"Yapping."
'Internal Yapping.'
~Chapter Start~
-Third Person POV-
The boy with messy black hair and dark blue eyes cracked his eyes open to a plain white ceiling. The first thing that hit him was the smell—sharp, chemical, like someone had dumped a bottle of cleaning stuff right under his nose. His body felt heavy, sluggish, as if he'd been lying on his ass there for days. Weeks, maybe.
He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes around him. A nurse spotted him and bustled over, her shoes squeaking on the floor.
"Easy now," she said, her voice soft but practiced. She started diddling hi– with the machines beside the bed. "You've been out for a while. Just take it slow."
He tried to say something, but his throat was raw and dry, like sandpaper. "...Where am I?"
"You're in the hospital, sweetie."
That didn't clear anything up. If anything, it made his stomach twist worse. His head felt... not fuzzy, exactly. Just blank. Like someone had wiped the slate clean and forgotten to write anything back on it.
A docor showed up not long after. Middle-aged guy with bags under his eyes and the kind of tired look that said he'd delivered bad news too many times. He pulled up a chair and leaned forward, choosing his words carefully.
"You were in a car accident," he started. "Serious head injury." He paused, like he was giving the words time to land. "You were the only one who made it."
The boy just stared at him. The words sounded important—heavy, even—but they didn't stick. They floated there, not connecting to anything inside.
"I... don't remember any of that," he muttered finally, voice cracking a little.
The doctor nodded, expression softening just a bit. "That's pretty common with this kind of trauma. Amnesia. There's a chance things could start coming back over time, but... we can't promise anything."
A chance. Great.
Before he left, the doctor hesitated at the door. "Your name is Yuta Okkotsu, by the way."
Yuta. (Fraud Bum)
It sounded like it belonged to somebody else. Some kid in a story he'd read (He lyin he ain't read shit he a jjk fan) somewhere.
"Wait!" Yuta shouted suddenly, running up to the doctor who had just stopped in the hallway.
"Is there anything you need, sonny?" the doctor asked gently.
"Th-Thank you, doctor man!"
The moment the doctor heard those words, it felt like his heart thumped loudly in his chest.
"You're welcome! But… doctor man?" the doctor couldn't help but ask, puzzled by the sudden nickname.
"B-Because you're a doctor… and you're a man," the boy muttered shyly, his head down as he stared at the clean hospital floors beneath him.
"Oh… yeah," the doctor responded, feeling a little stupid.
~~~
The next few weeks dragged on in a weird, numb blur.
Tests, scans, more questions. Nurses checking his vitals every few hours. He did what they asked—sat up when they told him to, ate the slop food, answered as best he could. But nothing felt real. Like he was watching someone else's life through foggy glass.
They'd told him about his parents. Gone. Just like that. Said he had a whole life before the crash—friends, maybe, or hobbies, or whatever normal kids his age had. But when he reached for any of it, there was just... nothing. No flashes. No voices. No little warmth or ache that might mean something had been there once. No pain in his dihh 💔.
He spent a lot of time wandering the halls when they let him, hands shoved in the pockets of the hospital gown or whatever loose pants they gave him. The other patients and visitors felt far away, like background noise in a TV show he wasn't really watching.
One afternoon he drifted farther than usual and stopped outside an open doorway.
Inside, a girl about his age sat on the edge of her bed by the window. Long dark brown hair, soft brown eyes fixed on whatever was happening outside. The window was cracked open, and a breeze snuck in, tugging at a few strands of her hair for a second before letting go.
Yuta stopped short. He didn't know why. Something about the way the light hit her, or how still she was, just... pulled at him. It felt quiet. Alive, in a way the rest of this place didn't.
She must have sensed him staring like a creepy ass weirdo, because she turned her head.
Their eyes met.
His brain basically blue-screened. Heat rushed to his face and he jerked his gaze away fast, heart suddenly hammering like he'd been caught doing something stupid. This wasn't even the first time this week he'd ended up hovering near her room like an idiot. And every single time, she caught him.
A soft laugh floated out from the room. Just a little giggle.
That made it ten times worse. Yuta turned to bolt, cheeks burning.
"Hey—wait!"
He froze mid-step.
"What's your name?"
For a second he just stood there, awkward as hell, wondering if she was actually talking to him. Slowly, he glanced back.
"Y-Yuta," he managed, tripping over it. "Yuta Okkotsu. Uh... what's yours?"
She smiled then—bright and easy.
"I'm Rika. Rika Orimoto."
Yuta didn't look away right away this time. Rika. It sounded... nice. Simple. The kind of name that stuck in your head for no good reason.
Something shifted in his chest. Not a big dramatic thing—just a tiny flicker. Warm. Quiet. Real enough that he noticed it.
For the first time since he'd woken up in that sterile room, the blank space inside didn't feel quite so heavy.
And just like that, without him even realizing it yet, things started to feel a little less empty.
~~~
A couple of weeks slipped by in the hospital, the days feeling both too long and too short. Yuta a week ago was six but he was seven now—or at least that's what the doctors and nurses kept telling him. Everything still felt new and strange, like the world had been reset and he was learning how to walk in it again. He kept finding excuses to wander down the hall to Rika's room. She was seven too, and somehow that made the awkwardness easier to handle.
The first time he really stayed, he stood in her doorway twisting the hem of his hospital gown. Rika was sitting on the floor surrounded by crayons and crumpled drawings, her long hair messy from running her hands through it. She looked up with those soft brown eyes and grinned like he was the best thing that had happened all day.
"You again," she said, not mean, just teasing. "Come help me color this dragon. It's supposed to be scary but it keeps looking friendly."
Yuta's cheeks went pink. He shuffled in and dropped down beside her, his own messy black hair falling into his dark blue eyes. "I'm not very good at drawing or anything."
"That's okay," Rika said, shoving a red crrayon at him. "Mine are terrible too. See?" She held up a wobbly red blob-like face with two big front row teeth. They both started giggling, the sound small and bubbly in the quiet room. Yuta's laugh came out shy at first, like he was testing if it was allowed, but Rika's bright, easy one made his chest feel a little less tight.
Another afternoon they snuck to the hospital playroom when the nurses weren't looking. Rika climbed onto the plastic slide and slid down with a whoop, hair flying. Yuta hesitated at the top, gripping the sides, then finally let go. He landed in a heap at the bottom and Rika was already there, poking his side.
"You look like a scared cat!" she laughed.
"I am a scared cat," he muttered, but he was smiling now. They chased each other around the blocks and stuffed animals until a nurse came to shoo them back to their rooms. Rika grabbed his hand for half a second as they ran—warm, sweaty, and gone again before he could think about it.
~~~
Discharge day arrived with a weird mix of relief and sadness.
Yuta stood in the lobby clutching his little bag, wearing clothes that still felt too big and stiff. Rika was a few steps away with her parents, her long dark brown hair brushed neat for once. When she spotted him her face lit up, then dimmed just as fast.
"So… we're both leaving today," she said, walking over slowly. Her eyes looked a little shiny. "What if we never see each other again? Hospitals are dumb like that."
Yuta stared at his sneakers, throat tight. "I don't want that," he whispered. "I… I like talking to you, for 10 more years at least."
Rika bit her lip, then gave him a quick, brave nod. "Me too. You're not boring like the other kids here." She punched his shoulder lightly. "Don't forget me, okay?"
"Rika Orimoto," he said, repeating it like a promise. "I won't."
Her parents called her name. She waved one last time, hand lingering in the air, then disappeared through the doors. Yuta felt the empty feeling creep back in, heavier than before.
~~~
A tall man with sharp gray eyes and a straight-backed posture was waiting for him near the exit. His hair was white m, cut short and neat, and even though he wore a simple coat, something about him made the air feel heavier. Like he took up more space than he should.
"Yuta," the man said, voice low and firm. It wasn't loud, but it carried. "I'm your grandfather. Hiroshi Okkotsu. Your mother's father."
Yuta looked up at him and felt a small shiver. Grandpa Hiroshi's face was lined and serious, mouth set in a straight line that didn't smile easily. His eyes—dark and steady—seemed to look right through him, like he knew things Yuta didn't even know he was missing. There was something else too, something almost hidden: a weight behind the words, like he was holding back stories, secrets, maybe even warnings. But he didn't say any of it. Not yet.
"Come on," Grandpa Hiroshi said, placing a heavy hand on Yuta's shoulder. The grip was strong, not painful, but it made Yuta stand a little straighter. "Home is this way. We'll talk on the drive."
In the car the silence stretched. Yuta fidgeted with his seatbelt.
"You don't remember anything," Grandpa Hiroshi stated after a while. It wasn't a question.
"…No."
The old man nodded once, eyes on the road. "That's fine for now. Your mother… she was strong. Stubborn. I'm honoring her by making sure you're safe. There are things you'll need to know later. When you're ready." His voice dropped a fraction. "Some things in this world are dangerous. I know more than most people. But today isn't the day for that."
Yuta swallowed. Grandpa Hiroshi didn't raise his voice or threaten, but the way he said it made Yuta feel like there was a whole hidden world behind those words—one that could swallow you whole if you weren't careful. Still, the man's hand rested on the steering wheel steady and sure, like he'd protect Yuta from whatever that hidden world held.
When they reached the small wooden house with its tiny garden, Grandpa Hiroshi showed him to a simple room. "This was your mother's when she was your age. Keep it neat. No excuses." The words were strict, almost barked, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something softer, like he was seeing his daughter again for a second before it vanished.
~~~
The next few days at home were quiet and careful. Grandpa Hiroshi woke Yuta early for breakfast—plain rice and miso, nothing fancy. He watched with those sharp eyes while Yuta ate.
"Back straight," he said once, not mean, just matter-of-fact. "You carry your mother's name. Act like it." Then, quieter, almost to himself: "She'd want you strong… and safe." He never explained the "safe" part, but Yuta caught the way his grandfather sometimes stared out the window at nothing, jaw tight, like he was listening for things no one else could hear. It made Yuta both scared and curious. Like there were stories locked behind that hard face—secrets about their family, about the reality of their world, about why Grandpa Hiroshi seemed like someone who could handle danger without blinking.
One evening Grandpa Hiroshi sat across from him at the low table, cleaning an old pocket knife with slow, precise movements. "School starts soon," he said without looking up. "You'll go. You'll study hard. And if anything feels… wrong, you tell me. Immediately." His voice had that scary edge again, the one that hinted he knew exactly what "wrong" could mean. But he didn't push. He just waited, like he was honoring some invisible promise to his late daughter by giving Yuta time.
Yuta nodded, small and quick. "Yes, Grandpa."
~~~
School was a whole new kind of scary.
Yuta walked through the gates of the little elementary school with his head down, uniform sleeves too long, messy black hair sticking up in the back no matter how many times he patted it. He was the new kid who didn't remember anything. Other seven-year-olds whispered. Teachers smiled extra gently, treating him as if he were some retarded special kid. At recess he sat alone on a bench, kicking at the dirt, feeling small and out of place.
On the third day the classroom door opened and the teacher said, "We have a new student joining us."
Rika Orimoto bounced in, long hair in two loose pigtails today, her eyes scanning the room. The second she saw Yuta her whole face exploded into the biggest smile. "Yuta!" she whisper-shouted, sliding into the desk right next to his.
His eyes went wide. A real grin broke across his face—shy but bright. "Rika? You're here too?"
"Obviously," she said, poking his di– arm under the desk. "We're in the same class now. No escaping me."
From then on Yuta sat a little taller. He still got quiet when the teacher called on him, still blushed when kids stared, but Rika's constant little nudges and giggles made him answer questions louder, even if his voice wobbled. She was like a tiny whirlwind in pigtails.
~~~
After school that first week, Rika grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the playground behind the school. "Come on, slowpoke! Race you to the swings!"
Yuta stumbled after her, laughing despite himself. His messy black hair flopped into his eyes as they ran. Rika's cheeks were already pink from excitement, her pigtails bouncing. She claimed the highest swing and pumped her legs hard, hair flying. "Bet I can go higher than you!"
Yuta climbed on the one beside her, eyes sparkling with nervous fun. They swung until their stomachs hurt from laughing, then chased each other across the grass, kicking up leaves and yelling made-up battle cries like a pair of baboons saying nonsense. Rika tripped once and tumbled dramatically, but she popped right back up giggling, dirt on her knees and a huge grin.
In the little woods past the park they found a clearing with sunlight spotting the ground like gold coins. Rika flopped onto the grass, arms spread out. "This is our secret base now," she declared, brreathing hard.
Yuta dropped down beside her, his own chest heaving but his face soft and happy. "Yeah… it is." He looked at her—long hair messy again, her eyes alight with joy—and felt that warm flicker stronger than ever. "You make everything less scary."
Rika turned her head, smiling sideways at him. "Good. Because you're my favorite person here."
~~~
One quiet afternoon on the swings again, sun dipping low and painting everything orange, Rika slowed her swinging until her feet dragged in the dirt.
"Hey, Yuta," she said, voice softer than usual. "Are we friends? Like, real best friends?"
He stopped his own swing, toes scuffing the ground. His expression turned serious, a little shy, but his eyes were steady. "I think so. You're the only one who makes me feel… not alone. Even when Grandpa's being all strict and scary."
Rika's smile was warm, no teasing this time. She bumped her swing gently against his. "Then it's official. Best friends forever. No take-backs."
Yuta nodded, a small, relieved laugh bubbling up. "No take-backs."
~~~
One quiet afternoon a few weeks later, Yuta and Rika met at their favorite spot in the woods behind the park. Golden sunlight filtered through the leaves, making little dancing spots on the ground. Rika was humming while she arranged some sticks into a pretend fort, her long hair messy with bits of leaves stuck in it, cheeks flushed from running around earlier. Yuta sat nearby, quieter than usual, his messy hair falling into his eyes as he nervously fiddled with something hidden in his pocket.
He'd asked Grandpa Hiroshi about it the night before. The old man had been silent for a long time before handing over the simple silver ring that once belonged to Yuta's mother. "Take care of it," was all he'd said, his sharp eyes unusually soft for a moment.
Now Yuta's heart was beating fast. He stood up, brushing dirt off his shorts, and walked over to Rika.
"Rika… I've been thinking about something," he said, voice small but determined. His face was already turning pink.
She looked up, eyes curious and bright. "What is it?"
Yuta pulled the ring out of his pocket and held it carefully in both hands. "When we get bigger… do you want to marry me? So we can stay together forever and never have to say goodbye again."
Rika's eyes went wide, then sparkled with pure delight. Her mouth opened in a big, happy "O" before breaking into the brightest smile he'd ever seen. "Really? You want to marry me?"
Yuta nodded quickly, ears burning red. "Yeah. You're my best friend. I don't want to be without you. This was my mom's ring. I want you to have it… as a promise."
He gently slipped the slightly-too-big ring onto her finger. Rika held her hand up, turning it left and right so the silver caught the sunlight. Her cheeks turned rosy pink and she looked at the ring like it was the most precious treasure in the world.
"I accept!" she declared happily, bouncing on her knees. "We're getting married when we're older. Together forever!"
Without warning, she leaned forward and planted a quick little peck on his cheej—soft, warm, and gone in a second.
Yuta froze completely. His whole face exploded into deep crimson. One hand flew up to touch the spot where her lips had been, eyes wide with shock and flustered embarrassment. "R-Rika!" he squeaked, voice cracking.
She giggled, the mischievous gremlin energy back in full force even as she blushed too. "What? Future wives are allowed to do that!"
Yuta buried his burning face in both hands, but couldn't hide the shy, happy little grin peeking between his fingers. His chest felt weirdly warm and he didn't know ehy.
~~~
They kept meeting after school—playground races, park tag, secret forts in the woods. Rika would drag him into silly games, pretending to be pirates or explorers, her laughter loud and free while Yuta's grew braver each time. Grandpa Hiroshi would pick him up some evenings, watching from the car with those sharp eyes, but he never stopped the play. He just nodded once, like he approved in his own quiet, dangerous-looking way.
For the first time since waking up, Yuta's days felt full. Not empty anymore. Just… right.
~~~
The park was quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel louder.
Yuta sat on the old swing, slowly dragging the toes of his sneakers through the dirt while he waited. He had arrived early again, like always. Rika was usually the one who came running down the path, pigtails bouncing, shouting his name like the whole world was her playground.
He kept glancing toward the path.
"…She's late," he mumbled to himself.
That wasn't like her.
The wind rustled the leaves. The swing set creaked softly.
Then footsteps came from behind him.
"Hey. Get a load of this guy."
Yuta's back stiffened.
Three older boys—maybe ten or eleven—walked out from behind the swing set. They were bigger, louder, and smiling in a way that didn't feel friendly.
One of them stepped closer, smirking. "You alone, kid?"
Yuta stayed quiet, gripping the swing chains tigjter.
"…We asked you something."
"Yeah," Yuta answered softly, eyes on the ground.
The boys laughed.
"What, you shy?" one snorted. "Or just stupid?"
Yuta swallowed. "I'm waiting for someone. So… please leave me alone."
That only made them laugh harder.
"Ohhh, he's waiting for someone," the tallest one mocked. "Your girlfriend?"
Before Yuta could answer, the boy grabbed the swing chains and yanked them to a stop. "When we talk to you, you answer properly."
Yuta finally looked up. "I said leave me alone."
The air changed.
The first shove came hard. Yuta tumbled off the swing and hit the ground, pain flaring in his side. He pushed himself up anyway, breathing fast.
"I said stop—"
A fist caught him in the face. The world spun. More hits followed—shoves, kicks, rough hands dragging him up just to knock him down again. Yuta tried to swing back once, but his small fist barely grazed one of them. It only made them angrier.
"Man, this is boring," one eventually grumbled.
"Yeah. Let's go."
They walked off laughing, leaving Yuta curled on the ground, bruised, scraped, and shaking.
The park fell quiet again.
~~~
"…Yuta?"
Small, hurried footsteps rushed toward him.
"Yuta?!"
Rika dropped to her knees beside him. Her eyes went wide with shock as she saw the blood on his lip and the bruises already forming. Her hair fell messily around her face.
"What happened?! Did you fall? No—this isn't from falling! Who did this? Does it hurt? Of course it hurts, that was a dumb question—can you sit up? Are you dizzy? Yuta, say something!"
Her hands hovered over him, afraid to touch anywhere in case it hurt more.
Yuta blinked slowly, trying to focus through the pounding in his head.
"…Rika," he whispered.
"I'm right here!" Her voice cracked. "Don't move—wait, you can move, just be careful—"
"Rika." He reached out weakly and touched her wrist.
That finally stopped her frantic rambling.
"…I'm okay," he said softly.
"You're not okay!" Tears welled in her eyes. "You're bleeding!"
"It's not that bad."
"It is!" Her lower lip trembled.
Yuta managed a tiny, wobbly smile. "Hey… I'm still here, right?"
Rika stared at him for a second, then gave a small, shaky nod. "…Yeah."
"So I'm okay."
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, breathing hard. After a long pause, her voice dropped, suddenly calm and flat.
"…Who did this?"
Yuta felt a chill run down his spine. This wasn't her usual playful tone. Her soft brown eyes looked different—too still, too dark.
"…Rika?"
"Tell me what they looked like."
Her eyes didn't blink. They stayed locked on his face, unnaturally still.
Yuta hesitated, but the look in her eyes made it hard to say no.
"…There were three of them," he said slowly. "One was tall with short blond hair and a mean smile. Another had a scar on his chin and always smirked. The last one was shorter, with spiky black hair. They… they were older than us. Maybe ten or eleven."
Rika listened without moving. Her expression didn't change at all. She just absorbed every word like she was memorizing it.
When he finished, she stayed silent for a few seconds.
Then, suddenly—
"Okay!"
Her tone flipped back to bright and cheerful, like a switch had been turned on. "Let's go to my house! We need to clean you up!"
Yuta blinked, caught off guard by how fast she changed.
"Rika, I can just—"
"Nope! Come on!"
She stood up and gently pulled him along before he could argue.
~~~
At Rika's house, the air felt strangely heavy even though everything looked normal. Her parents greeted them politely, but their smiles seemed tight and their eyes flicked nervously toward Rika for a split second.
Rika ignored them and dragged Yuta straight to the bathroom. She sat him down on a small stool and started carefully cleaning his wounds with a warm cloth and some ointment from the cabinet.
"Hm hm hm~" she hummed softly as she worked, but her hands were surprisingly gentle.
"Ow—"
"Sorry!" she giggled, though her eyes looked worried. "Hold still, okay?"
"I am holding still…"
"You're moving a little."
"I'm not."
"You are," she teased lightly, but her smile didn't fully reach her eyes. She dabbed carefully at the cut on his lip, then moved to the bruise on his cheek. Every time he winced, she'd pause and whisper "Sorry…" again, her voice soft.
Yuta watched her face while she concentrated. Her long hair kept falling forward, and she'd tuck it behind her ear with one hand. Even though she was acting playful, there was a quiet intensity in how focused she was on taking care of him.
"…There. All done," she said finally, leaning back to admire her work. She gave him a proud little smile. "You look much better now."
Yuta touched his cheek gently. "…Thanks, Rika. Really."
She grinned, but there was still something shadowed behind her eyes. "Of course! I'm your future wife silly!"
~~~
A week later.
The TV played quietly in the background as Yuta worked on his homework.
"…In other news, three boys have been reported missing in Kuoh—"
Yuta paused.
His head slowly turned toward the screen.
A photo flashed.
Three faces.
His heart dropped.
"…Those are—"
"The youth these days…" his grandfather muttered, shaking his head.
Yuta barely heard him.
Blond hair. Scar on the chin. Spiky black hair.
His stomach twisted.
He remembered the way Rika asked for the features and description of those guys that bullied him. The way her eyes looked. The tone of her voice as she spoke.
~~~
Later that day, at the park—
"Rika."
"Hm?"
"…Can I ask you something?"
"Sure!"
Yuta hesitated.
"…Those boys that went missing…"
Rika tilted her head. "What about them?"
"…Do you know anything about it?"
She smiled.
"Why would I?"
Yuta frowned slightly.
"…I don't know. Just asking."
He watched her carefully.
Rika just giggled.
"Yuta, that's such a weird question."
"…Yeah."
But he didn't drop it.
"…Rika."
"Hm?"
"…Did you do something to them?"
She laughed.
"Yutaaa, you're being silly."
"I'm serious."
Her smile stayed.
But her eyes didn't quite match it anymore.
"…Why would you think that?"
"Because I told you what they looked like," Yuta said quietly.
Silence.
Rika stopped moving.
"…Rika."
No response.
"…Tell me the truth."
The smile slowly faded from her face. She stopped swinging and stared at the ground. Her small hands twisted together tightly in her lap.
The silence stretched.
Then, in a tiny whisper.
"…It was me." (Barry)
Yuta's heart pounded.
"I didn't like them," she continued, voice low and flat. "They hurt you. They made you bleed. They laughed while they did it." Her eyes darkened, and for a moment her expression looked almost empty. "So I made sure they couldn't laugh anymore."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears, but there was also something colder underneath—something that didn't feel like it belonged to a seven-year-old.
"…Are you scared of me now?" Her voice cracked. "Do you hate me?"
Yuta stepped closer without hesitation and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. Rika went completely stiff at first, like she expected him to push her away.
"I'm not scared of you," he said softly against her hair. "And I don't hate you. You're still my best friend, Rika. But… I don't want you to do things like that. It's dangerous. What if something bad happens to you because of me?"
She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wide and watery. "But what if you get hurt again? What if next time it's worse and I'm not there?"
"I'll get stronger," Yuta said firmly, though his voice still shook a little. He held her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. "I'll train really hard so no one can beat me up like that again. Then you won't have to do scary things for me anymore. I don't want you getting hurt either."
Rika stared at him for a long moment. The dark, empty look in her eyes slowly faded, replaced by something softer and more vulnerable.
"…You promise?" she whispered.
Yuta nodded and held out his pinky finger.
"I promise."
Rika looked at his pinky, then slowly hooked hers with it. A small, shaky smile finally appeared on her face as a single tear slipped down her cheek.
"Okay," she whispered back.
Yuta smiled gently at her, and she smiled back.
And somehow… she believed him.
~~~
Yuta's house sat quietly at the edge of the neighborhood, a place that felt both old and new at the same time.
From the outside it looked traditional—wooden walls, tiled roof, a small stone path leading to the entrance. Inside, though, it opened up into something more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, polished wood mixed with simple furniture. It wasn't flashy, but it felt lived in.
The faint scent of tea lingered in the air.
Yuta slipped off his shoes and stepped inside, sliding the door closed behind him.
"…I'm home."
No response.
That was normal.
Grandpa Hiroshi was probably in the back again.
He walked further into the house, the faint scent of tea still hanging in the air. His eyes drifted toward the wall lined with framed pictures, and he slowed down without meaning to.
There were photos of a younger couple. A man and a woman, both smiling. The man had the same dark hair as him. The woman looked gentle and warm but Yuta had her eyes.
His parents.
He stopped in front of one picture in particular—the three of them together, him as a much smaller kid sitting between them.
They looked happy.
Yuta stared at it for a long time.
"…I still don't remember," he murmured.
Nothing came. No voices. No memories. No feelings tied to that moment.
Just the knowledge that it was supposed to mean something.
Next to it were other photos. His grandfather, older now, with the same stern face he always wore.
And then he paused.
There was an older picture of his grandfather.
His hair was still white despite look ing to be in his early thirties, but his posture was straighter and sharper. He wore a dark kimono, one hand resting on the hilt of a sword, its purple sheath lined with snake-like patterns and engravings.
But it wasn't the sword that caught Yuta's attention.
It was his eyes.
Bright. Piercing. A vivid, unnatural blue that almost seemed to glow even in the photo.
They didn't look human.
They looked like they could see through everything.
Yuta leaned in closer.
"…That's weird."
His grandfather's eyes were gray now. They had always been gray.
So why—
He frowned, a strange unease creeping in, before shaking his head.
"…Maybe it's just the lighting."
Still, he couldn't look away for a few more seconds.
Those eyes felt wrong.
Or maybe too right—
The sound of air being cut echoed faintly from deeper inside the house.
Yuta turned.
"…He's training again."
He followed the sound down the hallway until he reached the dojo.
The room was simple but well-kept. Tatami mats covered the floor. Wooden racks lined the walls, holding bokken, shinai, and a few real blades locked behind a case.
The air felt heavier here.
Focused.
In the center stood his grandfather.
Shirtless.
Yuta froze for a second.
Even at his age, Hiroshi's body looked nothing like what Yuta expected from someone in his eighties. His muscles were still defined and hardened from years of training. Old scars marked his skin, each one telling a story Yuta didn't know.
One scar stood out the most—a jagged line across his chest, right over his heart.
Sweat rolled down Hiroshi's body as he moved.
Slow. Controlled.
Then fast.
The bokken in his hands cut through the air with sharp precision. He flowed from one stance to another without hesitation, like his body already knew every movement.
Katas.
Over and over.
No wasted motion.
Yuta stood at the entrance and watched quietly.
Minutes passed.
Hiroshi didn't acknowledge him at all.
Finally, after one last strike, Hiroshi exhaled deeply and lowered the bokken.
Then he turned.
His gaze locked onto Yuta—sharp and heavy.
"What do you want, boy? Speak!"
Yuta flinched.
"I—uh—"
"Speak with conviction," Hiroshi cut him off. "Or don't speak at all."
Yuta swallowed hard. Took a breath. And stepped forward.
"…I want to get stronger," he said, voice steadier this time. "No—I need to get stronger."
Hiroshi didn't react.
"I want you to train me."
Silence.
Hiroshi's eyes narrowed as he looked Yuta up and down.
"…Why?"
Yuta hesitated.
"…So I can protect myself."
The words came out flat.
Hiroshi's expression stayed the same.
"…That's your reason?"
Yuta opened his mouth again—
The bokken flew toward Yuta's chest before he could blink.
He caught it—barely. The wood smacked against his palms, and the impact shot up his wrists. It was heavier than it looked. Older, too. The grip worn smooth by decades of use.
"If you want strength that badly," Hiroshi said calmly, already holding his own bokken in a loose, low stance, "then pick up that sword and give me a reason worth hearing."
Yuta tightened his grip. His knuckles went white.
"I just said—"
"Until then," Hiroshi interrupted, stepping forward, "I'll beat it out of you."
His grandfather didn't lunge. He slid—one smooth, silent step that closed the gap like a door shutting.
Yuta raised the bokken.
Too slow.
The first strike came not as a slash but as a short, brutal thump to his right ribs. The kind of hit that didn't just sting—it caved.
"Gah—!"
Yuta's vision blurred. Air left his lungs in a ragged cough. His knee hit the tatami mat hard enough to leave an impression.
"…That's it?" Hiroshi's voice came from somewhere above him. Cold. Unimpressed. "Then give up."
Yuta's fingers curled into the mat. Sweat dripped off his chin. His ribs throbbed with every shallow breath.
He didn't let go of the bokken.
Slowly—shakily—he pushed himself back up. His knees were weak. His arms felt heavy. He felt like he was about to vomit already.
"…I won't."
He raised the wooden sword. His stance was wrong. Feet too close together. Elbow bent too sharply. A textbook bad posture.
Hiroshi didn't correct him.
He just moved again.
This time Yuta saw it—the shift in Hiroshi's shoulder, the slight drop of his lead hand.
Left side. High.
Yuta swung his bokken across his body like a baseball bat.
Crack.
He actually blocked it.
For half a second, surprise flickered across his face.
Then Hiroshi's second strike came underneath the first—a rising thwack to Yuta's forearm that deadened his nerves and nearly tore the weapon from his grip.
"You looked at my shoulder," Hiroshi said. "That's for amateurs. Look at my feet."
Before Yuta could process that, a third blow caught him behind the left knee. His leg folded. He stumbled sideways, barely keeping upright.
He swung back—wild, angry, wide.
Hiroshi didn't even move his feet. He tilted his upper body half an inch to the left, and the bokken whistled past his ear.
"Predictable."
A sharp tap to Yuta's exposed wrist.
The bokken clattered to the mat.
Yuta dove for it.
Hiroshi kicked it away.
Not hard. Just enough to send it skidding across the tatami.
"What are you doing?" Hiroshi asked.
Yuta scrambled after it on hands and knees.
"What are you doing?"Louder this time.
Yuta grabbed the hilt. Rolled onto his back. Raised it just in time to catch a downward chop aimed at his collarbone.
Crack.
The impact rattled his teeth. His elbows buckled. The bokken pressed against his chest like a metal bar.
Hiroshi stood over him, one hand on his own bokken, the other hanging loose at his side. His breathing hadn't changed.
"You're not protecting anyone like that," he said quietly. "You're just falling down with a sword in your hand."
Something in Yuta's chest cracked—and not from the fight.
He shoved upward.
Hiroshi stepped back.
Yuta got to his feet. His left arm hung limp. His right hand gripped the bokken so hard the wood creaked.
He didn't speak.
He just attacked.
One strike. Two. Three.
Hiroshi parried each one with small, efficient movements—a wrist turn here, a slight pivot there. Not a single wasted flick.
Yuta's fourth strike came low. Aimed at Hiroshi's thigh.
Hiroshi hopped over it like a child skipping a rope.
"Too telegraphed."
The counter hit Yuta square in the stomach.
He doubled over, spit flying from his mouth.
But he didn't fall.
He swung from the crouch—an ugly, rising arc that caught Hiroshi's bokken near the hilt and actually pushed it back an inch.
Hiroshi's eyebrows lifted.
Only for a moment.
Then his expression hardened again.
"Better."
He attacked in earnest now.
Not faster—shorter. Tighter angles. Strikes that started and ended inside Yuta's guard. A tap to the ribs. A slap to the ear. A thump to the hip that spun Yuta halfway around.
Yuta couldn't keep up. He was fighting blind, reacting to pain instead of reading movement.
But he didn't drop the sword.
He got hit. He swung back. He missed. He got hit again.
His breathing turned into ragged gasps. Sweat stung his eyes. His own blood—from a split lip he didn't remember getting—dripped onto the tatami.
At some point, his left arm started working again. He didn't notice. He just kept swinging with both hands.
A block. A step forward. A counter that went wide.
A block that actually worked.
Hiroshi's next strike skidded off Yuta's blade instead of landing clean. The angle was wrong. Yuta had tilted his bokken without thinking.
Hiroshi stopped.
Not mid-swing. Not gradually.
He just stopped.
The dojo went silent except for Yuta's heaving breath.
Yuta stood frozen, bokken raised, chest heaving, arms trembling.
He lasted two more seconds.
Then his legs gave out.
He collapsed onto the tatami, flat on his back, staring at the wooden ceiling. His chest rose and fell like a bellows. Every breath tasted like iron.
Footsteps approached.
"Good."
Hiroshi's face appeared above him, blocking the ceiling light.
"Seems like there's real steel in that resolve of yours."
He rested the bokken on his shoulder. No smile. No warmth. But something in his eyes had shifted.
"Get yourself cleaned up. I'll prepare a cold bath."
He turned and walked toward the doorway.
"…I'll start training you tomorrow."
Yuta's throat was too raw to speak.
Hiroshi stopped at the threshold.
"This is your last chance to back out," he said without turning around. "If you think this was hell, then understand—this is just the beginning."
A pause.
"Be here tomorrow morning. Sharp."
Another step.
"Or don't. I don't care."
He walked off.
As he left, Hiroshi closed his eyes briefly.
'Hatsuko… forgive me for this one. Let me train him… at least this much.'
Behind him, Yuta lay on the floor, every muscle screaming, ribs aching, lip still bleeding.
But his right hand—
Still wrapped around the bokken's hilt.
He didn't remember holding on.
But he hadn't let go.
~~~