...
A day after, the sky was a soft blue and Konru stretched his gloved hand, the nerves jumping just under the leather. "You're sure?" he asked, his voice little but vibrant.
"Damn sure I am," replied Shotaro, idly palming the ball back and forth, sun-warmed skin glinting in the light, silver hair blinding. "Have faith in your big red."
The guidelines were easy—heal the man, let him live. No lectures, no scripts. Only time, presence, and movement.
Shotaro never required a reason. Not for this one. The day I need a reason to do what I do, then I'm really gone, he used to say, swatting away every question about his unstoppable savior complex.
So if Konru requires a brother today, Shotaro is his brother. If he requires a sparring partner, a son to annoy, or a friend to stumble over, Shotaro is all that.
They tossed the ball out under the broad sky, Konru laughing uncomfortably the first times, then grinning like a little kid the next. Shotaro dropped a couple of catches and pretended to stumble and fumble, like he was out of form.
Girls on benches nearby sipped sodas, watching. "Hey, that guy's really good," one of them whispered. "He beat him!" another exclaimed, jerking a finger at Konru with wide eyes.
Shotaro played it up, feigning a groan, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe he was losing. Precision lay behind every slip. Intention lay behind every miss.
Because today wasn't about the Red-Eyed Ronin. It wasn't about gods or gangs or the hidden city under the island's hide.
Today was about one man recalling how it felt to count again.
Konru froze in mid-throw as the unexpected outburst washed over him—cheers, applause, laughter, and a teasing whistle from one of the girls on the bench. It was too much. Not necessarily a bad thing, but something he wasn't ready for—like sunlight through a window you'd forgotten to close.
He spun around too quickly, tripped over his own feet, and stumbled hard onto the grass, flailing arms, glove flying off, cap falling with him like a fallen parade float.
The girls gasped, then erupted in laughter—not mean, just shocked. "He completely wiped out!" one exclaimed.
Konru sat on the ground, dazed, his face redder than a sunrise, gazing up at the clouds as if they'd betrayed him. He looked for a split second like he was going to die of embarrassment.
Shotaro strode over, standing over him with that placid, unreadable smile.
"You good?"
Konru blinked. "I—I don't know what that was."
"That," Shotaro said, holding out his hand, "was called being noticed."
Konru accepted it. And for the first time in a very long time, he laughed from the belly—clumsy, true, and human.
.....
The day burst into color like a discarded summer firework. There was first the football game—half street rules, half pandemonium—where Konru stumbled more than he sprinted. A boy nutmegged him in public. He nearly fell. But by the time the laughter could flower, Shotaro "accidentally" kicked the ball so forcefully that it bounced off a wall, over a food cart, and elicited cheers for Konru's pass. "That was my plan," Konru mumbled. Shotaro winked behind his shades.
Then there was the park: swings that damned grown men, a slide that sent Konru tumbling down face-first into mulch, and a seesaw experience that almost dislocated his pride. Shotaro soaked up every cringing slip with a charming smile. Made the whole thing look like something out of some trendy improv routine. When some high school girls walked by, Shotaro yelled, "Yo, MVP here just rescued a squirrel from a raccoon!" No one doubted it.
And next? The water park. That was a shirt-off experience. Panic station. Konru dithered. Shotaro, by now already wet and muscular to mythic proportions, splashed him before he could protest. "What's the worst that could happen—someone sees your ribs?" They zipped down slides, Shotaro holding up traffic with backflips and shriek-laughs so no one would notice Konru nearly drowned on the kiddie ramp.
Then the zoo. Konru attempted to play cool until a goat climbed him like Everest. Shotaro didn't miss a beat: "Ah yes, Konru-sama, King of Beasts. The sacred bond has begun." Tourists applauded. The goat defecated. Nobody cared.
Karaoke. It was war. Konru's voice shattered like a dying seagull on the first note. Shotaro stormed the booth, took the second mic, and made it a duet so campy the screen flickered. Smoke machines, backup dancers (two flummoxed kids), and a screaming version of "Let It Go" in death metal pitch. The room lost it. Konru was red-faced, laughing too hard to be embarrassed.
They hit the beach next and rented bikes that definitely weren't built for grace. Konru fell off three times. Shotaro picked him up twice, and on the third, stood between him and a group of giggling girls with arms folded, glaring like a bouncer. "You laugh again and I'll flood this island."
Last came the mountains. Not a trail. A full-on climb. Konru's lungs gave out halfway. "Just leave me," he wheezed. Shotaro hauled him onto his back like a sack of potatoes and said, "You're my cardio now." The top rewarded them with stars, wind, and silence.
Konru didn't say anything for a moment. He just stared at Shotaro, who sat beside him on a ledge as he always did—there, looming and laid-back. No sermons. No pity. Just presence. Just him.
And for once, Konru didn't feel like a burden.
He felt. like he belonged.
.....
They swayed back and forth like oversized toddlers, legs awkwardly bent, knees almost scraping against the gravel as the rusty piggy rides creaked beneath their bulk. Shotaro's spring emitted a drawn-out metallic groan with each bounce, and Konro's leaned forward so precariously that it seemed it might bend in two from sheer incredulity.
A little boy standing close by pulled at his mother's sleeve. "Mommy, why do two adults get to ride our ride?"
The woman looked over, blinked once, and picked up her child with a sigh that weighed five unpaid bills and a lost coffee order. "Because, sweetie… sometimes… people get retarded."
They bounced like toddlers running amok in slow motion—two big grown men stuffed into piggy spring rides that creaked with each bounce, the metal shuddering under their bulk like it had pangs of conscience. A mother and her child walked by. The woman gave them little more than a cursory glance before tutting and muttering something out of the side of her mouth, tugging the kid along as if protecting him from an emergency of secondhand embarrassment.
Shotaro tossed up a peace sign in the direction of a nearby sandbox, his eyes meeting the bewildered gaze of a toddler who watched him like he was watching a war crime in slow motion.
Konro's face turned a deep shade of crimson as he slouched forward. "We're sure to get kicked out of this park."
Shotaro didn't break stride. "Worth it."
"Do you even have shame?" Konro growled through gritted teeth.
The piggy ride creaked under Shotaro's weight, the spring groaning like it had regrets. He tilted his head, eyes squinting into the sky, letting the breeze flick through silver strands.
"Those two?" he said flatly. "They won't even remember our faces by tomorrow. And they sure as hell won't care if we're dead the next day."
He rested back, elbows laid across plastic ears, scarlet eyes half-closed as if he observed clouds drift through ages.
"I don't require their validation..."
The plastic whine of the rides was the only noise between them for a long time.
Then, softly:
"What would've occurred… if I had leapt?"
Shotaro shifted. No drama, no show. Simple, surgical stillness.
"I wouldn't have stopped you," he told me. The words didn't strike—they settled like gravity. "I see a thousand suicidal faces in this city. Every damn day. It's like watching rain on concrete—different drops, same fall."
He drove with his eyes fixed straight and his voice unshakable.
"I sit with them. I relate. I try to make them feel seen. But if I fail?"
A sluggish shrug slid off his shoulders. "I don't make them live. I could. Trust me. But I don't. Their choice. Their life. Do you want someone to control you? Go find a god."
Konro's breath caught in his throat, as delicate as a broken match.
"So… you don't always win."
Shotaro faced him—not pity in his eyes, not even sorrow. Just wait. Age. A burden that did not scream but pressed.
No," he replied. "And I'm not allowed to. Free will is the privilege of all humans still living."
Konro swallowed. The air had shifted—calmer, heavier."Do you… hear the voices? Of the ones you couldn't save?"
Shotaro leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the plastic piggy ride creaking beneath him like it, too, bore weight."Heroism is a business where you can't save everyone," he said. "But I'm a stubborn idiot. So every time I fail someone, I take it personally. I think I failed."
His voice softened, just enough to belong to ghosts."I know I shouldn't. But I do. I always hear the voices. All I can do is keep moving forward."
They sat in stillness, the wind brushing over them like the closing breath of a prayer. A quiet stare passed between them under the darkened sky—muted, unspoken, but understood.
Then from the swing set behind them:"Oh my god, that's so yaoi," a freckled girl blurted.
Without breaking his gaze, Shotaro picked up an old tire like it was an extension of his soul—and launched it.A squeal. A thud. Chaos.
Konro wheezed laughter, doubled over, the mood shattered.Shotaro didn't smile. But his silence had warmth in it now.
.....
The city pulsed under neon breath as they walked—sidewalks wet with reflections, traffic humming like a slow heartbeat. Then they saw her.
An influencer. Famous. Curves so exaggerated they looked AI-generated in real life. Posing beneath a lamp post, ring light in hand, lips puckered like she was about to consume the moon.
Konro blinked, jaw nearly dislocating.
"How the hell is her waist that small? Where are her organs?"
"Corset," Shotaro replied flatly. "Steel-boned. Also—like—five bras piled up to push everything north."
Konro looked over at him, confused. "How do you know that?"
Shotaro didn't skip a beat.
"X-ray vision, duh. I can fly, I shoot laser beams out of my eyes, and you didn't think I might have some sort of special vision too?"
Konro's mouth opened, he thought better of it, and closed it.
"…Okay yeah, fair."
The girl caught their staring with the corner of her hyper-filtered eye. With a honed smile as sharp as a razor, she turned, positioned herself for maximum frame, and beckoned them over.
"Ooooh, tall boy and normie friend, come say hello to the stream!" she trilled, sugar-coated voice dripping with venom. "My chat's starving for some street interviews! You guys look. quirky."
Shotaro blinked once—slow, deliberate—as the sparkle of her ring caught in the afternoon sunlight and shattered across his scarlet eyes like a burst from a sniper sight. It aged him. Made him look more worn out than he was. Konro beside him turned to stone, his eyes shrinking like a deer that sees its first influencer in the wild: bewildered, blinded, and already wishing it never woke up this morning.
"Oh, come on," the girl scoffed, voice dipped in that sticky mix of flirtation and challenge. She tugged at the hem of her cropped jacket, making a show of cinching her waistline like it was currency. "Don't be shy! You're hot—he's hot." Her eyes flicked to Shotaro, then back to Konro. "You're. giving backup dancer energy."
Crack.
The crick of vertebrae as Shotaro rolled his neck resounded more boisterously than it ought to have, the sound of a warning alarm shrouded in skin. He took a step forward with the oppressive disdain of a man who had already read this chapter, marked it up, and come away disappointed.
"Foreigners," he grumbled, lips hardly perceptible, voice low as a half-drawn blade. "They'll film the locals wherever they are… for scenery." His scarlet eye darted to the side. "I can guarantee you sixty yen that I have a pretty good idea what she's gonna ask."
The air went tight.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't even threat. It was intention—a gravitational pull across the mood, a lean of the invisible across the scale of being that rendered everyone else to appear as extras in a film he had not consented to act in. His boots came down on the pavement like punctuation—brief, crisp, purposefully. His walk appeared to announce something conclusive. No theatrics. Just assurance. He went by Konro as smoke over a dying fire, silent, contained—but exuding some sort of pressure that caused even the shadows to recede from him.
And yet—he advanced.
"Foreigners," he grumbled, hardly letting his lips move, speaking softly like the draw of a blade half-way out of its scabbard. "They'll film the natives wherever they happen to be… for scenery." His red eye looked sidelong. "I bet you sixty yen I can predict what she's gonna ask."
The tension in the air.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't even threat. It was intent—a gravitational pull on the mood, a lean into the intangible balance of being present that made all the other people seem like extras in a film he hadn't consented to appear in. His boots hit the ground like punctuation—brief, harsh, purposeful. Every step seemed to say something done. No flourish. Just conviction. He glided past Konro as smoke drifts over a dying fire, silent, held back—but emitting some sort of pressure that caused even the shadows to back away from him.
And still—he progressed.
He passed Konro the creased receipt-paper list without glancing back. Scrawled with the slackness of one who'd read this script a thousand times, it was a list of tropes, in virtually flawless sequence:
"Do you live here?"
"Can I have a picture with you?"
"Do you practice karate?"
"Can you speak something in Japanese?"
"Is the sushi real?"
"Do people actually eat whale?"
"Why have your toilets been designed so far ahead?"
"Do you all watch anime?"
"What's the strangest thing you've ever eaten?"
"Is it really that people do not speak on the trains?"
"Why are there vending machines everywhere?"
"May I try your katana?"
"Are you a samurai?"
"What does your name signify?"
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
Konro blinked at the list—scribbled in quick, sloppy kanji as if written during battle—and then raised his eyes in time to catch her approaching: blonde ponytail, DSLR already in hand, eyes wide with practiced interest.
He did not slow. Just continued on his way, gliding past her with elegant indifference of a person sidestepping raindrops. Her mouth fell open.
"Excuse me—do you live—?"
Konro didn't catch the rest—just saw her face freeze as she caught that look. Shotaro didn't scowl. Didn't pout. Didn't even raise an eyebrow. Just stared. Not angry. Not rude. Just present. The kind of stare that made a person know they weren't the one behind the lens anymore. Like her entire act—faux giggle, tilted lens, pretend curiosity—had already been broken down and stored away in the two seconds it took him to blink.
And then he was gone, gliding through the crowd like water around a stone.
Konro smiled. His smile was small.
Sixty yen. He never lost a bet.
But Shotaro wasn't done. As he moved, he replied to every question before she could even open her mouth, his voice a monotone drumbeat, practiced and merciless:
"Yes, I live here. Yes, you can take a selfie. I know every type of martial art there is.". Anata no mune wa nisemono desu. Ah, the sushi is real—it's the wasabi that isn't. Sort of. I dunno, dude. Yeah, we all watch anime. What's the strangest thing I've eaten? My older sister's cooking. People are just all busy in the train. Vending machines are great. No, you can't pick it up. No, I'm a lesbian. Shotaro means nothing—it's just a name. Mugyiwara means strawhat. No, I don't have a girlfriend. And no, could you change that last one please?
"
He never let up. Never gave her an opportunity to get a word in edgewise.
She just stood there, blinking, camera still rolling. She had him. Or so she thought. There was something about the way he moved—like a brooding poet who'd survived wars and women and whiskey and yet emerged on the other side looking refreshed and still sporting excellent hair. His silver hair shone under the neon light of the convenience store as if painted by some randy anime god, and his eyes had this sort of serene malice that made you forget ethics and recall your mouth. The streamer girl—PinkKami69 to her audience, a name she had found ironic once—is blushing so intensely she can feel her own skeleton warming up. Her cheeks were flushed. Her fingers pulled at her sleeves.
Her tongue curled out a little like a loading bar hung up at 98%—and the conversation was going wild. The man didn't have much to say. Just stared. Cocked his head once. Let the air get thick with whatever fucked-up magnetism he had. Then he strolled past Konro like a panther with a passport. Every bootstep was a snare hit on her heartbeat. And when he spun—just a little, just enough—his voice fell like an F-bomb into a glass of red wine. Smooth. Reckless. Japanese. She didn't hear all of it. Something with "purity," perhaps.
Something with "decoration." And possibly—perhaps just perhaps—a word that sounded like "oppai." That was enough for her to laugh like an idiot, pull on her cropped hoodie, and let the hormones do the typing.
"Awww you think I'm cute? Say it again~" she whispered, leaning forward, a hand automatically pushing against her chest like an offering to a god she didn't comprehend.
But her chat. Oh, her chat.
Her goddamn chat.
The comments come in all at once, scrolling like a hurricane of betrayal.
"HE CALLED YOUR BOOBS FAKE LMAOOOO"
" Anata no mune wa nisemono desu = your breast are fake"
"GURL HE VIOLATED U IN KANJI"
"逃げて" (run)
She blinked. She froze. Her eyes opened wide like she'd just witnessed a war atrocity.
"HE WHAT—"
Too late.
Like a demon-child fleeing from bedtime, the silver-haired bastard had already turned on his heel, seized Konro by the collar—who had hardly enough time to get out the words "wait wha—" before being pulled into a whirlwind of laughter, boots, and lost honor—and took off. Full run. Vanished. Slept away into the back alley with the same poise as a Studio Ghibli wind spirit committing a small crime.
And she was left there. Aloneness. Microphone still live. Thousands witnessed. Redder face than the rising sun. Standing at the center of the sidewalk bellowing:
"YOU GASLIGHTING BASTARDDDD!!"
"THAT's WHY WE BOMBED YOUR ASSES TWICE!!"
"I HOPE YOU TRIP ON A CAT AND BREAK YOUR BEAUTIFUL FACE—!!"
Someone blew the horn.
A taxi driver screamed something about "foreigners always shouting."
At the same time, her conversation wouldn't cease posting clown emojis. The video had already been saved. Re-uploaded. Translated into a TikTok montage with sorrow violin background music and captions like "when you think he's flirting but he's critiquing your plastic surgery in ancient languages."
And as the wind hit back at her anger and humiliation, somewhere far away—most likely on a roof taking a swig of juice from a can—he was laughing. Laughing with his entire chest. Laughing with the same abandon only assholes and great heroes get to experience.