The slip of paper burned in his pocket. Not with fire, but with weight. Like it was soaked in something heavier than ink—truth, maybe. Or blood.
Ryuji sat at the edge of his futon, staring at the floor. The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that creeps into your bones when the world's already made its decision and is just waiting for you to catch up. His legs hung off the edge, motionless, toes brushing the tatami as if afraid to press down. The silence didn't feel peaceful. It felt like judgment.
He had washed up. Changed clothes. Bandaged his knuckles. But he didn't feel clean.
The cracked mirror above the tiny washbasin showed a boy he didn't know. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. Mouth set in a tight line. His hair clung to his forehead in wet strands from where he'd splashed his face, hoping to wake himself up. But there was no dream to escape. Just this.
That wasn't him.
Or maybe it was. Maybe it always had been.
He ran a hand through his hair and felt the tension crackle at the base of his skull like static. His reflection moved a split second too slow. Just enough to make him wonder if it was really him staring back.
Ryu Kanzaki.
The name echoed in his skull like footsteps in an empty hallway. Ryu Kanzaki. The Dragon of Kurotatsu. A ghost with blood on his hands and a legacy buried under unmarked graves and whispered fears.
His father.
His goddamn father.
He wanted to scream. To smash something. To tear that name out of the air and rip it apart. But he didn't. Couldn't. The silence demanded reverence. Even his rage was shackled now.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands limp between them. He stared at his bandaged fists like they belonged to someone else. They had already started bruising beneath the gauze. Pain throbbed with every heartbeat. A reminder that he had chosen this path—and now it was choosing him back.
His thoughts drifted to Miss Hanae. The ache in her eyes earlier that morning. The way she had looked at him—like a priestess watching a boy light a match in a temple soaked with gasoline. She had known something. Maybe not everything, but enough to fear where this road would take him.
He had questions. But he was scared of the answers.
Ryuji stood. Legs stiff. One foot in front of the other, the wooden floorboards beneath him groaning like tired old men. The orphanage smelled of soap and tatami. And childhood, fading like incense.
The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel carved from memory. Photographs lined the walls. Children smiling. Some still here. Some long gone. He paused in front of one—a faded picture of himself, no older than four, missing a front tooth and grinning like the world hadn't lied to him yet.
He reached out and touched the frame. His fingers brushed dust.
Down the hall, the kitchen light was on.
She was always there.
Miss Hanae stood at the counter, slicing daikon with deliberate slowness. Her knife moved like a pendulum—measured, even, resigned. Her back was to him, but somehow, he knew she'd been expecting this moment.
"Miss Hanae."
She didn't turn. Didn't pause. The blade made no sound.
"You've been quiet today," she said after a beat.
"So have you."
A silence between them. Not hostile. Not warm. Just... unresolved. Like the end of a prayer left unspoken.
He stepped into the room. The paper in his pocket felt like it had grown thorns, pricking him with every movement.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked, voice quiet.
Her slicing slowed. Just a fraction.
"About who I am. Who I was?"
Still no eye contact. "You're Ryuji. That's all I ever needed to know."
"But not all you did know."
The knife stopped.
She set it down, wiped her hands with the towel slung over her apron. The motion was careful, practiced. Then she turned.
Her eyes were tired. Not from lack of sleep—but from carrying too many truths for too long.
"I knew your mother," she said.
The words hit like a slap. Ryuji reeled inward.
"She brought you here," she continued. "Twelve years ago. In the dead of night. Bleeding, limping. Refused to say who she was. Only gave me your name. Ryuji Kanzaki. Said you had to be hidden. Said people were looking."
Ryuji's voice came out hoarse. "What happened to her?"
Miss Hanae looked down, hands clasped in front of her like she was trying to hold something fragile.
"She died two days later. Internal bleeding. I tried to get help. She begged me not to. Said it would draw attention."
The floor dropped beneath him. His knees felt weak.
"So you buried her?"
She nodded. "Quietly. Under the plum tree. No headstone. Just a place."
He turned away, pressing a hand to his face. His vision blurred.
"And you never told me."
"You were a child," she said, voice low but firm. "A child with shadows already gathering around him. You think I didn't see it? The fights. The way you stared too long at knives. I wanted to keep you from that world."
He laughed. Bitter. Ugly. "How'd that turn out?"
Miss Hanae didn't flinch. "It wasn't for me. It was for you."
He paced, fingers twitching.
"So you knew he was yakuza."
"I suspected. She had the look. The way she moved. Always watching the exits. And you? You had that same haunted stillness. Like you were waiting for something bad to happen."
He swallowed. "And now it has."
"No," she said. "It will. If you go through with this."
He turned to her, eyes wild. "Do I have a choice?"
"Yes."
"Do I?"
Miss Hanae crossed the room and stood before him. She wasn't tall. She didn't need to be. Her presence filled the kitchen like incense in a shrine.
"You think pain makes you special, Ryuji?" she said softly. "It doesn't. Everyone here suffers. Everyone's hungry. You're not the only one with scars."
He didn't answer.
She continued, quieter now. "But you... you carry yours like they're a map. Leading you somewhere. Somewhere dark."
He clenched his fists. "What if it's the only map I've got?"
Her face cracked then. Not like breaking glass—but like the final sag of a roof that's held too long.
"I don't want to lose you."
"You lost me the moment I swung that pipe."
Her voice rose, sharp and full of years unsaid: "No. I lost you the moment you decided that your pain was more important than anyone else's. That you could chase revenge and forget that people here still need you."
He looked away. "They're afraid of me."
"Because you want them to be."
That stopped him.
Miss Hanae stepped forward, touched his cheek—not gently, but with the weight of memory. "You're not your father, Ryuji. But you will be. If you stop caring whether or not you turn into him."
His lip trembled. He hated it. Hated that she could still reach that part of him.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
"That's the only honest thing you've said today."
The room grew still. The knife on the counter gleamed faintly in the overhead light. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once, then silence returned.
Miss Hanae walked to the cupboard. Took out a worn bento box. Wrapped it in cloth. Handed it to him.
"Eat before you go."
He didn't reach for it.
She didn't retract it.
So he took it.
"I don't know if I'll come back," he said.
"I know."
"And if I don't…"
She met his eyes. "You'll still be my boy. Even if you forget that."
He bowed. Not deeply. Not formally. Just enough.
Then he turned and walked to the door.
Just before stepping out, he heard her voice one last time.
"Your father… he didn't leave you nothing. He left you a choice."
He didn't look back.
The orphanage door creaked shut behind him. The air outside was sharp and salt-tanged. The sky hung heavy with dusk, bruised purple and deep blue. Streetlights blinked on like tired sentries.
He walked.
Each step on the gravel path echoed in his chest. The bento swayed gently in his hand. The paper in his pocket felt like a loaded gun. He passed the plum tree on his way out. The earth beneath it was still. Untouched. Sacred.
He paused.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The wind stirred the branches like a sigh.
Then he turned and kept walking.
A single petal drifted down, brushing his shoulder. He didn't flinch.
Into the city.
Toward the address.
Toward the warehouse.
Toward whatever version of himself was waiting at the end of this.
Like a ghost.
Like the man whose blood he carried.
Or the monster he might become.