamamoto-san... maybe we should..."
"SHUT UP!"
Yamamoto slammed his phone to the floor.
The room went silent, everyone looked down. Except Haruto. He was still staring.
Yamamoto turned. Saw that stare.
The anger in his eyes changed into something else.
Curiosity.
"You... why aren't you scared?"
Haruto didn't answer.
"You see your father on TV. He talks about negotiation. But reality? Nothing moves." Yamamoto approached. "You know why?"
Haruto finally opened his mouth.
His voice was calm. Steady. "Because I'm not the priority."
Yamamoto was startled. Didn't expect that answer.
"What?"
"My father has other priorities. Stability. Image. Process." Haruto spoke as if explaining a math problem. "I'm just a symbol. Symbols can be replaced."
Silence.
Yamamoto stared at him for a long time.
Then laughed.
A bitter laugh, short, without humor.
"You know... you're smarter than I thought."
He turned. Walked towards his men.
But Haruto knew.
He saw the change in Yamamoto's posture.
Shoulders that were tense, slightly lowered.
Like someone who had just made a decision.
The black-jacketed man with the cap—who had been recording with his phone earlier—was still in the back row. The police hadn't evacuated everyone yet. He remained there, sitting among the other hostages.
Now he raised his phone again.
Not recording.
Sending a message.
Haruto saw it from the corner of his eye.
The man typed quickly. Then hid the phone.
Five seconds later, Yamamoto's phone vibrated.
He read it.
His face changed.
An expression hard to interpret—a mix of relief, anger, and resignation.
He approached Haruto again.
"You know what this message says?"
Haruto was silent.
"Your father... he agreed to one condition."
Haruto waited.
"You have to die."
The room was utterly silent. Even the crying stopped.
Yamamoto stared at Haruto. Waiting for a reaction.
Haruto didn't move, his face remained calm.
But inside his head, the last pieces fell into place.
His father refused the initial negotiation—to show he wasn't weak.
Now he agreed with a condition—to show he was willing to sacrifice.
The public will see: Kurogane Reiji lost his son for the country.
The symbol dies. A hero is born.
Efficient.
He almost smiled.
But didn't.
Yamamoto raised his weapon.
Aimed at Haruto.
His hand trembled slightly.
Not fear. But... hesitation.
"I don't want to kill kids," he whispered. Almost inaudible.
Haruto heard.
But he didn't answer.
He just observed.
This man—Yamamoto—wasn't a hired killer. Wasn't a professional terrorist. He was a bankrupt, angry former worker. Who wanted his voice to be heard.
But anger had brought him too far.
And now, at the end of his weapon, there was a fifteen-year-old boy staring at him without fear.
It made him waver.
But behind him, his men waited.
Outside, the police waited.
On television, Haruto's father waited.
Everyone waited for one thing.
Haruto made a decision.
Not an emotional decision.
Not out of fear.
But because he saw the pattern.
If Yamamoto shot now, he became a child killer. Public sympathy would vanish. Their demands would lose legitimacy.
If negotiations dragged on, the police would storm the place. Gunfight. Many casualties.
But if... He looked to the side.
Nakamura, his guard, was still kneeling beside him. Hands on his head. But his eyes—Haruto saw them move left, towards the weapon that had fallen when they were dragged.
Still there. Behind a chair. Not visible.
Nakamura was ready, waiting for an opening.
Haruto looked back at Yamamoto.
The man was still hesitating. His weapon lowered slightly.
His men behind him were getting restless. "Yamamoto-san... we have to..."
"I KNOW!"
Yamamoto shouted. His breathing was heavy.
He raised his weapon again. Now more steady.
"Sorry, kid. This is the only way."
Haruto stared at him.
Then, in a voice as calm as when answering his father's questions about school, he said:
"No need to apologize."
Yamamoto blinked.
"What?"
"I understand why you're here." Haruto spoke softly. "My father did create victims. Your family was destroyed. Your anger is valid."
Yamamoto was silent.
"I can't bring your father back," Haruto continued. "But I can be the end of this cycle."
For the first time, confusion appeared on Yamamoto's face.
"What do you mean?"
Haruto didn't answer with words.
He moved, not running. Not trying to grab the weapon.
Haruto instead stepped forward.
One step.
Closing in on the gun barrel.
Yamamoto stepped back half a step, startled. "Don't—"
Haruto stepped again.
Now he was only about half a meter from the end of the barrel.
Nakamura saw it. His eyes widened. "HARUTO, DON'T!"
But Haruto didn't hear. Or chose not to hear.
He looked behind Yamamoto. Towards his men, who were starting to move, confused. Towards the capped man in the back row who stood up, disbelieving. Towards the television still showing his father's face.
Reiji on screen. Tense face. Confident eyes.
Hand under the table. Clenched.
Waiting.
Haruto smiled faintly.
Then, with a quick and certain movement, he grabbed the gun barrel with both hands and pulled it to his own chest.
Yamamoto was startled. His reflex—his finger pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The gunshot thundered in the enclosed room.
Haruto felt the jolt in his chest.
Like a hard punch. Hot. Then numb.
He fell backwards.
His back hit the floor.
Blood—warm, flowing fast—soaked his white shirt.
Above him, Yamamoto was frozen. The weapon in his hand lowered. His face was pale.
"I-I didn't... I didn't..."
His men ran closer. "Yamamoto-san! We have to—"
But Yamamoto didn't move. He just stared at Haruto's body. on the floor, Haruto was still conscious.
The ceiling of the room looked blurry. The neon lights looked like soft balls of light.
He could hear screams. Cries. People running.
But those sounds seemed distant. Like from the end of a long tunnel.
All he felt was the warmth of blood on his back. And a heartbeat slowing down.
One... two... three...
He was counting.
Not his heartbeat.
But seconds.
Four... five... six...
He thought about his father.
Reiji on television. Hand clenched. Waiting.
Now he had a story. His son died at the hands of terrorists. Public sympathy. Next year's election secure.
Efficient.
Seven... eight... nine...
He thought about his mother.
The woman always busy with her own activities. Who rarely spoke. Who never cried in front of him.
Maybe she would cry now. Or maybe not. Hard to predict.
Ten... eleven... twelve...
He thought about himself.
About all the nights he sat in his room, hearing footsteps in the hallway, waiting for the door to open. About all the public events where he stood two steps behind, smiling politely. About all the questions he never asked.
'I'm not the main cause.'
'But I am the fastest solution.'
Thirteen... fourteen... fifteen...
Someone knelt beside him.
Nakamura. His face was wet. Either sweat or tears. "Haruto! Haruto, don't close your eyes! Please! Someone call an ambulance!"
Haruto wanted to laugh.
The ambulance wouldn't come. The police would storm in soon. They had a reason now—a hostage shot.
But he was too tired to laugh.
Sixteen... seventeen... eighteen...
His breath grew shorter.
The ceiling grew blurrier.
But before everything went dark, he felt something.
Silence. Not an empty silence. A silence that observed.
As if there was an invisible structure around him. Not a being. Not a god. Just... an awareness that his decision had been recorded.
Cause. Effect. End.
And for the first time, he didn't feel like Haruto.
Not as a politician's son.
Not as a symbol.
Just a point that had finished fulfilling its function.
Nineteen... twenty...
Then—
A thin line in the darkness.
Pure understanding.
If a variable is removed, the system changes.
And the world shifts.