Slowly, as if gravity itself had grown heavier, Kazou sank back into his seat. Breathless, in shock. Suddenly, a soft voice, delicate and nearly affectionate, drifted in from his left.
"That was... painful."
Kazou didn't look. He didn't have to. The presence beside him was as calm and unnatural as still water at midnight.
"Love is complicated, isn't it?" the young man beside him said.
His tone was thoughtful, almost wistful, as though speaking to himself.
Kazou lowered himself onto the barstool with the leaden grace of a man no longer fighting gravity, completely ignoring the young man. He didn't slump—he sank, as if the weight pressing on him came from somewhere deeper than exhaustion. His hands trembled slightly against the polished wood, and his eyes were vacant, broken.
Then, Kazou opened his mouth, just barely, and managed a breathless murmur—more instinct than intent.
"Whiskey."
Across from him, the bartender hovered, cloth in hand, mid-wipe. She had a young face, but not a naive one—there was a tired sharpness in her eyes that came from too many late shifts and too many stories no one should've had to hear. She paused mid-reach. Her concern was obvious, earnest.
"Sir, you've already had—"
Before she could finish, the young man beside Kazou leaned forward, casting a slow smile that looked sculpted rather than sincere. Pale hair fell neatly over one brow, his features refined, almost too perfect—like a face designed to be trusted.
"I believe," he said, his voice calm, "it's on the house."
She looked at him, really looked this time. He was clean, well-dressed, and absurdly attractive in the kind of way that usually spells trouble. His smile was theater—too perfect, too still. And his eyes, behind the charm, watched her like she was a mark who hadn't realized she was already caught. Her throat tightened. That's when she realized it wasn't a suggestion. It was a quiet statement of inevitability. The bartender faltered. Her lips parted as if to speak again, but nothing came. Caught in that strange stillness, she simply nodded, almost involuntarily.
"R-right… yeah. Sure."
She turned, hands slightly unsteady now. She poured two fingers each into two lowball glasses, the bottle's glug sounding too loud in the hush that had fallen over them. Two glasses appeared moments later, sliding across the counter with a sound as soft as breath. When she set them down, her gaze lingered on Kazou, like she wanted to say something. But the moment passed, swallowed whole by silence. The bartender stepped back, but didn't turn away. She kept her eyes on them, like she knew this wasn't just another drunk night. Something about the way the blonde man moved, how he spoke—it made her skin itch. But. She worked here for so long. Maybe she was overthinking. The girl dismissed her feelings and continued working behind the counter.
The young man took his with deliberate care, cradling it in long fingers, tilting the amber liquid in lazy circles like it might reveal something if he watched long enough.
"Do you remember," the young man began gently, "all those years ago?"
Kazou's brow creased, a slow tightening of muscle and memory.
"What?"
The young man's gaze didn't waver.
"The institute. The experiments. The children. The ones you called miracles."
Kazou stared at the counter. His throat worked, but no words came.
What the hell was this kid talking about? Children? Years? I have no idea who he is.
"I remember," the young man said, tapping a finger softly against the glass. "I remember being in your embrace. But I also remember hearing her scream on that night."
Kazou's jaw clenched.
"...What night? Huh? I don't know who you are." Kazou was disoriented, not just from the alcohol but because of the breakup and the time of the night.
The young man leaned in slightly, voice lowered, tender. Almost intimate.
"I'm your son... aren't I?"
What the hell? Who is he? What does he mean?
Kazou blinked, as if struck.
"I... I don't know."
The blonde smiled again—more of a reflection of emotion than the real thing. Like he'd studied what smiling looked like and learned it by heart.
"But you made me, you resurrected that soldier," he said, gently. "You gave me a name. A room. A story to live in. Another chance with my dear mother…."
Mother? What mother?
"Stop." Kazou's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Why?" the young man asked. There was no malice, no accusation. Just a hollow, genuine curiosity. "Because it's true?"
Kazou's hand tightened around the glass until his knuckles turned white.
Wait. No way. He can't be. Son… Made… Story… Handsome… Blue eyes… That was over ten years ago, and this man looks to be in his 20s, so…
It is him.
It all adds up.
Ten… You've returned.
But another chance with a mother…
Who did he mean?
Rose?... Who? No… Experiment Nine… The clone of a Polish woman. A mother of a soldier.
"Who are you?" Kazou asked.
The blonde man's voice was soothing now, almost coaxing. But he was completely ignoring Kazou's question.
"Why us? Why were we chosen to get a second chance at life? Why did you choose them?"
Kazou shut his eyes. He could feel it all pressing in—the weight, the years, the echoes of children who never grew old.
"Do you believe that I'm your son now?
Kazou was flustered. He felt toyed with.
"I said I don't know!" Kazou snapped, slamming the glass down.
It cracked, but didn't shatter. The young man didn't flinch.
The man merely raised his hands slightly, palms out, like a performer ending a quiet trick.
"Very well," he said, almost kindly.
He stood. Slow. Elegant. His movements were effortless, too smooth for a man who should have grown up with the scars of two existences… That of a fallen soldier and a victim of an attempted murder. He reached out and placed a hand on Kazou's shoulder. Light. Just enough to be felt. A ghost of a son offering comfort to a father who couldn't remember whether he deserved it. Then he walked toward the door. He didn't look back. As he stepped out, the cold from outside slipped in behind him. Only his empty glass remained. Kazou sat motionless. Hollowed. Breathe shallow. He stared at the ring still lying near his feet.
And in the vast cathedral of his mind, the man's final question echoed in Kazou's ears:
"Why us? Why were we chosen to get a second chance at life? Why did you choose them?"
Kazou hadn't chosen. The sins were inherited. His father's vision. His father's hands. His father's unfinished work. Kazou was merely the vessel. The continuation.
His father, with his genius and his vision. His morality was written in equations and silence. And Kazou Kuroda… He simply continued the work. Not because he believed in it. But because someone had to. Because promises are heavy. Especially the ones you make to the dead. He had always told himself it was duty. Legacy. Precision.
But in the silence that followed—thick, absolute—something began to stir. A doubt. A fracture. And then the questions came.
Not to Kazou.
But...
To you.
"What is a good man, if he obeys without belief?"
"What ghosts guide your hands when you think you're acting freely?"
"Is your morality your own—or a story whispered into your ear long before you had the words to resist?"
You decide.
I can't tell you the right or wrong answers. After all, I am merely just the writer retelling a story. Why would my beliefs matter? My retelling was designed to be an ambiguous piece. You decide. But please. Stay true.