It was Sunday—the day after Reiji had finally created his new technique.
The thought hadn't left him since. It lingered at the edge of his awareness no matter what he did—sharp, persistent, like something just out of reach. Each time he replayed it—the flow of chakra through his tenketsu, the way cold gathered and shaped itself, the fragile balance he had barely maintained—his chest tightened. Not from strain, but from anticipation.
He wanted to show it.
More than that—he wanted his father to see it.
To acknowledge it.
To acknowledge him.
I really want to show him now…
The urge pressed against his restraint—insistent, almost physical. It told him it was enough. That it worked. That it was real.
But Reiji didn't move.
He forced the impulse down and examined the memory again, picking it apart the way he would during training.
Not yet.
It wasn't perfect.
Even now, he could feel its flaws: the uneven distribution of chakra, the excess he had burned just to maintain structure, the instability in the final form. If he showed it like that, his father would see everything immediately—the inefficiencies, the lack of control.
So he waited.
Like always.
Instead, he followed his routine.
He began with stretching—slow and deliberate—feeling each muscle loosen as tension eased from his body. His shoulders rolled, his spine aligned, his breathing settling into a steady rhythm as he moved with precision.
Then came the katas.
Again.
And again.
His strikes landed against the wooden dummies with dull, rhythmic impacts—palms, elbows, kicks—each movement flowing into the next without pause. His feet shifted across the ground, adjusting his stance with every transition, his weight transferring cleanly from one leg to the other. Sweat gathered quickly, running down his face, soaking into his clothes as his breathing deepened.
He pushed harder.
Faster.
Letting the rhythm take over.
Excitement bled into frustration.
Frustration sharpened into focus.
Expectation tightened into something controlled. Contained.
By the time he stopped, his muscles were warm and responsive, his breathing steady once more. The restless energy hadn't disappeared—but it had been compressed, held in place.
For now.
The sun had climbed higher.
It was nearing noon.
Reiji exhaled slowly, dragging the back of his hand across his forehead before turning toward the house. His thoughts shifted automatically—shower, then breakfast—
—and he nearly walked straight into someone.
His body reacted before his mind caught up. His foot slid slightly as he stopped short, his weight shifting back to keep his balance.
Reiji blinked.
For a moment, he didn't recognize him.
Soichiro stood before him, posture straight, composed in a way that felt deliberate rather than natural.
No loose kimono.
No disheveled hair.
His long brown hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, each strand in place, and thin glasses rested on his nose—something Reiji had only ever seen him wear when reading. His clothes were simple but carefully arranged, giving him a presence that felt… different.
Sharper.
Refined.
Almost noble.
Reiji's gaze lingered longer than it should have, his mind trying to reconcile the image with the man he knew.
"…You're going out, Father?" he asked.
Soichiro raised an eyebrow, as if the question itself didn't quite make sense.
"Well, yes," he said simply. "We did say we would eat out today, didn't we?"
Reiji stilled.
The words didn't register immediately. There was a brief gap—just long enough for something uncomfortable to settle in.
They looked at each other.
One waiting.
The other catching up.
"…Did you forget?" Soichiro asked after a moment.
Reiji froze.
"I… I…"
Heat rose to his face before he could stop it, his thoughts stumbling over themselves.
Why did I forget?!
The memory surfaced all at once.
His father had said it—calmly, almost casually.
They would go out.
Together.
To eat.
Reiji had heard it.
He remembered hearing it.
But he hadn't believed it.
Why would he?
They had never done that before.
They didn't go out.
They didn't mix with others.
His father didn't want to.
So he had assumed—
It meant nothing.
A passing remark.
Something that would be gone by morning.
"…I thought…" Reiji started, then stopped, the explanation falling apart before it could take shape.
Soichiro scratched the back of his head, his gaze shifting away.
"I mean… if you don't want to go, we can—"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Soichiro stilled.
Reiji straightened at once, his shoulders tightening as he forced control back into his voice.
"I mean—no," he corrected, more measured this time. "I want to go."
A brief pause followed.
Soichiro studied him, his expression unreadable, as if weighing something unspoken.
Then he nodded once.
"…Good."
His gaze dropped slightly, taking in Reiji's sweat-soaked clothes, the damp fabric clinging to his skin.
"But you should clean yourself first."
He gestured lightly toward him.
Reiji blinked, then nodded quickly.
"I'll be fast. Wait for me."
He didn't wait for a response.
He was already moving—slipping past him and heading toward the bath, his steps quicker than before, just a little less controlled than usual.
***
Reiji found himself in a strange, almost unreal state, as if his thoughts lagged half a step behind his body. His movements came automatically—his feet following the path without conscious input—while his mind remained elsewhere, caught between the lingering excitement of the morning and something quieter, harder to define.
He walked beside his father.
Or rather, just behind him.
Soichiro moved ahead with his cane, as he always did—steady, measured, unhurried. Each step landed with quiet certainty, the tip of the cane tapping lightly against the ground in an unbroken rhythm. There was no hesitation in his stride, no adjustment for the crowd, no sign that he was anything but in control.
They passed through one of Konoha's main streets, where the usual life of the village unfolded around them. Merchants called out to passing customers, voices overlapping in practiced cadence. Footsteps moved in every direction, sandals brushing against packed earth and stone. The faint scent of food drifted through the air from nearby stalls.
It should have felt normal.
It didn't.
Something in the atmosphere had shifted.
People noticed.
They always did.
Some stepped aside instinctively as Soichiro approached, their bodies moving before their thoughts caught up, clearing a path without a word. Others remained where they were, but their expressions changed—recognition flickering first, then tightening into something less welcoming. Disapproval. Discomfort.
No one spoke.
No one greeted him.
But no one ignored him either.
They watched.
And Soichiro… didn't react.
His posture remained straight, his head held high, his expression unreadable. The cane continued its quiet rhythm against the ground, steady and controlled, as if none of it carried any weight—as if the eyes on him, on them, didn't exist.
Reiji's gaze lingered on his father's back, studying the set of his shoulders, the way his stride never altered.
When was the last time he had walked like this?
Out in the open.
Among the village.
Reiji couldn't remember.
It must have been a long time ago.
The thought settled in the back of his mind, heavy in a way he didn't fully understand.
Then he felt it.
The stares.
More than usual.
Normally, they were subtle—quick glances that slipped away the moment they were noticed, murmurs carried just out of reach. Today, there was no effort to hide them. Eyes followed openly, lingering longer than they should.
Reiji didn't react.
He never did.
Other people had never mattered.
And now—
With his father walking ahead of him—
They mattered even less.
They didn't walk far before stopping in front of a restaurant.
Reiji's gaze lifted automatically, scanning the sign above the entrance.
Yakiniku Q.
The smell reached him first—grilled meat, thick and rich, laced with smoke and heat. It clung to the air, heavier than the street outside. A small line had formed near the entrance, people waiting to be seated, their voices blending into low conversation punctuated by brief bursts of laughter.
Reiji slowed slightly.
Just for a moment.
Soichiro didn't.
He walked straight past the line.
No hesitation.
No acknowledgment.
Reiji followed without question.
A few heads turned, expressions tightening at the breach of etiquette, but no one spoke. No one stepped forward to stop them.
They never did.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted again—warmer, denser, filled with the low crackle of grills and the hum of conversation. The scent of meat grew stronger, layered with smoke and seasoning.
An employee approached quickly, a practiced smile already in place.
"Hello, welcome. How can I help you?"
"I reserved a table for two," Soichiro said.
Simple.
Direct.
The man nodded, reaching into his apron for a small notebook. He flipped through the pages with quick, efficient movements.
"Of course. Under what name?"
"Homura."
The motion stopped.
Just for a second.
Reiji saw it—the brief stiffness in the man's hand, the way his eyes lifted slightly, flicking between Soichiro and himself.
Recognition.
Then something else.
"…Is there a problem?" Soichiro asked, his tone unchanged.
The employee blinked, straightening almost immediately.
"Ah—no, not at all. If you would follow me, please."
The smile returned.
Too fast.
Too smooth.
He turned and led them deeper inside.
They passed several tables—livelier groups, louder conversations—before being guided toward a quieter corner. Not hidden, but set apart just enough to feel separate.
Reiji noticed it immediately.
Of course.
The stares followed them in, though fewer now, more restrained. Conversations didn't stop, but they shifted—lowered just enough to change their tone.
The table itself was simple.
A grill was set into its center, dark metal waiting to be heated.
The employee placed two menus in front of them.
"Here you are. Take your time."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then added, "Call me when you're ready."
And left.
Quickly.
Reiji's gaze followed him for a moment before dropping back to the table.
They sat.
The menus opened almost at the same time.
Reiji scanned the options, his eyes moving from one line to the next, trying to process the choices. There were too many—different cuts, different preparations, combinations he wasn't used to considering.
He frowned slightly.
"…What are you going to take?" Soichiro asked.
Reiji hesitated, still looking at the menu.
"I don't know… Beef?"
Soichiro nodded once.
"Then I'll take the same. And sake on the side."
He closed his menu with a soft snap, already decided.
His gaze shifted back to Reiji.
"And you? Something to drink?"
Reiji looked up, considering for a moment.
"…Sake too?"
Soichiro stared at him.
Flat.
Unimpressed.
Reiji frowned, a hint of irritation slipping through.
"What? I'm a trained killer, but I can't drink alcohol? That doesn't make sense."
A brief pause.
Then—
"It has been proven that alcohol negatively affects the developing brain," Soichiro said calmly. "So no. No alcohol."
A beat.
"That privilege is reserved for adults."
Reiji exhaled through his nose, his frustration fading as quickly as it came.
"…Water, then."
Soichiro sighed quietly.
"I'll order you a juice as well."
Reiji didn't argue.
After signaling the waiter and placing their order, Soichiro gave a small nod. The man left, returning shortly with their drinks, which he set down with careful, practiced movements before stepping away again.
They drank in silence.
Soichiro sipped slowly, unhurried, as if time itself had slowed around him. Across from him, Reiji stirred his drink absentmindedly, watching the liquid move in small circles.
He glanced up.
Then back down.
Again.
And again.
"…Did you want to ask me something?" Soichiro said without looking at him.
Reiji stilled, his hand stopping mid-motion.
He hesitated.
"…When was the last time you went out like this?" he asked. "To eat."
Soichiro blinked once.
"…A long time ago," he said after a moment. "Before you were born."
He leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting—not unfocused, but distant, as if reaching for something half-buried.
"I think it was after a mission. With my team."
A pause.
"…The Land of Rivers, if I remember correctly."
Reiji listened without interrupting.
"So you never went out after that?"
Soichiro gave a small shrug.
"I don't particularly enjoy it. Too many people. Too much noise."
He paused briefly, searching for the word.
"…Too much—"
"Chaos," Reiji finished.
Soichiro looked at him.
Reiji immediately dropped his gaze, a faint warmth rising to his face.
"I mean—I didn't like it either," he added quickly. "When I went out with my teammates the other day…"
He hesitated, choosing his words more carefully.
"It was more of a hassle than anything. I don't really see the point of paying to eat surrounded by people."
Soichiro watched him for a moment longer.
Then nodded.
"…I understand."
Silence settled between them again.
Reiji shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers brushing the edge of the table, grounding himself in the sensation. Across from him, Soichiro remained composed, untouched by the subtle tension lingering in the space between them.
Reiji glanced around the restaurant—the movement, the noise, the heat rising from nearby grills—before letting his gaze fall back to the table.
…It felt a little awkward being here.
Not because of the people.
That part didn't matter.
…So why did it?
Reiji didn't notice it all at once. It crept in at the edges first, a subtle wrongness in the space around their table. The restaurant carried on as if nothing had changed—meat hissing over open flame, voices stacking over one another, the dull clatter of ceramic and metal—but the noise thinned where it reached them, like something was pressing it back.
His fingers rested along the table's edge. At some point, they'd curled tighter against the wood. He wasn't sure when.
Across from him, Soichiro's movement slowed—not enough to draw attention, just enough that it stopped feeling natural. His hand hovered at his cup for a fraction too long before lifting it. Smooth, controlled.
A beat off.
"…So it is you."
The voice came from his right.
Reiji looked up.
The man standing there didn't belong to the room. Not because of how he looked—though the uneven cut of blond hair and sharp teal eyes stood out—but because of how he held himself. Nothing in him settled. Every line of his posture felt placed, maintained, like it would hold even if the ground shifted under him.
His attention wasn't searching. It had already found what it came for.
Reiji followed that line of focus back to Soichiro.
Recognition. Immediate. Certain.
Reiji let his gaze move back, taking the man in piece by piece. Older. No wasted tension, no excess movement. The kind of presence that didn't spike or flare—it just stayed ready.
The man hadn't looked at him. Not yet.
Soichiro set his cup down. It didn't make a sound.
"Took you long enough," the man said. "Or were you hoping no one would notice?"
"You are—" Soichiro started.
Stopped.
Reiji saw it settle—the shift behind his eyes, the moment memory aligned with what was in front of him.
"…Right," Soichiro said quietly.
The man's expression didn't change. Something tightened, though—small, contained. "So you do remember."
Soichiro didn't answer.
The man exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled. Not calm. "…Good."
Then, finally, his gaze moved.
It landed on Reiji.
And didn't leave.
There was no flicker of recognition there. No searching.
Just a long, deliberate look—as if confirming something he already suspected.
Reiji felt his back straighten slightly before he meant it to. His grip on the table shifted, fingers pressing in, then easing just enough to avoid drawing attention. He held the man's gaze anyway.
Didn't offer anything.
"…That's it?" the man said.
Reiji didn't respond.
The man's eyes moved over him once, unhurried, then settled again. "That's what all of it comes down to?"
Across the table, Soichiro spoke, voice even. "If you have something to say, say it."
Not dismissive anymore.
The man let out a breath that might have been a laugh if there'd been anything like humor in it.
"Oh, I do."
His attention snapped back to Soichiro, sharper now.
"You remember them?" he asked. "Or did you find a way to forget that too?"
"I remember," Soichiro said.
The man's jaw shifted. "All of them?"
A pause.
"…All of them."
Something in the man's face pulled tighter—not enough to break, just enough to strain.
"Then don't make me do this for you," he said, quieter now. "Say it."
Soichiro didn't move.
Reiji felt the pause stretch—not empty, but weighted, like something resisting being dragged into the open.
"Say his name," the man said.
For a second, Reiji thought he wouldn't.
Then—
"…Takeda."
The name didn't waver. It didn't soften, either.
It landed and stayed.
The man inhaled sharply, like the sound had caught somewhere it shouldn't have. His shoulders locked for a fraction of a second before settling again.
"…Yeah," he said under his breath. "Takeda."
The word sat heavier the second time.
"He followed you," the man went on, voice tightening despite the control wrapped around it. "Didn't argue. Didn't hesitate. You told him to move, he moved. Told him to stay, he stayed." His mouth pressed thin. "He trusted you."
Reiji became aware, distantly, that he'd stopped breathing. He let it out slowly, careful not to make it noticeable.
"You were supposed to bring him back," the man said.
Soichiro didn't look away. "I know."
A small, sharp sound left the man—something between a breath and a laugh that didn't quite form. "Yeah," he said. "You know."
The words hung there, uneven.
"You didn't," he added.
"No," Soichiro said.
No defense. No justification.
Just that.
The man looked at him for a long second, something shifting behind his eyes—cracking along a line that hadn't broken yet.
"There isn't a day I don't think about it," Soichiro said.
This time, the words didn't feel placed.
They stayed where they fell.
The man's gaze held on him, searching for something—maybe for it to sound false, maybe for it to be enough. It didn't seem to land where he wanted.
His eyes moved again.
Back to Reiji.
Slower now.
"…All of that," he said, voice lower, rougher at the edges, "for this."
A pause.
"That's what he died for?"
Reiji felt it settle on him fully this time.
Not just attention.
Judgment.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. Something in his chest locked into place—not defensive, not uncertain. Just unwilling to bend under it.
The man stepped closer.
Reiji hadn't seen him move.
The distance was just… gone.
"Do you even know what you are?" the man asked, still looking at him, though the question cut past him. "What he traded for you?"
Reiji didn't answer. Couldn't tell if that was restraint or instinct. His shoulders had drawn tighter, breath shortening again before he forced it steady.
Another step.
Close enough now that the man didn't have to raise his voice at all.
"My son died on that field," he said.
The words didn't rise.
They pressed.
"Your team died."
A beat.
"You didn't just lose them—you burned everything that came after with it."
His gaze sharpened, something harsher finally surfacing through the control.
"And you walked away with what?" he asked. "Half a body? Half a life?"
Then, quieter—
"For this?"
The restaurant noise bled back in at the edges—someone laughing too loudly, a chair scraping across the floor—but it felt distant, warped.
The man's eyes fixed fully on Reiji.
Cold. Certain.
"…For that."
Something in Reiji steadied.
Not doubt.
Not shame.
Something that held its ground simply because it refused not to.
"For my son," Soichiro said.
The words cut clean through the space between them. Not louder. Not sharper.
Just absolute.
The man's head turned, quick and tight, the restraint finally slipping at the edges. The anger didn't explode—it focused.
"…Does it?" he asked.
His gaze slid back to Reiji, sharper now.
"Does it even know what you did?" A slight tilt of his head, something bitter threading through the control. "What you turned yourself into just to drag it back?"
"Stop."
The word cut across the table—but it didn't land cleanly. It hit mid-motion, mid-breath, and by the time Reiji looked up, Soichiro was already standing, the chair dragging low behind him as he moved forward without hesitation.
Not away.
Into it.
The distance between him and the man closed too quickly, compressing the space until it felt like the air itself had nowhere to go. Reiji felt it before he processed it—his body shifting, center dropping, shoulders aligning as his hand hovered near the knife, close enough now that the gap between reaching and acting had all but disappeared.
Soichiro didn't look back. "You can blame me—" he started, voice even, but tight enough to catch "—you can put all of it on me—but you don't get to pull him into it."
"He's already in it," the man cut in, not raising his voice, but stepping forward as he spoke, collapsing what little space remained. "You don't get to pretend otherwise."
Reiji's breath shortened without his permission. He forced it steady, but it came a fraction too late, his grip tightening slightly against the table before easing again.
"Stop saying that," Soichiro said, sharper now—not louder, but cutting through the overlap.
The man tilted his head, studying him, something thinner in his composure now, less stable. "…What part?"
"My son isn't a thing," Soichiro said, and this time there was no pause before the words followed. "He's a child. And you're—"
"A child?" the man interrupted, a short, dry sound breaking through—almost a laugh, but not quite. "That's what you're going with now?"
Something shifted there. Not fully—he was still controlled—but the edges weren't holding as cleanly.
Reiji noticed the room again in fragments rather than all at once—the way voices dipped and then tried to recover, the scrape of something being moved too quickly, a conversation stopping mid-sentence nearby.
"…Now you care about that?" the man went on, words starting to overlap themselves slightly. "Now you draw a line?"
Soichiro didn't answer immediately, and in that half-second of silence, the man pressed forward again, not physically this time, but with the weight of it.
"After everything—you think you get to stand there and decide what counts?"
"…Takeda wouldn't have wanted this."
The name cut through him.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Reiji saw it—not clearly, not fully—but enough. The man's expression didn't break, but it slipped, just for a moment, something underneath pushing through before being forced back down.
"…Don't," the man said quickly, too quickly, like the word had come out before he decided to say it.
Then, sharper—
"Don't use his name like that."
Soichiro held his ground. "I'm not using it."
"You are—" the man started, then stopped himself, jaw tightening hard enough to show it now. He exhaled through his nose, but the control didn't settle as cleanly this time. "You don't get to stand there and—"
He moved.
This time Reiji saw the start of it—but not soon enough to track it fully. The shift happened too fast, intent snapping into place as distance collapsed again.
Reiji's hand closed around the knife, his body leaning forward at the same time—
—but Soichiro stepped in first.
Forward.
Intercepting.
The movements overlapped, collided—too close, too fast—
"What is happening here?"
The voice didn't just interrupt—it overrode.
Everything stopped.
Not gradually. Not reluctantly. It simply ended.
Reiji's focus snapped toward the entrance, breath still caught halfway in his chest.
Three figures stood there, unmoving. Konoha Military Police. The shift in the room followed instantly, the last scraps of noise dropping off as attention redirected without resistance.
Uchiha Engetsu stood at the front.
Reiji recognized him immediately.
No one moved—not Soichiro, not the man, not even the people watching. The moment held, suspended just long enough for the interruption to fully take control.
Reiji became aware of the knife in his hand and forced his grip to loosen, easing it back onto the table without sound. His posture followed a second later, tension settling lower rather than disappearing.
Engetsu's gaze swept across them, slow and deliberate, taking in everything at once—the distance, the positions, the timing, the kind of awareness that didn't need explanation.
"I asked a question," he said, voice even, but leaving no space to ignore it. "What is happening here… Yamanaka?"
The name landed.
Yamanaka didn't look at him. Not immediately. His gaze stayed on Soichiro, as if letting go of the moment hadn't fully happened yet.
"…Nothing," he said at last, though it came a fraction too late to feel clean.
A brief pause.
"Just a disagreement."
Engetsu didn't respond right away. His eyes shifted, settling on Soichiro instead.
"And you?"
A single nod.
That was all.
Engetsu's expression tightened slightly—not enough to call it disapproval, but close enough to feel it.
"I don't need the full story," he said. "But don't assume I missed the rest."
His gaze moved between them again, sharper now.
"We got here before it crossed the line."
A beat.
"And it would have."
No one argued.
"Since nothing happened," he continued, "it ends here."
The phrasing was deliberate.
"I'm not filing reports for something that should've been handled before it reached this point."
The meaning settled without needing to be explained.
"But you won't remain here."
Final.
Not negotiable.
"Understood," Soichiro said, already turning.
"Come on, Reiji."
Reiji stood, his body still holding the echo of movement that hadn't been completed, and followed—but not before looking back.
Yamanaka was already watching him.
This time, there was less control in it.
Not obvious.
But there.
Something unsettled beneath the surface, held in place rather than contained.
The moment stretched, thin but unbroken.
Reiji didn't look away.
Didn't offer anything.
But something in him settled in response—cold, deliberate, and not going anywhere.
Yamanaka's gaze flickered, just slightly.
Then he turned first.
Reiji followed Soichiro outside.
The air felt different immediately—cooler, clearer, like stepping out of something that had been pressing in from all sides.
Engetsu stood near the entrance, arms crossed as they passed. As Reiji drew level, the man's gaze shifted briefly, something quieter there now—acknowledgment, maybe.
A small wink followed.
Reiji gave the slightest nod in return and kept walking.
***
The walk back unfolded without a word between them—but it wasn't a quiet silence. It pressed in, dense and unyielding, stretching across each step without ever settling. Their pace aligned without effort, an unconscious synchronization born of habit rather than awareness. Neither sped up. Neither slowed. To break that rhythm would have meant acknowledging it.
Soichiro didn't speak.
Reiji didn't expect him to.
The village moved around them as it always did—steady, uninterrupted, indifferent. Doors slid open and shut, voices rose and fell, footsteps crossed and recrossed the same worn paths—but it all felt distant, as if he were walking through something that hadn't fully accepted him. Sound reached him dulled at the edges, conversations blurring before they could take shape, as though his mind refused to hold onto anything that didn't matter.
He kept his gaze forward.
There was no need to look at his father. Not now.
This—whatever it was—wasn't unfamiliar. Not common, but not rare enough to surprise him. Moments like that no longer needed explanation. He had learned their shape over time: the way they cut into everything else, the way they lingered after.
And the way they followed.
He felt it before he heard anything distinct—the subtle shifts around them. A voice lowering slightly as they passed. A pause too quick to be natural. Someone looking a moment too long before turning away, as if nothing had happened.
It never came directly.
It didn't need to.
Reiji had heard it enough times to recognize it without hearing it at all.
Pest.
Shouldn't be here.
A bad omen.
A mistake.
The words didn't arrive all at once—they surfaced, familiar and unwelcome, drawn from memory rather than spoken aloud. It didn't matter who had said them first. It didn't matter who repeated them now.
They stayed the same.
They always did.
His jaw tightened, the movement small enough to vanish as soon as it formed. He exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his breath before it could falter. His stride never broke.
He didn't react.
There was nothing to react to.
That was what people didn't understand.
It wasn't that the words hurt.
It was that they were predictable.
Expected.
And because of that, they lost something before they ever reached him.
They didn't want him here.
That had never been unclear.
And he didn't want them either.
The thought settled cleanly, without resistance or contradiction. There was no emotion attached to it—not anger, not resentment. Just recognition. A fact, like everything else had become.
Still—
Something colder formed beneath it.
His gaze narrowed slightly, focus tightening on the path ahead as the thought took shape.
One day, that would change.
Not because they chose differently.
Not because they understood.
But because they wouldn't have the option not to.
His name wouldn't pass between them in whispers. It wouldn't be something inherited, tied to someone else's failure, diminished before it was spoken.
It would stand on its own.
Something undeniable.
Strength—not the kind that needed recognition, but the kind that forced it. The kind that didn't ask, didn't wait, didn't care whether it was accepted.
The kind that replaced everything else.
His fingers curled at his side, tension gathering and settling just as quickly, contained before it could show.
They'll know.
The thought didn't flare.
It anchored.
And beneath it, quieter but heavier—
Something else settled into place.
He wasn't wrong.
Reiji didn't question it. The certainty didn't need reinforcement—it was already there, steady and unmoving.
I have the right to live.
The thought came without resistance.
I am not a mistake.
His step didn't falter.
"…Father."
The word felt small against everything else, but it carried.
Soichiro's head tilted slightly in acknowledgment. "Mm?"
Reiji didn't look at him. His gaze stayed forward, fixed, his expression unchanged as the question formed.
"Do you regret it?"
The words lingered just long enough to exist fully between them before he finished.
"Choosing me."
For the first time, the rhythm of their steps shifted—not breaking, not abruptly, but enough to be felt. Soichiro slowed, then stopped.
Reiji followed a half-step later.
Soichiro didn't turn immediately.
For a moment, there was nothing—no tension, no hesitation Reiji could name. Just something held, measured, as if the answer had been decided long before the question was asked.
Then—
"There isn't a day I don't regret what I did."
The words came evenly.
Too evenly.
Reiji stilled, though nothing in his posture betrayed it.
Something in his chest tightened—slow, contained, not enough to surface.
"But…"
The word followed after a pause that felt intentional—not searching, but chosen.
Soichiro turned then, unhurried, his gaze settling on Reiji with unwavering steadiness. There was no attempt to soften it, no distance in it either.
Just certainty.
His hand rose, rough and familiar, resting against Reiji's head with a firm, grounding weight.
"If I had to go back…" he said, the words hanging for a fraction of a second—not incomplete, just measured.
"I'd make the same choice."
Reiji's gaze dipped slightly—not avoidance, not submission, just enough to break the line between them. Something faint touched his expression, the beginning of a smile that didn't quite resolve into warmth.
Selfish.
The word formed without resistance.
His fingers curled again at his side, smaller this time, the motion barely there before it stilled.
I really am his son.
***
Hello everybody, I hope your weekend went well!
Well… that turned ugly fast.
Now I'm curious—what do you think Soichiro did?
Throw your theories at me. I won't confirm anything (even if someone miraculously nails it), but I definitely want to see how close you get.
Let's see if I'm predictable or not ! ( I am )
Thanks for reading, as always! If you have thoughts to share, don't hesitate or even dropping a review if you want i would be grateful. And if you'd like to read more check the resume of the story ;)
Take care!