The rain hadn't stopped all evening. It came down in cold, glassy sheets, blurring the treeline and washing the world in silver. Thunder rolled gently across the sky—not loud, just constant, like a heartbeat behind the clouds.
The silver coupe glided up the long gravel path toward the Kurozawa house. The car's headlights cut across the empty front yard, revealing wet stone statues, swaying trees, and the dark silhouette of the building standing against the storm.
Reika stepped out first, her heels clicking against the driveway. The rain plastered her white silk blouse to her skin and soaked her black tailored slacks. She was a very cold looking woman and didn't even blink with the rain landing in her eyes.
She opened the door to get the suitcase and started rolling it towards the door. Kenji, her husband, got out a beat later, slightly less composed but no less elegant. He held a gift bag stuffed with overpriced souvenirs—locally-made soaps, dried flower sachets and some handcrafted blades he swore he'd hang in his office.
"You'd think we were coming back from an overseas war," he joked, nudging the car door shut with his elbow. "I thought the massage would loosen your expression."
Reika didn't respond.
He glanced at her. "...You liked the hot stone massages, at least, right? And the champagne?"
"They didn't chill it properly."
"You drank three glasses."
"I was being polite."
Kenji smiled a little, despite himself. "You're impossible."
"I am." Kenji didn't know how to respond to that.
"We should probably get inside." Kenji said. Reika nodded in agreement and they climbed the stairs. Then Reika stopped. Kenji looked down, noticing it too. The front door. A slow, strange smell crept out from it. Blood. Kenji's chest tightened. He instinctively raised a hand, motioning for Reika to step back. She didn't.
Rather she grabbed one of Kenji's blades, slamming the door open. The nanny they had hired was slumped in the foyer, eyes wide open, throat cut clean across. A child's stuffed rabbit lay beside her, soaked red at the ears. Nagi's. "We were gone three days," Reika groaned, pain in her voice. "You said they'd be fine." Kenji gulped. He had suggested they go to a resort for their anniversary, entrusting the children to a certified 'bodyguard' he himself had researched and verified.
They ran, checking all the kid's bedrooms. They weren't there, and everything in the rooms showed no sign of a struggle.
"Arato?!" Kenji called out, voice sharp with fear. "Rei? Nagi!" The storm outside answered for them, thunder rumbling low across the estate. Reika clenched her jaw so tight her teeth ached. Her pale hand still gripped the blade. They returned back to the living room not knowing what to do.
Then Kenji froze. On the edge of the coffee table, next to an abandoned juice box, was a single cigar. He stared at it. "…No," he breathed.
Reika turned. She also froze on seeing the cigar. Kenji picked it up slowly, rage blooming in his eyes before he crushed the cigar completely. "They're down there." He didn't even finish before Reika already started moving.
They both came to stand in front of a seven feet tall cabinet, built into the wall like a reliquary, lit from within by thin, sterile spotlights. The glass gleamed in the dark like a mausoleum.
The shelves displayed all sorts of memorabilia—golden medals, military decorations, framed academic accolades from family members Kenji had never even met. Beauty pageant trophies. Corporate recognition awards. Appreciation plaques for services rendered to the family's vast network. Even kindergarten drawings, scrawled with proud, crooked letters and colorful crayons. There was even a Haruto Kurozawa with several martial arts certificates.
But Kenji's eyes flicked only to his children's achievements.
A glitter-glue medal Arato had begged them to hang after coming in first place at a local track event. Rei's best costume award from a school spirit day—misspelled and signed "President of Style." A laminated kindergarten certificate for best-behaved student with Nagi's name neatly written in his precise, childish script.
He reached for his own trophy—a Most Promising Student award, an old, gold-edged plaque from his own youth. His fingers brushed over it with cold detachment. He didn't even look at the words.
With a grunt of frustration, he yanked the plaque forward and the cabinet started gliding forward with a soft click. The entire unit moved seamlessly, revealing a hidden section of the wall behind it.
Reika didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the stone floor. The stairwell behind the room was alight. The lights were on. After sharing a brief look, they rushed down.
Kenji's hand trembled as he pushed open the training room door, his breath catching in his throat at the sight that met him. Reika gasped, stumbling to a stop just behind Kenji.
Rei's small body swayed upside-down gently in the air, his arms tied cruelly behind his back, his shirt torn, exposing bruised ribs and mottled purple skin. The blood had dried in streaks down his face, but fresh crimson still dripped from a gash on his temple. His hair, once carefully styled, now hung in matted, sweat-soaked clumps.
Kenji couldn't breathe. His knees buckled slightly, and he had to brace himself against the doorframe. His son. His child.
And standing so casually in front of the boy's body was his own father—Yoshihiro Kurozawa. The man looked pristine in his ironed suit, as if torturing children was just part of a strict daily routine. He was focused solely on adjusting the whip in his hands, inspecting it like a man checking the tension on a violin string.
Nagi, their 8 year old, was on his knees beside his grandfather, his small fingers clinging desperately to the hem of the man's slacks. His head was bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. His voice was a hushed chant of desperation.
"Please... Please, just stop... He's sorry... Grandpa, he's really sorry..." Yoshihiro didn't even pause at Nagi's begging. He simply raised his arm, the whip curling like a snake about to strike. But before it could land—Kenji moved.
He crossed the room in a blur, his hand shooting out and catching Yoshihiro's wrist mid-swing with a loud crack. The sound echoed through the training room, louder than any whip crack could've been.
"Enough," Kenji growled, voice low and shaking—not with fear, but fury. It simmered beneath his skin like magma. "That's enough."
Yoshihiro raised a brow, looking at his son for the first time. "You are finally back, son?"
Nagi's head jerked up, eyes wide in disbelief. "Dad...?" He looked frozen, like he couldn't believe the person standing in front of him was real.
Whilst the confrontation was ongoing, Reika surged forward. She slipped past, reaching up to untie the coarse ropes that bound Rei. Her fingers trembled, fumbling at first, but she forced herself to focus.
"Hold on, baby. Just a little longer," she whispered.
The knots gave way. Rei's body slumped into her arms. He was burning with fever and terrifyingly light. She didn't waste a second—she pulled him close, one arm wrapped protectively around him while the other reached out and grabbed Nagi by the wrist. Nagi hesitated only a second before stumbling to her side, still shaking. Reika backed them towards the door, before checking on their injuries.
Kenji released his father's wrist, but his eyes didn't waver. "Why?" he demanded.
Yoshihiro rolled his wrist once, as if mildly annoyed by the pain. "Why are you angry we came to spend quality time with our grandkids?" he said blandly. Kenji's hands curled into fists.
"You know very well that now I am the successor you aren't supposed to be here." Kenji's father smiled in response.
"That's why we came when you weren't around, Kenji." The cool voice came from a woman seated quietly in the shadows of the room, Kenji's mother—Kaede Kurozawa. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, and she sat motionless in a gleaming, jet-black wheelchair. Not a single emotion crossed her face. "And why are you acting all high and mighty like you don't do this yourself?" she said, her tone sharp and precise.
Kenji bit his tongue. He couldn't tell them he hadn't been carrying out the barbaric training his family engaged in on his children. He couldn't say he wasn't like them. That he hadn't laid a finger on his children. That he'd tried to raise them differently. So instead of defending himself, Kenji reached into his coat.
The polished handle of his pistol caught the light as he drew it in one smooth motion.
"What are you do–?" Yoshihiro asked. He was a second too slow. Kenji pulled the trigger. The shot rang out like thunder in the enclosed space.
Bang.
Yoshihiro staggered back, blood blooming across his shoulder as the bullet tore through his upper arm. Thankfully he dodged in time.Yoshihiro's expression was twisted—not with pain, but with disappointment.
"Kenji?" he hissed, clutching his bleeding arm. "You finally show backbone.. . and it's not even for the family."
Kaede's hands slipped smoothly into her lap. From beneath the folds of her shawl, a sleek pistol emerged. The metal gleamed against the dark silk as she clicked off the safety.
"I thought Haruto was wrong, and I opposed him being the heir so much, only for you to do this?" she said coldly. "We'll find another heir." Before Kenji could reply, she fired.
The shot missed his head by inches—he ducked and rolled just in time, glass behind him shattering from the impact. He lost his gun. Thankfully, Reika had dropped the blade she was carrying and he grabbed it. He looked around. Reika seemed to be gone.
Yoshihiro lunged forward, swinging his good arm, punching Kenji. "You fool! How do you get distracted in a fight?" Kaede's bullets whizzed past as Kenji clashed with his father who now had his gun. As soon as Yoshihiro pinned him, he didn't wait.
The old man raised his pistol and fired. Bang.
Kenji rolled. It wasn't enough.
He jerked as the bullet punched into his side. The pain was instant and hot, like his skin had caught fire. He crawled back, gasping, one hand clamping over the wound as blood gushed between his fingers. Kenji's hand had sent the gun clattering across the room.
"Move!" Kaede snapped to her husband, firing.
Bang.
Another shot tore into Kenji's thigh. He crumpled onto one knee, biting down on a scream. His blade clattered to the floor. The taste of iron filled his mouth—rage or blood, he couldn't tell.
His vision blurred, but he forced himself to look up and stand, grabbing his blade. His parents stood side by side, calm, methodical, elegant even in their violence. Kaede reloaded with practiced grace. Yoshihiro adjusted his grip.
"You were supposed to lead us," Kaede said quietly, almost mournful. "Not betray us like some second-rate rebel."
"I'm not the one betraying the rules right now." Kenji choked, blood staining his teeth. "Plus, I thought I made it clear I don't want you touching my family."
His father sneered. "Because of that one defeat..."
Bang. Kaede's impromptu second shot hit his shoulder. He spun, crashing against a table and knocking over a vase that shattered beside his head.
Kenji tried to crawl. His legs dragged uselessly behind him. Every breath rattled like broken glass in his lungs.
Kaede crouched in front of him, her gun still warm. She reached out, brushing hair from his blood-slick face like he was a child again. Kenji's hand tightened around a vase shard.
"You should've killed us first," she whispered. Yoshihiro was behind her.
Kenji lunged. He quickly slapped the weapon out of his mother's hands and jabbed the shard desperately upward into Kaede's gut. She screamed and fell. But he had no time to react. His father was quickly moving towards him. He grabbed his mother's gun and fired a shot cleanly through his father's temple.
Yoshihiro gasped, staggering back. He clattered to his knees, eyes wide in shock, blood pouring out warm and fast, soaking his pristine suit. He looked down, like he couldn't quite believe it. Like he thought Kenji never had it in him.
"I'm your father," he wheezed.
Kenji's face was empty. "You stopped being that the moment you walked in here."
Kenji's mother was still wheezing on the floor. When Kenji came near her, she grunted "I should've strangled you in your crib,"
Kenji stared at her, lips trembling. "...I know." And then—he moved. His hand flashed downward in one clean arc. Kaede gasped. Her hands flew to her neck, fingers trying to stop the impossible. Blood spilled between them in waves, crimson soaking her shawl, her pearls, her perfect silence. Kenji held her.
"I didn't want to," he whispered, voice breaking. "I didn't want to. But you made me." She blinked at him, one last time. Then nothing.
He knelt there, trembling, arms full of the mother who taught him to kill. The father who heartlessly and ruthlessly carved him into a weapon lay beside them, lifeless. He was surrounded by the silence of his own making. And in that silence, Kenji finally sobbed. But even that was cut short.
He heard knocking. Glancing around, it seemed to come from a white door on the opposite side of the room. Kenji rushed to the door.
"...Arato?" No answer. He opened the door. He hadn't seen Arato yet. No… not this room. The handle didn't budge—padlocked shut. This was the very thing he swore to keep his children from. Kenji yanked out his blade and sliced through the lock. The metal clattered to the floor. He opened the door.
The smell hit first. He could tell Arato had not been bathing, but someone had been cleaning the floors – and walls with bleach. There was a potty in the corner that reeked.
At a corner, Arato sat curled on the floor, knees drawn tight to his chest. His limbs were thin. Eyes hollow. Skin pale and stretched, like he hadn't seen sunlight in days. And his hands—his hands never stopped moving.
He was scribbling spirals on the opposite wall with a white chalk. Not that it helped – the walls and floors were white. He didn't look up. Kenji stepped in, voice soft. "Arato… it's me. It's Dad. I'm here now." He had no reaction.
Then—suddenly—Arato jerked upright, snarling with fear. He jumped back even though he was already in the corner, snapping at the air like a wild animal. Hands clawing. Legs kicking. Eyes darting everywhere except at Kenji's face. "Stay back! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!!" he screamed. He held up the chalk like a weapon.
Kenji froze, breath catching in his throat. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."
But Arato wasn't listening. He sat in his corner and started drawing more sloppier spirals. "Walls keep me safe. If I stop, they come. If I stop, they come—"
Kenji's stomach twisted. "God… what did they do to you?" Even he hadn't been that affected when his father thought it would do his temper good to be left in the white room.
He moved slowly, crouching low, trying not to startle him. "You're safe now. I swear. No one's going to hurt you again."
Still nothing. Just more frantic spirals. Arato's voice dropped to a mutter, like a stuck record. "Nothing to see here. Just drawing… drawing…"
Kenji's jaw clenched. His own body was shaking—bruised, bloodied, broken—but he kept moving. He knelt beside the boy. Then gently—carefully—he reached out and pulled Arato into his arms. Arato thrashed immediately, panicked. Screaming. "No! No—don't take me out—don't take me out!! I'll be quiet, I'll stay in the walls—!"
Kenji held on, voice cracking as he tried to comfort him. "You're out. It's over. It's over, baby boy, I've got you…" But it wasn't working. Arato was lost in it.
Kenji could barely stand, blood leaking from his side, but he carried him out of the room anyway, holding the boy close even as Arato kicked and writhed like an animal caught in a trap. The hallway finally came into view.
Reika was standing there. She looked nervous. Behind her—Rei and Nagi held onto her legs, Rei barely standing, but still clutching his mother's slacks. All three stared at him in horror.
Reika rushed forward just in time to catch him as he stumbled. "Kenji—what happened?! Is that—" She cut herself off. Her eyes locked on Arato's trembling, frenzied form. At the sight of his mother and brothers Arato's trembling reduced.
Kenji walked towards his family. His legs were shaking. Reika rushed forward just in time to catch Kenji as he stumbled. Arato reached out his hands to her and gladly clung to her when she held him. "It's okay," she whispered, rocking slightly. "You're safe."
"The walls—they told me to draw them. If I stopped, the noise came back. It was loud. But I didn't scream. I didn't scream—" He rambled. Rei hobbled forward. His limp was bad, but he shoved past the pain to get to Arato. He only succeeded in grabbing Arato's leg. Arato blinked at him. Nagi stayed a few feet away, hands balled into fists at his sides, just staring. His mouth trembled, but he said nothing. Kenji, still kneeling in a pool of blood, watched them all, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
Later that night, the house was silent. Rei had fallen asleep sitting upright, still clinging to Arato's leg. Arato hadn't spoken again, but he had considerably calmed down. Just stared at the ceiling, lips moving soundlessly as if still whispering to the walls. Nagi lay curled up on the far side of the bed, face buried in a pillow. They had all been bathed and changed.
Kenji watched them a long while before he stepped out to take care of his condition.
The water in the shower steamed up the glass. He washed the blood off in silence, feeling none of it leave him. Not really. The bruises had set in, raw and dark. His side burned with every breath.
Reika stood waiting with a first aid kit when he came out. She didn't say a word.
She laid out the tools and sat him down. Her hands were steady as she removed the bullets and cleaned the wounds. Kenji flinched as some alcohol hit raw flesh, but said nothing. Only when she started wrapping his side did he speak.
"They're gone," he said quietly. Reika paused, her hands freezing mid-wrap. "My parents," Kenji clarified. "They're dead." Reika resumed her work without a word.
He watched her fingers, how precise they were. How gentle, despite everything. When she was done, she tucked the gauze beneath the bandages and stepped back.
"Where should we bury them? The nanny too." she said. They couldn't afford to have police suspect or question them.
" The garden. "Kenji replied. Reika turned to leave the bathroom but before she could fully walk away, Kenji said, "You're not going to ask what happened?" Her back was to him.
"Would it change anything?" He didn't answer. There wasn't one. Reika stood there a moment longer, then finally said, without turning around,
"I'll clean the house. You rest for now." Then she walked out, quiet as a shadow.
In two hours, they stood in front of the garden with three bodies wrapped in sheets. Thankfully the nanny was a trusted professional bodyguard he hired who was involved in assassinations herself, so he wasn't sure anyone would miss her. Kenji watched Reika.
"You should rest," he said, voice low. Reika shook her head.
But now, two long trenches had been carved into the earth, crooked and raw. A shovel leaned against Kenji's boot, its edge still dark. Kenji didn't flinch as he began to bury them. Reika joined him without a word. Together, they moved the dirt, the air filled only with the soft thud of soil and the whisper of hibiscus petals falling from the trees above.
When it was done, the garden was still again.
Reika stepped back, sleeves soaked with sweat and streaked with earth. She looked at the graves, then at her husband. And said nothing. The only thing they could do now is wait and hope nothing bad happened.