Rain lashes against the windows like knives, slicing through the darkness with rhythmic fury. Thunder rolls in the distance, low and angry. Ren stands at the edge of the Himura estate's inner courtyard, barely sheltered under the sloping eaves. He's twenty, maybe twenty-one. Younger. Hungrier. His clothes are soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead. Blood smears the cuffs of his white shirt like some holy mark.
His heart pounds.
He stares at the sliding doors before him, the paper panels glowing dimly from lantern light inside. Behind those doors, Daiki Himura waits—the man who raised him from the gutters, who taught him how to kill, how to bow, how to love like a soldier loves war.
The man he must now betray.
He presses one hand against the wooden frame, breathing slow and deep. His fingers twitch.
"You don't have to do this," a voice had whispered hours earlier. Toma, the eldest guard, his old friend. "There must be another way."
But there wasn't. Not after what Daiki did. Not after what Ren discovered—files buried beneath the Himura archives, names of innocents, lists of orphans sold off like cattle. Ren's name had been there too. Daiki didn't save him. He bought him.
And now he was going to pay.
Ren slides the door open.
Warmth hits him like a memory. Scent of sandalwood. Daiki sits cross-legged at the low table, a glass of sake in hand, calm as always. Regal. Untouchable.
"Ren," he says, without looking up. "You're late."
Ren steps in, silent.
Daiki lifts his gaze. Their eyes meet. The old man smiles. "You've got blood on you. Let me guess—Toma tried to stop you?"
Ren doesn't answer.
Daiki chuckles, shaking his head. "He was always sentimental."
The silence stretches. Rain drums louder. The air thickens with something unspoken.
"I trusted you," Ren finally says, voice rough. "I would've died for you."
"You still might," Daiki says softly, setting the glass down.
Lightning flashes. In that split second, Ren sees the gun tucked beneath the table.
They move at once.
A shot rings out—wood splinters—Ren crashes into the table, blade drawn, slicing upward—Daiki dodges, but not fast enough. Steel bites into his shoulder.
He roars, grabbing Ren's arm, twisting hard. Ren grits his teeth, kicks him back. They slam into the wall, grappling, breath ragged.
"Was it worth it?" Ren hisses. "Selling those children—selling me?"
Daiki's eyes flare, full of fury. "You were nothing until I made you!"
The knife sinks into Daiki's chest.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
It's over quickly. The old man shudders, his strength draining. He slumps, mouth parted in shock, eyes wide with something that could be pain—or pride.
Ren kneels there, breathing heavy, his blade trembling in his hand. Blood pools beneath them, warm and slick. He doesn't cry. He doesn't scream. He just stares.
Until—
A sound.
A soft gasp.
He turns.
She's there.
Aiko.
Just a child. Maybe seven or eight. Dressed in a pink nightgown, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her eyes are wide, huge, shimmering.
Ren's breath catches.
No. Not her. She wasn't supposed to see this.
He rises slowly, blood dripping from his blade.
She doesn't run.
She just stares at him, silent.
And then—she cries. Not loud. Not screaming. Just silent tears, falling like rain.
Ren takes one step forward.
She doesn't flinch.
Another step. He crouches before her, gaze locked with hers.
"I'm sorry," he says, softly, brushing blood-streaked fingers over her hair. "I had to. I had to protect you."
She doesn't answer. Just leans forward, pressing her small forehead against his.
That's when he knows.
This girl—this innocent creature—will become his everything.
He will protect her. He will worship her.
And if she ever learns the truth...
He will break her before he lets her go.