Three days after Kenji's conviction, Ren received a letter.
Not an email. Not a text. A physical letter, delivered to Takeshi's apartment by a courier who refused to give his name. The envelope was plain — white, unmarked, no return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly in thirds.
My name is Nakayama Haruka. I was your mother's nurse at Seibo Hospital. I have information about her death that I never shared with the police. Meet me at the café near the hospital. Tomorrow at 2 PM. Come alone.
Ren read the letter three times. His hands were steady, but his heart was pounding.
"Who is it from?" Takeshi asked from the kitchen.
"A nurse. Someone who knew my mother."
Takeshi walked over and took the letter. His eyes scanned the page. "It could be a trap."
"It could be. Or it could be the lead we've been waiting for."
"You're going."
"I'm going."
"Then I'm coming with you. From a distance."
Ren nodded. He had expected nothing less.
---
Seibo Hospital was in a quiet neighborhood in western Tokyo — a large, white building surrounded by cherry trees that would bloom in a few months. Ren had been here once before, years ago, when his mother was still alive. He remembered the smell: antiseptic and flowers, life and death intertwined.
The café was across the street — a small, family-run shop with plastic chairs and a menu written in faded marker. Ren sat at a table by the window, ordered a coffee he didn't drink, and waited.
At 2 PM exactly, a woman walked in.
She was in her late forties, with short brown hair and glasses that kept sliding down her nose. Her face was tired in the way that came from years of hard work and too little sleep. But her eyes — behind the glasses, behind the exhaustion — were sharp.
"Nakayama Haruka," she said, sitting across from him. "You're Ren."
"I'm Ren."
She studied him for a moment. "You look like her. Your mother. The same eyes."
"You knew her?"
"I was her night nurse. For the last six months of her life." Haruka pulled off her glasses and cleaned them with a cloth from her pocket. "I was there when she died. I held her hand."
Ren's throat tightened. "You wrote that in the letter."
"I wrote that I had information. Not that I was there." She put her glasses back on. "Your mother didn't die of cancer, Ren. Not the way the doctors said."
"What do you mean?"
"The treatment — the chemotherapy, the radiation — it was working. She was getting better. And then, suddenly, she wasn't." Haruka's voice was low, almost a whisper. "I checked her charts. Her medication logs. Something changed. Someone changed it."
"Someone changed her treatment?"
"The dosage. The frequency. Small adjustments that added up over time. A nurse wouldn't notice. A doctor might not notice unless they were looking. But I was looking. I was there every night."
Ren leaned forward. "Who changed it?"
"Your father. He had access. He had influence. He convinced the lead doctor that your mother was suffering, that the treatment was doing more harm than good, that it was kinder to let her go."
"That's euthanasia. That's illegal."
"It's murder. But no one would call it that. Not then. Not now." Haruka reached into her bag and pulled out a small notebook — old, worn, the pages yellowed. "I kept a log. Every change. Every conversation. Every time your father came to the hospital and asked to see her charts."
She slid the notebook across the table.
Ren picked it up. His hands were shaking. The pages were filled with small, neat handwriting — dates, times, names, details. His father's name appeared again and again.
"Why didn't you go to the police?" Ren asked.
"I was scared. Your father has money. Power. He threatened me. Said he would destroy my career, my reputation, my life." Haruka's voice cracked. "I believed him."
"And now?"
"Now I'm retired. Now I have nothing left to lose." She looked at him. "Now I saw you on the news. The trial. What you did to Kenji Takahashi. I thought — if a seventeen-year-old boy can take down a monster, maybe I can too."
Ren closed the notebook. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just make sure he pays."
---
Ren walked out of the café with the notebook in his pocket and a fire in his chest.
Takeshi was waiting across the street, leaning against the car. "Who was she?"
"My mother's nurse. She kept a log. Evidence that my father changed my mother's treatment. That he killed her."
Takeshi's face went pale. "Show me."
Ren handed him the notebook. Takeshi flipped through the pages, his expression darkening with each entry.
"This is enough," Takeshi said. "This is enough to arrest him."
"We need to verify the information first. Talk to the doctors. Talk to the other nurses."
"I'll start making calls." Takeshi handed the notebook back. "But Ren — this changes everything. If we go after your father, it's not just a legal battle. It's a war. He has resources. Connections. People who owe him favors."
"I know."
"Are you ready?"
Ren looked at the hospital across the street — the white walls, the cherry trees, the window where his mother had probably watched the sun rise for the last time.
"I've been ready for three years," he said. "I just didn't know it."
---
That evening, Ren visited Hikari.
She was in her room, sitting on the bed, the jade tree on the windowsill beside her. Saburo had grown since Ren had last noticed — new leaves, darker green, reaching toward the light.
"You look different," Hikari said.
"I feel different."
She patted the bed beside her. Ren sat. Their shoulders touched.
"I found a witness," he said. "A nurse who took care of my mother. She kept a log of everything my father did. The changes to the treatment. The conversations with the doctors."
Hikari's eyes widened. "That's enough to prove he killed her?"
"Enough to start an investigation. Enough to make him scared."
"Good. He should be scared."
Ren looked at her. At her profile, her jaw, her eyes that had seen too much and still believed in justice.
"What about you?" he asked. "How are you feeling?"
"Relieved. But not free. Not yet." She took his hand. "Kenji is convicted, but his lawyers are already planning an appeal. The sentencing is in two weeks. And even after that — even if he goes to prison for life — I'll still be here. In this halfway house. Waiting."
"Not for long."
"What do you mean?"
Ren took a breath. "Kobayashi is filing a motion to have you released into my custody. Temporarily. Until you turn eighteen."
Hikari stared at him. "She can do that?"
"She can try. The new judge — Matsumoto — he's fair. He might approve it."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we wait. Like we've been waiting. Together."
Hikari leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm tired of waiting."
"I know."
"I want to go home. Our home. The apartment in Shin-Okubo."
Ren's chest ached. "It's not safe. Kenji's people know where it is."
"Then we find a new home. Somewhere they don't know. Somewhere we can be together."
Ren thought about it. A new apartment. A new neighborhood. A new life. It seemed impossible — and also, somehow, inevitable.
"We'll find one," he said. "After the trial. After my father. After everything."
"That's a lot of afters."
"I know."
Hikari lifted her head and looked at him. "But we'll get there. Right?"
Ren looked into her eyes — honey-colored, warm, full of hope.
"Right," he said.
---
That night, Ren called his father.
Not because he wanted to. Because he needed to.
"I have evidence," Ren said when his father answered. "A nurse. A log. Proof that you changed my mother's treatment."
His father was silent for a long moment. "You're bluffing."
"I'm not. Her name is Nakayama Haruka. She worked the night shift at Seibo Hospital. She kept a record of every conversation you had with the doctors. Every change you requested. Every dosage you altered."
"You can't prove I did anything wrong."
"I can prove you visited the hospital forty-seven times in the last six months of her life. I can prove you asked to see her charts on twenty-three of those visits. I can prove that her medication changed after twelve of those visits."
His father's breathing quickened. "Those records are sealed."
"I have a copy. From the nurse's personal log. She kept it for years. Waiting for the right moment."
"The right moment for what?"
"Justice."
His father was silent again. When he spoke, his voice was cold.
"What do you want, Ren?"
"I want you to confess. Publicly. To the police. To the media. To everyone."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I take the evidence to the prosecutor. And I let the court decide."
"You'll destroy the family name. Your name."
"That name means nothing to me."
His father laughed — a short, bitter sound. "You really are your mother's son."
"Yes. I am."
The line went dead.
Ren put down the phone. His hands were steady. His heart was calm.
He had done it. He had told his father the truth. And for the first time, he wasn't afraid.
---
The next morning, Kobayashi called.
"The nurse's log is authentic," she said. "I had a forensic expert examine it. The paper, the ink, the handwriting — all consistent with the dates listed. This is real evidence."
"Enough to arrest him?"
"Enough to question him. Enough to file a motion to unseal the medical records. Enough to start an investigation."
"Then let's start."
Kobayashi was quiet for a moment. "Ren, I need you to understand something. Going after your father will be harder than going after Kenji. Kenji was a stranger. Your father is family. The media will have a field day. Your name will be dragged through the mud. People will call you a liar. A traitor. A monster."
"I don't care what people call me."
"You should. Because the people who call you those things — they have power. They have influence. They can make your life very difficult."
"Let them try."
Kobayashi sighed. "I'll file the motion today. In the meantime, stay safe. And stay away from your father."
"I will."
Ren ended the call. He sat on Takeshi's couch, staring at the ceiling, the nurse's log heavy in his pocket.
The war against Kenji was over. The war against his father was just beginning.
And this time, he wasn't fighting alone.