Archive of Our Own

The gates of Saikou’s Preparatory Institute gleamed gold in the last of the sun, but by now the light was gone. The courtyard lamps had long flickered on, buzzing faintly against the silence. Every other student had already been swept away in cars with tinted windows, or in chauffeurs’ black sedans, leaving Osano Najimi alone on the steps, hunched in his jacket.

It was -4°. His breath fogged in uneven bursts, white clouds spilling from his lips each time he muttered something sharp under his breath. His phone sat heavy in his hand, screen cracked at the corner, trembling as much as he was.

“...pick me up at five, I said five,” he hissed, teeth knocking against each other. “Not seven-thirty, not whenever-the-hell-they-feel-like, five.”

The gate loomed like prison bars behind him, keeping him tethered. He could leave—just start walking, just get on the train and be gone—but the memory of last time burned in him like frostbite. His parents’ voices in his ears, their fury dressed up as concern, their driver dragging him back into the house like he was some runaway criminal. That humiliation still stung, and it kept his legs frozen where they were.

He thumbed his phone again, dialing his mother first, then his father. Both calls went straight to voicemail. He left no message. He’d done that before, left desperate little fragments of his voice in their inbox, and it had earned him nothing but their scorn.

“Damn it,” he muttered, the word falling out cracked and raw. His lips felt numb. He pulled his scarf tighter, but it did little. His fingers burned from the cold, curled around the phone like it was the only thing tethering him to warmth.

Every few minutes, a car would pass by on the street, headlights dragging across his slouched frame. He’d straighten, just slightly, expecting them—hoping, maybe. But they never stopped. Never slowed.

The silence pressed in until he could hear his own pulse in his ears, frantic with cold. His jaw clenched, shaking. He hated this. He hated needing them. He hated waiting for something he knew wasn’t coming.

He pressed his forehead against the cold gate, muttering curses into the metal until his voice cracked. His fingers itched with the thought: I should just go. I should just walk away. Let them look for me. Let them panic. Let them know what it feels like.

But his body wouldn’t move. Not yet.

At sixteen, Osano Najimi stayed there, shivering in the dark outside Saikou’s gilded gates, too proud to cry, too bitter to beg, too trapped to run. And in the hollow of his chest, a decision was slowly, painfully beginning to form—one he wouldn’t act on until much later.

He groaned, dragging his frozen hands down his face, every breath burning in his lungs. Screw this. He’d rather risk their wrath than freeze like a stray dog on the curb. His legs felt heavy, stiff, but he pushed himself up from the step, teeth rattling as he muttered curses under his breath. He turned toward the main road, ready to trudge the long way to Akatsuka Station, to hide his shaking in the bustle of strangers instead of waiting like some forgotten parcel.

But just as he stepped forward, headlights spilled over the pavement. A sleek black car rolled up and slowed to a stop beside him, its windows tinted so dark it looked like a slab of night.

Osano clenched his jaw. Finally.

He slammed the back door open and threw himself inside before the warmth could escape. His breath fogged the window as he pulled it shut and locked it with a sharp click. His entire body sagged against the seat, trembling, but the relief didn’t last more than a second.

Because across from him, in the back seat, sat his mother and father. Perfectly composed. Perfectly untouched by the cold.

Not even looking at him.

No apology. Not even an acknowledgment.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Osano snapped, his voice raw from the chill. “I told you. Five o’clock. Five. O’clock. It’s seven-thirty!”

His mother finally turned her head, frown neat and practiced. “Osano, lower your voice. Don’t be impatient. We had a very important guest today. A VIP emergency. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Osano barked out a laugh, bitter and cracked. “Impatient? You know I’m impatient. You know I hate waiting! And you leave me outside for two and a half hours in minus four degrees—what the hell is wrong with you? Does this VIP matter more than your own son?”

His father’s voice cut across, calm, clipped, and final: “You are not the center of the universe, Osano. Remember your place.”

The words hit harder than the cold ever could.

Osano grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He crossed his arms, pressing himself into the corner of the seat as if he could vanish into it, staring out the window at the blur of Akatsuka’s city lights. His throat burned with things he wanted to shout, things he wanted to throw, but the silence pressed in like a wall.

He didn’t want to talk to them. Not now.

They didn’t even apologize.

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint clinking of dishes being washed somewhere downstairs. Osano lay curled up in his room, buried under a mess of covers that smelled faintly of fabric softener and guitar strings. His cracked phone screen glowed pale blue in the dark, his thumb dragging idly through endless social media posts. Band clips. Music forum arguments. Angus Young solos. Anything to drown out the bitter taste left from the car ride.

A gentle knock sounded against his door. Then the faint click of it opening.

“Osano?”

His mother’s voice was soft, deliberate. He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to his phone, scrolling past another fan video of “High Voltage.”

She stepped inside anyway. The faint perfume of her work clothes—expensive and sharp—slipped into the room. “You must be tired from waiting earlier. I know it was cold.”

No response.

She lingered by the edge of his bed, fingers folding neatly in front of her. “I don’t like when we argue. Your father and I… we didn’t mean for you to be uncomfortable. But sometimes these things happen, you understand?”

That wasn’t an apology. Osano’s lips twisted. He scoffed, rolling further onto his side so all she could see was the messy fall of his ginger hair.

Unbothered, she pressed on. “You’ve been asking for something, haven’t you? That guitar—the one you’re always showing me.” Her tone brightened, like she was offering a prize to a sulking child. “The Gibson… SG Standard, yes?”

At that, Osano’s thumb froze mid-scroll. His eyes flicked up from the phone, suspicious. “...What about it?”

“We’ve noticed how much you talk about it.” She leaned down slightly, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in the sheets. “You love AC/DC so much, don’t you? Angus Young, that’s his name? Always bouncing across the stage.”

His scoff was sharper this time, defensive. “Please. You and Dad can’t stand AC/DC. Don’t act like you’d actually get me one.”

Her lips curved, calm. “It was your father’s idea, actually.”

Osano blinked. The words cracked through his bitterness like sunlight through cloud. “...Dad’s?”

“Mm.” She nodded, finally reaching out. Her manicured fingers brushed gently through his fringe, pushing his ginger hair back from his forehead the way she used to when he was much smaller. “He said… maybe it’s time you had something of your own. Something you care about.”

For the first time all night, Osano lit up. The heaviness in his chest lifted just a little as he sat up halfway, covers spilling around his shoulders. His phone slid forgotten onto the sheets. “If I get it, the first riff I’m gonna nail is Back in Black. And then Thunderstruck. God, the solo on Highway to Hell—you don’t get it, Mom, the way Angus moves, the sound—it’s not just noise, it’s like electricity in your veins.”

His mother smiled faintly at his sudden burst of energy, watching him with the kind of expression she rarely wore these days. She let her hand rest on his hair as he talked, brushing gently at the strands while he rattled off song titles and finger movements, his voice carrying more life than it had all week.

The box sat on the living room table, wrapped in deep red paper and tied with a black ribbon. It wasn’t even his birthday, not even close, but Osano didn’t care. His fingers twitched over the ribbon, fumbling with excitement.

When the last of the paper fell away and the case opened, his breath caught.

The Gibson SG Standard gleamed under the light—cherry red, smooth, flawless. Exactly like Angus Young’s. His pulse thundered in his ears. For a moment, he couldn’t even breathe. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—wide, unguarded, almost childlike.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, then louder, “Holy shit—!”

He turned to his parents, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with joy. Without even thinking, he launched forward, throwing his arms around them both in a rare, fierce hug. “Thank you! Thank you—God, I can’t believe you actually got it for me!”

Hinano blinked in surprise at the strength of it, her polished composure cracking as she laughed softly and held him back. Osuke patted his son’s shoulder, stiff but not cold, watching that unfiltered happiness like it was something foreign. They had never seen him this alive.

Osano pulled back, cradling the guitar against him like it was made of glass. He was already talking a mile a minute—about the riffs he’d practice first, the solos he’d perfect, how he’d get calluses just like Angus.

But then his father’s voice cut in, calm, heavy, deliberate, “This is just a hobby, Osano. Don’t forget—you’re still going to pursue medicine. That is your path.”

The words landed like a sour note.

Osano’s smile faltered, his joy cracking at the edges. For a heartbeat, he just stared at his father, eyes narrowing, mouth tight.

“...Yeah, I get it,” he muttered. Then louder, sharper: “I get it, alright? But can you just—not? Just shut up for once in your life? I don’t wanna hear it right now.”

He hugged the guitar closer, spun on his heel, and stomped toward the stairs, every step rattling the frame of the house.

The door to his room slammed shut moments later, muffling the sound of his laughter and half-formed riffs as he carefully tuned his new treasure.

In the living room, Osuke Najimi stood rigid, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at the ceiling as if he could see straight through to where his son was. “He’s losing his direction,” he murmured, voice low but firm. “Too much of this… noise, and he’ll forget who he’s supposed to be.”

Beside him, Hinano sighed, watching the paper scraps littering the floor. She softened, her voice a quiet plea. “Let him have this, dear. For once. We’ve been too hard on him since he was little, let him live a little.”

Her husband didn’t answer. His silence was as sharp as any rebuke.

But upstairs, Osano was smiling again, fingers already clumsy over the strings, lost in a world that felt like it belonged to him alone.

A year blurred past in a haze of smoke, slammed doors, and muffled guitar riffs.

Sixteen turned to seventeen, and with it came late nights when Osano stumbled home smelling of cigarettes, his uniform wrinkled and torn from yet another scuffle. His grades sank lower each term; his teachers’ calls went unanswered, buried under his parents’ obligations. What once had been subtle rebellion hardened into something sharper.

He answered his father’s strict commands with mockery. He shouted back instead of biting his tongue. He slammed his guitar case against the wall on purpose just to piss off his father.

And every time, his father’s rage flared.

“This is because of that damn guitar,” Osuke snarled one evening, pacing the living room with his veins straining at his temples. “We should’ve never bought it. Look at him now—failing his classes, fighting in the streets, reeking of smoke like a delinquent!”

Hinano pressed her lips into a thin line, her voice calm but firm. “Osuke, you’re raising your voice again. You’ll give yourself a heart attack if you keep this up.”

“Then let it come,” he barked, gripping the edge of his chair, “if it wakes that boy up from his fantasy!”

She only sighed, gathering her composure, before walking upstairs. The hallway outside Osano’s room was faintly tinged with the bitter smell of tobacco. She knocked softly, twice.

Inside, there was a pause, then a long groan. The door opened a crack, revealing her son’s wary eyes and messy ginger hair. His guitar sat across his lap, unplayed.

“You here to yell at me too?” he muttered, voice rough.

“No,” she said simply. “I’m here to talk. Sit down.”

Osano hesitated, shoulders tense, then let her in. He dropped onto the edge of his bed, fiddling with a cigarette carton on his nightstand, waiting for the inevitable scolding.

But her tone wasn’t sharp. It was quiet, measured. “This isn’t about the guitar anymore, Osano. It’s about you. About what you’re doing to yourself—and to others.”

He frowned, lips parting to retort, but her steady gaze held him silent.

“You smoke until your lungs ache. You come home bruised from fights. You don’t sleep, you don’t study. At this pace, you’ll be lucky if you make it to thirty-three. Do you want that for yourself?”

The words struck deeper than his father’s anger ever could. For the first time in months, guilt flickered across his face. His thumb dragged over the carton, restless.

He sighed, the fight draining out of him. “...I’ll try to cut back, Mom. On the cigarettes, at least.”

Hinano’s expression softened. She brushed his ginger hair back from his forehead, just as she’d done when he was younger. “That’s all I ask. Just try.”

For a moment, he let her. For a moment, he leaned into the gentleness he hadn’t felt in too long.

Downstairs, Osuke’s muffled pacing carried on, his shadow still looming over the house.

But in his room, Osano sat quietly with his mother, making a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep—but wanting, just for her, to try.

For the next quarter, Osano tried.

Not for his father, not for the looming shadow of family reputation—but for his mother, who looked at him like he was worth saving. Who brushed his hair back with steady hands like he was still her little boy, and told him to “just try.”

So he did.

The cigarettes were cut down. The fights stopped. His guitar stayed propped in the corner, silent under a thin layer of dust, while his textbooks lay open across his desk night after night. He memorized formulas, burned through problem sets, and scribbled notes until his knuckles ached.

And slowly, his grades rose. He clawed his way back up to the top of the charts, outpacing the very students who used to sneer at his “delinquent phase.” Teachers who once sighed at his name now praised him, marveling at how easily he bent chemical equations into solutions others couldn’t see.

He kept his mouth shut, too. No jabs at his father, no shouts, no slammed doors. For three long months, Osano Najimi was the picture of control.

One evening, when the final grades were printed and handed back, he brought the sheet home. Not as an apology—he wasn’t about to hand his father that victory—but as a gesture. A way of saying, See? I can do it.

He found Osuke in the living room, glasses perched low on his nose, newspaper spread across his lap. Without a word, Osano placed the report card on the table.

His father scanned it in silence, lips pressed into a hard line. Then, with a scoff, he set it aside.

“Too clean.” His tone was dismissive, sharp. “There’s no way you fixed yourself this fast. What did you do, cheat? Pay someone off? You expect me to believe this?”

Osano’s fists clenched at his sides. His teeth dug into his tongue to keep the words back. Keep the peace. Don’t blow it. Not again.

But Osuke didn’t stop.

“You think a few good marks erase months of failure? You think you’ve proven anything? You’re still just a loud-mouthed boy with no discipline. You’ve only ever gotten this far because of me and your mother. Don’t delude yourself into thinking otherwise.”

That did it. The tightrope Osano had walked for months finally snapped beneath him.

“Why is it never enough for you?” he shouted, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he’d been holding in. “I tried, alright? I tried! I quit smoking, I stopped fighting, I buried my guitar for months—just to prove I could do it! To prove I could be more than what you think I am! I want to be my own person—is that not allowed?”

Osuke’s gaze hardened, unmoved. “You’re nothing without us. Remember that.”

Osano’s blood boiled. His nails bit into his palms as his words came out like fire.

“Fine. You’ll see. I’m getting a job. A real one. I’ll prove I can build myself up without you. Then maybe you’ll finally shut the hell up and see me for who I am!”

The very next week, Osano hit the streets.

Application after application, rejection after rejection. He walked into every shop, every corner business that would let a seventeen-year-old with zero experience scribble his name on a form. Dishwashing at a ramen shop lasted three nights—he cracked too many bowls and the owner booted him. Garbage collection ended after one week when he got sick from the stench. Grocery stocker? Fired after snapping back at a manager who barked at him for stacking crates “too slow.”

Construction. Delivery. Cashier shifts. A call center stint that ended in disaster after he cussed at a customer who wouldn’t stop screaming in his ear.

Each job flickered out almost as fast as it came. But Osano refused to quit trying—not when his father’s words kept circling in his skull: You’re nothing without us.

He’d prove him wrong, even if it killed him.

Then came Haruki Hotels & Resorts™.

A sprawling, glass-walled building in Akatsuka’s upper district, where even the lobby smelled like money. The manager eyed him skeptically, but his record with chemical equations caught attention in the strangest way. A janitor, they reasoned, who actually understood cleaning agents and mixtures? That might come in handy.

So they hired him.

It wasn’t glamorous. His first week was nothing but scrubbing grout between tiles until his back screamed and his knuckles bled raw. He wiped down endless floors until they gleamed, washed sheets stained with sweat and worse, and learned quickly how to breathe through his mouth when dealing with “accidents” in the suites.

But it was work. Honest work. And it paid decently enough to let him stash away money of his own.

And strange as it was, Osano didn’t hate it. He was good at it—his knowledge of chemicals meant he could clean more effectively than the older janitors, mixing solutions that stripped away even the most stubborn stains. For once, his brain felt useful outside the suffocating world of school exams.

Of course, not every day was smooth.

One afternoon, mop in hand, he pushed open the door to a suite only to find it occupied. The sharp perfume hit him first, then the sight of Toshiko Haruki, the hotel’s heiress, draped across the couch like she owned the air itself. Which, in a way, she did.

Her gaze slid over him with bored disdain. “You’re new. Don’t drip water on the carpet. It’s imported.”

Osano gritted his teeth, muttered a tight “Yes, ma’am,” and got to work.

She never said thank you. Not once.

By the end of his shift, his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. His hands reeked of bleach and his uniform clung with the smell of disinfectant. But when he counted his pay slip on the train ride home, something swelled in his chest.

It wasn’t much. But it was his.

And for the first time, Osano felt the faint spark of independence he’d been chasing—that he could stand on his own, even if it meant scrubbing someone else’s mess to get there.

But independence wasn’t clean. It wasn’t kind.

One gray afternoon, his supervisor handed him gloves and nodded grimly toward the upper floor. “Room 1204. Emergency situation. Handle it quick. Disinfect everything.”

Osano didn’t ask questions. He didn’t have to.

When he pushed open the bathroom door, the smell hit him first. Metallic, sharp. His boots stuck slightly against the tiles. Blood was smeared across the floor, pooling and trailing toward the drain, faint splatters across the porcelain. A small bundle of towels sat discarded in the corner, crimson soaking through white.

The air was thick with the aftermath of panic.

He exhaled through his nose, steady. Gloves on. Mop ready. He didn’t let himself think about it. He’d learned quickly that this job meant cleaning more than spilled drinks or vomit. People bled. People broke. And someone had to scrub away the proof.

He knelt down, pouring a diluted bleach mixture across the tiles, watching it fizz faintly against the stains. His hands moved automatically—scrub, rinse, repeat—until the red dulled to pink, then to nothing.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

“You’re really just gonna get down on the floor like that, huh?”

The voice was young, male. Osano glanced back, irritation flickering in his chest. Standing by the door was a lanky figure—early twenties, maybe—messy red hair half falling into his eyes, square red glasses perched on his nose. He leaned casually against the frame, as though this was entertainment.

Osano frowned. “What the hell are you doing in here? This isn’t a peep show. Go wait with the staff.”

The man tilted his head, unconcerned. “Nah. They’re all dealing with paperwork. Thought I’d stay and… observe.”

“Observe what? A janitor mopping blood?” Osano snapped, shoving the mop harder against the tiles. “Congrats. Real fun Saturday.”

But the stranger didn’t flinch. His gaze was steady, sharp in a way Osano didn’t like. He crouched just inside the door, resting his chin on his hand, eyes following every motion of the bleach bottle and mop.

“You’re thorough,” he noted casually. “Most people would’ve gagged by now. Or half-assed it. But you’re really putting your back into it.”

Osano scoffed, refusing to meet his eyes. “It’s my job. You think the floor’s gonna clean itself?”

A low hum of amusement. “No. But most people would’ve quit by now. You didn’t.”

Something about his tone made Osano glance up, just for a second. The man’s expression wasn’t mocking. It was calculating. Interested.

Osano bristled, turning back to his work. “Look, I don’t care who you are, but unless you’re paying me to do commentary, shut your bitch ass up and let me finish.”

The man smirked, adjusting his glasses. “Name’s Chishiki. Chishiki Ito. And you—” he gestured lazily toward Osano with one finger, “—you’re wasted in a hotel bathroom.”

Osano stiffened at the words, but said nothing. He scrubbed harder, as though he could erase the stranger’s voice along with the blood.

Still, even as the bleach stung his nose, the name stuck in his head like a thorn.

Chishiki Ito.

And Chishiki didn’t leave.

He just stayed crouched there, chin propped on one hand, watching with a catlike patience that grated on Osano’s nerves. The only sounds in the room were the swish of mop fibers dragging through bleach water, and the faint hum of the bathroom vent.

Then he spoke again, tone deceptively light.

“So,” he drawled, “is this your first time cleaning up blood and gore?”

Osano let out a sharp scoff without looking up. “Not even close.”

“Oh?” Chishiki’s voice tilted upward, almost playful.

“At first, yeah—I thought I was gonna puke my guts out.” Osano’s shoulders tensed as he scrubbed at a stubborn patch near the toilet. His words came out blunt, clipped. “But you either quit or get used to it. Guess I got used to it.”

Chishiki leaned forward, red glasses glinting in the harsh bathroom light. “Fascinating answer. Most people tell me they never get used to it.”

Osano finally looked up, annoyed. “I’m not ‘most people.’”

A smile flickered across Chishiki’s mouth—thin, knowing. He adjusted his glasses and tilted his head, as though cataloguing Osano’s response.

“Clearly not. You’ve got grit. You don’t flinch. You even talk about desensitization like it’s just… a part of the job description.” He gestured vaguely toward the half-scrubbed floor. “That tells me two things. One—you’re not squeamish. Two—you’re desperate enough to swallow it down.”

Osano’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Chishiki chuckled softly, almost as if Osano had proven his point. “Maybe not. But I know desperation when I see it. And you—” his gaze slid over Osano’s tense posture, his clenched jaw, his calloused hands gripping the mop handle like a lifeline—“you look like someone who’d take a better deal if it came along.”

Osano stilled, mop mid-swipe.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Chishiki leaned back against the wall, casual but sharp, like a knife hidden under silk. “I’m talking about a little… side work. Something dirtier than hotel bathrooms, but pays more than whatever they’re giving you here.”

He pushed up his glasses again, eyes glinting red behind the lenses. “You’d still be cleaning. Just… in places most people never get to see.”

The words hung heavy in the bleach-scented air.

Osano felt his stomach twist, though he couldn’t tell if it was disgust or intrigue. He set the mop aside and stared at Chishiki properly for the first time.

“You’re fucked in the head, man,” he muttered.

Chishiki smirked. “Maybe. But insanity tends to pay well.”

Osano let out a sharp laugh, more bitter than amused.

“Fuck off. I’m not that desperate.”

His voice echoed off the bathroom tile, final and flat.

Chishiki didn’t look offended. In fact, the corners of his mouth curled as if Osano had just confirmed something he already suspected.

“Of course not,” Chishiki murmured, the words slippery-smooth. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his black hoodie and pulled out a small rectangle of cardstock. Plain red, thick. Just a number, a logo of glasses and letters printed in black and nothing else.

He crouched low and set it on the sink counter, perfectly aligned with the edge.

“No strings,” he said casually. “No names. If you change your mind, you can always call.”

Osano shot the card a glance and snorted. “You think I’m dumb enough to get involved in whatever shady shit you’re hinting at?”

“Not dumb,” Chishiki corrected, adjusting his red glasses with one finger. “Smart enough to say no. For now.”

Osano huffed, rolling his eyes, and went back to scrubbing, dragging the mop across the floor with extra force. He didn’t care if the tiles cracked under the pressure.

Behind him, Chishiki chuckled softly, like a cat purring at its own private joke.

When Osano glanced back, the redhead was gone. No sound of a door opening, no footsteps retreating down the hall—just empty space where he’d been sitting, and that stark little card gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Osano muttered under his breath and kept working. He wasn’t gonna touch it.

Wasn’t gonna look at it again.

But no matter how hard he scrubbed, his eyes kept sliding back toward the sink.

By the time the last streak of red had been scrubbed off the tile, Osano’s arms felt like lead. His back ached, his knees screamed, and the faint metallic tang of blood clung stubbornly to the air no matter how many times he rinsed the mop.

He wrung out the bucket one last time, dumped the water, and leaned against the wall, breathing heavy. The bathroom looked clean—too clean, like nothing had happened. But Osano knew better. Stains like that didn’t really leave.

He straightened slowly, joints popping, and turned his gaze toward the sink.

That damn card was still there. White. Simple. Waiting.

Osano stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight. He hated how his chest twisted—curiosity, unease, maybe even… temptation.

“...Tch. Idiot,” he muttered to himself, like the word might shame him into walking away.

But he didn’t walk away.

He dragged himself to the sink, picked up the card with two fingers like it might burn him, and flipped it over. Nothing on the back. Just a single line on the front:

Info-Kun.

A phone number.

A symbol of glasses.

No explanation.

Osano let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is so fucking stupid…”

Still, his hand moved on its own. The card disappeared into the pocket of his uniform trousers, sliding down to rest against his thigh.

Gathering up his mop and bucket, he left the bathroom behind without another glance.

But the weight of the card in his pocket felt heavier than all the cleaning supplies in his arms.

By the time Osano trudged up the front steps of the family house, his whole body was running on fumes. The cheap strap of his duffel bag dug into his shoulder, his uniform shirt was stiff with bleach and sweat, and he was already rehearsing the shower-then-bed routine in his head.

He unlocked the door as quietly as he could, expecting darkness. It was 10:45 p.m., after all—his parents should’ve been asleep by now.

But the lights in the living room were on.

And both of them were sitting there.

His mother on the couch, hands folded neatly in her lap, expression unreadable. His father in his armchair, face shadowed, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.

Osano froze in the doorway, heartbeat kicking up. “…The hell are you two doing up?”

“Where the hell have you been?” His father’s voice cracked across the room like a whip. Not tired, not casual—furious.

Osano blinked, his bag slipping lower on his shoulder. “…Work.”

His father scoffed, a harsh, humorless laugh. “Work? Don’t bullshit me. You think you can sneak around, pretend you’ve got some job, while you’re really out there wasting time in Akatsuka City?”

“I’m not pretending,” Osano shot back, his voice sharper than he meant. “I got a job. Like I said I would. I don’t need your handouts.”

His father slammed a fist onto the armrest. “Don’t you dare twist this into some rebellion. You wouldn’t be anywhere without me—without us. Everything you are, you got because I carried you there.”

“That’s the point!” Osano’s throat burned, anger laced with exhaustion. “I don’t want to owe you anymore! I want to stand on my own, and—”

“Osano.” His mother’s voice cut through, soft, but sharper than her husband’s rage.

He turned to her, chest heaving, desperate for even a shred of understanding in her eyes.

But she looked at him like he was a child caught lying. “Don’t lie to yourself. You’re just upset at your father, and now you’re making up excuses. Can’t you see? We’re only worried about you, sweetie.”

Her tone was calm, measured. Gaslight wrapped in velvet.

Osano felt his chest hollow out.

For a moment, he’d thought—just maybe—she would defend him. That she would believe him. That she’d see the ache in his hands, the bleach on his sleeves, and know.

But she didn’t.

She sided with him. With the man who never once let him breathe without a shadow looming over him.

Osano swallowed hard. His throat burned too much to say anything more.

So he just turned, stomped down the hallway, and slammed his bedroom door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.

The morning light crept into Osano’s room, cutting across the floorboards and catching on the edges of his guitar case. He sat at the edge of his bed, jaw tight, trying to force down the dull ache left over from last night. His father’s scoffing voice. His mother’s soft, betraying tone. He rubbed his face, exhaled through his nose, and muttered, “Fuck it. New day.”

He tugged on his uniform, slung his guitar case across his back, and pocketed the crumpled business card with "Info-Kun" scrawled on it—though he wasn’t even sure why he still carried it. Habit, maybe. A reminder. Or just proof to himself that someone outside this suffocating house had acknowledged him.

He padded down the hallway, his footsteps heavy but steady, the smell of miso soup drifting from the dining room. He wasn’t planning to stop, just cut straight to the front door.

But he slowed when he caught their voices.

“…pharmacy has stability, good government jobs,” his mother said gently.

“Nursing has international demand,” his father countered, his tone sharp, impatient, like he was already tired of explaining himself.

“What about Radiologic Technology?” his mother added, almost hopeful. “It’s respectable. He could do imaging, diagnostic work—”

“Or Medical Technology,” his father snapped, “that’s more prestigious.”

Their voices tangled in debate, rattling off career paths, salaries, stability—each one a leash, each one pulling him into their carefully curated future.

Osano stopped in the doorway, gripping the strap of his guitar tighter. They didn’t even notice he was there. Or maybe they didn’t care.

College entrance exams, huh?

His gaze shifted down to the case on his back, the matte black surface catching a faint glint of light. His lips twitched upward, almost a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Music courses. Conservatories. Studios. That’s what got his blood pumping, not dissecting cadavers or memorizing drug interactions. The thought of standing on a stage with a guitar in hand—that was the only future he could see himself chasing without choking.

He turned away before the ache in his chest could deepen, before he heard another word about "nursing shortages" or "medical prestige." His footsteps carried him toward the front door, firm and deliberate, his silence the only answer they’d get from him that morning.

He didn’t need to argue anymore. Not right now. The guitar on his back said everything for him.

The lunchtime courtyard buzzed with noise, the kind that always swelled around this time of year—college talk, entrance exams, futures hanging in the balance. Everyone had something to say, some plan to parade around. The air felt thick with it.

Osano sat with his bandmates under the shade of a camphor tree, his guitar case propped against the bench. Rai leaned back with his arms crossed, Juno was sprawled across the table like a cat in the sun, and Kyuji, ever the grounded one, balanced a notebook on his lap as he picked at his bento.

“Akatsuka University’s the real deal,” Rai was saying, voice low but firm. “But honestly, I don’t even have to think about it anymore. My Saikou scholarship’s already sealed. Tournament wins have perks.” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though his grin gave him away.

“Of course the golden boy doesn’t need to worry,” Juno groaned, rolling his head dramatically against the wood of the table. “Meanwhile I’m here with no clue what the hell to do with my life. College? Job? Yakuza husband? Who knows? Maybe I’ll join a circus.”

Osano smirked despite himself, but didn’t bite. He was content just to listen, his ears half-tuned while his hand drummed against his guitar case in absent rhythm.

Kyuji cleared his throat. “I’ve been looking into Akatsuka University. They’ve got solid music programs. Jazz, rock, theory, production, even composition tracks. And—” he leaned forward a little, eyes flicking to Osano, “it’s free tuition. If you land a scholarship, they give you a monthly allowance. Two hundred fifty thousand yen. That’s… not small.”

That made Osano lift his head. “Wait. For real?”

Kyuji nodded. “For real. I already sent in my preliminary forms. I’m not touching Saikou University, even if it’s basically free for us preppers. They don’t even have a music department. Just business, tech, and medicine. What’s the point?”

Juno snorted. “Yeah, because the Saikous want little worker bees. Gotta keep the hive alive. Cult shit.”

That earned a laugh from Osano, sharp and sudden. He leaned back, stretching his legs out, the smirk sticking this time. “Exactly. Feels like a damn cult. Everyone falling in line, chasing Saikou jobs like it’s their destiny.”

Rai shot him a look but didn’t argue—though his silence said enough.

Kyuji didn’t miss a beat. “So. Apply with me, Osano. Akatsuka University. You’d actually get to study what you love. Music. Real courses. Real gigs. You’ve got the skill. You could easily get a scholarship.”

The words hit heavier than Osano expected. He’d been brushing off college talk all morning, but hearing Kyuji say it plain, like it was possible—like it was already waiting for him—sparked something low in his chest.

Music. A future he chose. Not the one his parents had already decided for him.

His fingers tapped against the guitar case again, slower this time. The weight of it on his back suddenly felt less like a burden, more like a lifeline.

“...Akatsuka, huh?” he muttered, almost to himself. “Yeah. That doesn’t sound half bad.”

Kyuji’s grin widened, satisfied. Juno made a whooping sound like he’d just won a bet. Rai shook his head, but the edge of his smile betrayed that even he couldn’t dampen the spark of energy suddenly alive in the group.

The air outside Akatsuka University’s main gate felt different. Even the way the late autumn sun caught the glass of the towering academic buildings made Osano’s pulse quicken. This was it—the place where people who wanted something came to carve it out for themselves. No safety nets. No family name cushioning every step. Just grit, skill, and sleepless nights. Exactly what he wanted.

Kyuji was beside him, his easy grin masking the fatigue of lugging his guitar case all the way from Tokeino. “Man, look at this place,” he muttered, stretching his arms out as though to absorb the campus vibe. “You can smell the freedom.”

Osano smirked faintly. “Smells more like overworked students and desperation.” But his grip on his own guitar case tightened. He wasn’t joking—not really.

The lines inside the admissions office wound like snakes through the hallways, hundreds of students clutching neatly clipped papers, pens, and file envelopes. Every so often, someone in a university jacket would walk through, directing traffic, and Osano’s stomach would knot. All these people were competition. He had no illusions that he was the only one clawing for a scholarship.

Kyuji elbowed him. “Relax, dude. You’ve got the drive. That counts more than all these prep school robots with their perfect haircuts.”

Osano rolled his eyes, but his friend’s words lingered.

They split briefly to grab the forms and fill them out. The weight of the paper in Osano’s hands felt heavier than it should have. Name. Address. Intended major. Music Performance. He wrote it down without hesitation, pressing harder than he needed to. For once, his choice wasn’t dictated by his father’s lectures or his mother’s guilt trips. This was him.

By the time they got in line for the scholarship counter, it was already buzzing with impatience. Osano stood there for nearly two hours, inching forward, double- and triple-checking his documents. His stomach growled at some point, but he ignored it. The line felt like a test in itself—were you patient enough, determined enough to wait?

Kyuji leaned against the wall, strumming his guitar softly to pass the time. A few students glanced over, curious, but Osano just kept staring at the front of the line. His hands clenched around his application folder, knuckles pale.

Finally, when it was his turn, the admissions officer barely looked up. “Application?”

Osano handed it over, trying to steady his breathing. The man sifted through the documents quickly, brows flicking up once at the declared major. “Music Performance. Hm. You’ll need to sit the practical as well as the written.”

“I know,” Osano replied firmly.

The officer gave a short nod, stamped the papers, and slid him a slip with his exam schedule. “If you’re applying for the full scholarship, the process is rigorous. Only top 3% make it. You’ll need perfect scores in both exams, plus exceptional demonstration in your major.”

Kyuji made a face behind him, but Osano didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll do it.”

The officer finally looked at him—really looked—and for the briefest moment, there was something like surprise. “Very well. Next.”

Osano stepped aside, exhaling slowly, the slip trembling in his hand. It felt like a gauntlet had just been thrown down, and he’d accepted it without hesitation.

As he and Kyuji left the building, the noise of other applicants buzzing in their ears, Osano tucked the slip safely into his pocket. He glanced back at the university’s crest, emblazoned on the glass doors.

For the first time in his life, he felt the faint pulse of something dangerous but exhilarating—freedom.

This wasn’t just about getting into college. This was about cutting the last thread that tied him to the life he hated.

The nights in Akatsuka were always cold around winter, even when the heaters rattled inside his bedroom at his parents' house. Osano sat hunched over his desk, his back aching, his hair damp from the shower he’d barely taken before burying himself in the thick stack of textbooks spread open around him. His guitar leaned against the wall, but tonight it wasn’t just practice—it was scales, theory sheets, sight-reading drills. Every wrong note grated on his nerves like glass dragged over skin.

Kyuji had long since gone home, yawning something about “don’t burn yourself out.” Easy for him to say. Kyuji’s parents weren’t breathing down his neck, weren’t telling him that chasing music was a “phase” that would ruin his life.

Osano clenched his pencil so tight the wood almost snapped as he worked through a mock exam sheet. Math. Something he wasn’t bad at, but definitely not where his passion lay. But the university wouldn’t care if he played violin or guitar like a god if he failed their written entrance. He had to prove he could keep up everywhere.

The hours ticked by. Midnight. Then one. His eyes burned. He rubbed them, growling softly under his breath, forcing himself not to collapse into the mattress behind him. Every time his body begged for sleep, he imagined his father’s face: disappointed, smug, certain that Osano would come crawling back when he failed. That alone kept him awake.

By day, his life was just as merciless. He’d get up early, drag himself to his cleaning jobs, scrubbing bloodstains and vomit from hotel floors while his muscles screamed from lack of rest. The chemical burn of bleach clung to his clothes, no matter how hard he washed them. His fingers—meant for strings, not sponges—were raw, nicked, and swollen.

Then it was straight to practice. Guitar until his fingertips split, violin until his shoulders locked. He forced himself to sight-read until the notes bled into one another. He memorized entire sonatas, played études in different keys until his hands shook. His cheap metronome ticked like a cruel clock, mocking him every time he lagged by even half a beat.

Sometimes Kyuji would drop by with convenience store food, tossing a rice ball at him with a grin. “Eat, idiot. You’re gonna faint at this rate.” Osano would mutter a thanks, scarf it down, then go right back to it. Kyuji would sigh, strum a few chords, and watch silently, knowing better than to get in the way.

There were nights he cried—quietly, fists pressed against his eyes, hunched over his desk so no one would ever know. Not from weakness, but from the sheer crushing weight of it all. The exhaustion, the fear, the brutal awareness that one slip could ruin everything. He’d wipe his face, curse under his breath, and keep going.

He taped practice schedules to the wall. He color-coded subjects in binders. He used sticky notes until they wallpapered his desk. It wasn’t neat—it was frantic, messy, but it was his.

Winter bled into early spring, the air slowly warming, but Osano hardly noticed. He’d wake up with ink smudges on his arms and fall asleep with the guitar across his chest, neck aching from the angle. His apartment became a battlefield of crumpled drafts, eraser dust, empty coffee cans.

Every so often, he’d catch his reflection in the mirror: pale, sunken-eyed, freckled skin gone dull. He’d scowl at himself, mutter not enough, and push harder.

And then, finally, when the exam date was close enough to taste, he stood in the doorway of his apartment, guitar case strapped across his back, violin case in hand, textbooks stuffed into a worn backpack. He locked the door behind him with a click that felt heavier than it should have.

This was it. Months of blood, sweat, and swallowed pride distilled into one chance. One day to prove he wasn’t just some spoiled doctor’s kid running from home. One day to prove he could stand on his own.

He exhaled, shoulders tense, determination blazing behind those sharp green eyes.

He wasn’t going to fail. Not this time.

The morning air in Akatsuka City was sharp, brittle, carrying the faint smell of frost off the river. Osano’s alarm had gone off at 5:30 a.m., like every morning this week, but today the weight on his chest was different. Exam day. The culmination of months of bleeding, sleepless nights, and practice schedules scrawled into the walls of his apartment.

He moved mechanically—brush teeth, shower, uniform pressed just so, guitar case slung over one shoulder, backpack tight against his spine. His chest tightened with the familiar pre-exam anxiety, that fluttering that gnawed at his stomach. Every step toward the train station was measured, every breath deliberate. Today, he had to prove something to himself more than anyone else.

His phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He fished it out, expecting a reminder from Kyuji or an alarm he’d forgotten to set. The caller ID made his stomach plummet: Kenzou Umiyama — Haruki Hotels & Resorts Cleaning Department.

He froze mid-step. Umiyama’s calls were never casual. His stomach sank further as he answered.

“Najimi-kun,” Umiyama’s voice was taut, clipped, panicked in a way that only ever came when the hotel hierarchy was in crisis. “Emergency. Suite 1809. Miss Toshiko. She… she killed someone. Her best friend’s boyfriend-- Miss Fuyuki’s boyfriend.”

The words hit like a blow to his gut. Killed?

Osano’s fingers tightened around his phone. “Wait… what? Are you serious?”

“Do not ask questions!” Umiyama barked. “All evidence must be disposed of before the police arrive. You—yes, you—are the only one qualified. No excuses. If any trace is left, everyone loses their jobs. Everyone. Now get here. Immediately. I don’t care about the exams—nothing else matters. Go.”

Osano’s chest tightened, pain folding over him like a wave. The exams. Months. All those nights he’d spent memorizing, practicing, planning. And now he was being told to drop it—for them.

“No,” he whispered to himself, jaw clenching. “I can’t—this is the day.”

Umiyama’s voice cut sharper, like a whip. “Najimi! I swear, if you don’t move now, you’re fired. Haruki-sama will personally see to it. You want to throw all that effort away?!”

Osano felt sweat prickling at his temples despite the cold. He gritted his teeth, thumb hovering over the “End Call” button. He could hear his father’s voice echoing from months ago: You’ll never be anything without us. And his mother’s faint, disbelieving tones.

The train station was still ten minutes away. He could almost make it. He weighed the consequences—months of sacrifice, his dream, his independence—against a single emergency clean-up that could pay him enough to cover weeks of living expenses.

His heart hammered. He could feel the weight of the mop, the bleach, the harsh smell of chemicals before he’d even stepped into the hotel. Images of blood, of mistakes, of being yelled at, flashed through his mind.

Osano pressed the phone against his ear again. “Fine,” he muttered finally, his voice low and strained. “I’m on my way.”

Umiyama didn’t reply—just a sharp, approving click.

The train ride was a blur. Every jolt of the carriage shook him, every screech of the wheels against the rail made his stomach turn. His guitar, usually a comfort, felt heavy against his back. His backpack dug into his shoulders. His fingers itched to strum, to feel the familiar fretboard beneath them, but it was all wrong.

When he arrived at Haruki Hotels, the lobby was eerily quiet, the usual concierge chatter replaced by tense whispers and the shuffle of hurried staff. Umiyama met him at the service elevator, eyes dark. “You have 1 hour before police arrive. Clean it, dispose of everything. No mistakes.”

Osano nodded silently, swallowed bile, and stepped into the service elevator, the metallic doors closing behind him with a finality that echoed like a gunshot.

By the time the doors opened to Suite 1809, the smell hit him first—coppery, thick, heavy. Red on white sheets. Blood spattered across the floor and the furniture. Broken glass from a toppled vase, a chair overturned. The suite looked like chaos had decided to live there.

And there, in the corner, hands folded neatly, watching him like a hawk, was the nephew. Red hair, red glasses, quiet, calculating. Osano didn’t look up. He already knew—he was being observed. Every move, every misstep, would be noticed.

He exhaled through his nose, slid on gloves, and began.

The mop hit the floor, scraping against the soaked carpet. Bleach in a bucket, ready. Every movement precise, efficient. He couldn’t think about exams, or college, or freedom. Only the blood, the mess, the chemical burn in his nose, the weight of the knowledge that if he messed up, this entire hotel hierarchy would collapse—and he’d pay.

Hours passed—or maybe minutes; time had no meaning here. Just the rhythm of scrubbing, rinsing, bagging, wiping. The faint click of glasses as the nephew leaned in, silent, calculating.

And through it all, Osano felt it—a surge of grim satisfaction, terrifying in its clarity. He could handle this. He could survive this. But at what cost?

Because as he worked, he couldn’t stop thinking about the exam schedule in his pocket, the months of preparation, the dream he’d fought to claw toward. Every swipe of the mop was a choice he didn’t want to make—but had to.

Osano’s eyes flicked to his watch. 7:45 a.m. His heart skipped a beat. The exam started at 7:30. If he finished in 5 minutes, he had 10 minutes to run toward the University. Thirty minutes late wasn’t ideal, but it was still possible if he moved fast.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and tightened his grip on the mop. Panic sharpened every sense. The chemical burn of bleach stung his nostrils, sweat pricked at his hairline, but there was no time to dwell on discomfort.

He abandoned his usual methodical, agonizing attention to every last detail. No folding sheets perfectly. No triple-rinsing the floor. He swiped, scrubbed, and pushed everything into trash bags with a precision born from desperation rather than care. Blood stains streaked into faint shadows under the fluorescent lights, but it looked clean enough. That had to be enough.

Bucket dumped, mop flung into the corner, gloves peeled off and tossed into the service bin. His chest heaved, breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. The suite looked chaotic—but from the perspective of someone not trained to notice, it was acceptable. That would have to do.

Osano grabbed his duffel bag, slung the guitar across his back again, and bolted for the service elevator. Every step down the corridor felt like running through molasses, his lungs burning, legs aching from the adrenaline spike.

The hotel lobby passed in a blur. The automatic doors swooshed open, and Osano spilled onto the street, squinting into the bright morning sun, wind biting at his face.

He ran. Past the bus stops, past the small convenience store, past the river that sliced through Akatsuka City. His breaths were ragged, heart hammering against his ribs. Thirty minutes late—he could make it if he sprinted.

Ten minutes later, he sprinted toward Akatsuka University, legs trembling from exhaustion. Backpack digging into his shoulders, guitar case heavy and awkward, he sprinted across the campus grounds, dodging other students, his mind focusing only on one thing: the entrance hall.

The massive glass doors groaned as Osano pushed them open, and the echo rolled through the silent exam hall. Every head snapped toward him in unison. Pens froze mid-stroke, eyes widening, and a faint rustle of surprise whispered across the room.

He could feel it—the weight of every gaze drilling into his back, every student’s quiet judgment a tangible pressure against his shoulders. Some of them were already dressed in pristine school uniforms, hair perfect, sitting like statues in their chairs. And here he was, guitar case swinging, backpack digging into his spine, shirt damp with sweat from the sprint across campus.

The proctor, a tall man with wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose, stepped forward. “Osano Najimi,” he barked, voice slicing through the hall like a knife. “Do you realize how late you are?”

Osano’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t lie. Couldn’t conjure excuses. He inhaled sharply, lowered himself into a bow so deep that his forehead nearly brushed the floor. “I-I apologize, sir!” His voice cracked slightly from exhaustion and nerves, but the sincerity was impossible to ignore.

The hall remained tense, some students suppressing small snickers, others still wide-eyed in disbelief.

The proctor’s thin lips curled into a small, unimpressed scowl. “You have exactly one hour and thirty minutes left to complete your written exam. Make it count, Najimi.”

Osano’s throat tightened as he straightened slowly, still keeping his head lowered, his green eyes scanning the pages set neatly in front of him. He could feel the room pressing in—the pressure of lost time, the murmurs behind him, the knowledge that even a single misstep could ruin this shot he’d clawed toward for months.

Every second of the morning—the sprint through Tokeino, the chemical stench of the hotel, the relentless rush of adrenaline—settled in his chest like a lead weight. But beneath it, a stubborn ember burned. He could still do this. He had to.

He slid into his seat, the scrape of the chair loud in the suddenly hushed room, and placed his papers on the desk with deliberate care. The pen felt foreign in his fingers for a moment, but then he gripped it tighter, exhaled, and let the months of painstaking preparation flood back.

One hour and thirty minutes. Enough time if he focused.

The proctor tapped the desk with a ruler, signaling the start. “Begin.”

Osano swallowed the dry lump in his throat. The scratch of pen on paper began, tentative at first, then gradually with the precision and force of someone who had fought tooth and nail just to sit here.

Every question felt like a battle. Every formula recalled, every line of text analyzed, every calculation done with trembling hands—but clarity sharpened with each passing minute.

Around him, the hall faded. The sneers, the stares, the snickers—they all melted into silence. There was only the exam, the ticking clock, and Osano Najimi, who had run hell itself this morning and was determined that nothing—no one—would make him fail.

9:10 a.m.

The clock ticked like a cruel metronome, each second a hammer against Osano’s chest. His vision had started to blur; letters wobbled on the page, numbers twisted into unfamiliar shapes. Fingers cramped so badly he had to flex them mid-stroke. Sweat poured down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his uniform.

He stole a glance at the students around him. Chairs scraped back, pens dropped into pencil cases, exam booklets stacked neatly as one student after another rose, leaving the room with calm, satisfied expressions. Their slow, measured movements contrasted violently with the chaos in Osano’s head.

He groaned softly, bending further over his paper, pressing harder, trying to force the words and formulas out faster. One question, then another—answers blurred, half-formed, hastily scribbled, but it was something. Anything was better than leaving it blank.

9:20 a.m.

His throat was dry, lips cracked. His hands shook violently, leaving faint smears of graphite across his answer sheet. One question made him pause, panic rising like bile: an unfamiliar formula, one he hadn’t fully memorized. His mind wanted to throw in the towel, to collapse into the desk, but he forced himself to focus.

“Just—just get something down,” he muttered through gritted teeth, jaw aching from tension.

He slammed the next answer onto the paper, barely legible, forcing his hand to move faster. His pencil snapped at the tip, clattering against the desk. He didn’t care. He grabbed another, sharpened it with trembling fingers, and continued.

9:25 a.m.

The proctor cleared his throat sharply. “Five minutes remaining.”

Osano’s heart leapt into his throat. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to salvage what he could. His pen moved like a machine, almost inhuman, scratching out as much as he could before the clock devoured the last possibility.

Everything hurt—fingers, shoulders, neck, eyes—but he didn’t stop. Every syllable, every number, every hastily formed sentence became a battle cry. He ignored the sweat stinging his eyes, ignored the dizziness threatening to topple him forward.

9:29 a.m.

He slammed his last answer down with a finality that echoed in his skull. Breathless, trembling, every muscle quivering, he stared at the ceiling for a second, trying to inhale without feeling the panic clawing at his chest.

9:30 a.m.

Time was up. The proctor’s ruler tapped sharply on the desk. Pens went down. Papers were collected. Osano’s hand shook violently as he surrendered his booklet. He didn’t even notice his fingers were smeared with graphite and dried sweat, his uniform sticking to his back, hair plastered to his forehead.

Around him, students whispered, stretching, gathering their belongings. They had finished with minutes to spare, some relaxed, some smiling.

Osano, meanwhile, sat frozen for a heartbeat, chest heaving, trying to reconcile the enormity of what he’d just survived. He had finished—but it had cost him every ounce of energy, every scrap of calm he had left. His body ached like he’d been through a war, and in a way, he had been.

One hand clutched the guitar strap still slung over his shoulder, a small anchor to himself. He exhaled slowly, letting the first, real wave of relief wash over him. He’d made it. He’d survived. But the exhaustion, the adrenaline crash, the gnawing fear that he hadn’t done enough—those wouldn’t leave him so easily.

Osano rose, knees weak, and stepped toward the proctor to hand over his work. His green eyes flickered with a mixture of pride, terror, and an almost manic relief.

The proctor leaned back slightly, brows raised, eyes scanning Osano like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Najimi… you’re actually here,” he said, voice a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “I thought—when you were thirty minutes late—I assumed you wouldn’t make it. Your parents… they usually just sort it out, don’t they? Saikou University, all taken care of for you, scholarships handed over, everything neat and easy.”

Osano’s jaw tightened. He met the proctor’s gaze steadily, voice low but firm. “I’m trying not to depend on them,” he said. Each word carried the weight of months of struggle, of running, of proving to himself he could survive without being spoon-fed, without leaning on the family name he’d grown tired of.

The proctor’s expression softened, a trace of pride breaking through the astonishment. He reached down, taking Osano’s exam booklet with deliberate care. “You know,” he said, letting a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth, “it takes guts to show up like this. Even under pressure, even after that kind of morning. You fought hard, boy.”

Osano’s shoulders sagged just a fraction, relief flickering beneath his exhaustion. The proctor leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Osano could hear. “Your music audition? It's today at 1pm. Don’t be late. Show up. Play like I know you can. And Najimi…” he gave a slight nod, approvingly, “…keep doing it your way. Make your own path. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

For the first time that day, Osano allowed himself to feel it fully: a quiet swell of pride that wasn’t tied to grades, to parental expectations, or to cleaning someone else’s mess. This was his. Every step, every decision, every drop of sweat and panic—it all led here.

He nodded once, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but it carried more than words ever could. “I won’t,” he said softly, determination stiffening his spine.

The proctor gave him a final glance, almost like a warning and a blessing at the same time. “Good. I’ll see you at the audition. Don’t disappoint me.”

Osano turned, shoulders still trembling, and stepped out of the exam hall into the chill of the morning sun. 

The Haruki estate’s conference room was suffocating with tension. Thick curtains muted the afternoon light, but the shadows across Hayato Haruki’s face sharpened every line of his fury. His hands were planted firmly on the polished oak table, the veins on his arms bulging as his voice roared through the chamber.

“Explain to me,” Hayato snarled, his deep voice rattling the crystal water glasses lined neatly at the edge, “how my daughter is being dragged into an investigation over the death of Kaito Hinata, when I pay millions for a cleaning department to ensure there are no loose ends!”

Across from him, Kenzou Umiyama—the stiff, balding head of the cleaning department—sweated profusely. His thin frame looked smaller by the second under Hayato’s glare. “H-Haruki-sama,” he stammered, tugging nervously at his collar, “I—I assure you, everything was handled. But the suite in question… that was Najimi’s assignment. Osano Najimi. He was the one who—”

Hayato’s eyes narrowed like a blade flashing in the dark. “One boy?” His tone was incredulous, mocking. He leaned forward, each word hitting like a hammer. “You mean to tell me… when we have a team of cleaners under contract, you sent a single eighteen-year-old boy to cover a high-profile suite linked to my daughter’s reputation?”

Kenzou flinched. “He’s—he’s usually reliable, sir. Quick, thorough. The others, they—”

“Don’t you dare,” Hayato cut him off, voice low and dangerous now. “Don’t you dare stand there and feed me excuses.” His eyes, sharp and hawk-like, locked onto Kenzou. “Do you even know what day it was? The Akatsuka University College Entrance Tests. The most important exam of his life. He told me the day before that he won't be able to make it this day specifically, because of his exams. Of course his mind would be elsewhere. Of course he would be sloppy. You set him up to fail.”

Kenzou opened his mouth, scrambling for something, anything. “Sir, the others… they had assignments—”

Hayato slammed his palm down on the table, the sound like a gunshot. Kenzou’s words died in his throat.

“Assignments?” Hayato scoffed, his voice a snarl. “Assignments elsewhere while my daughter’s suite went to a boy who should have been at a desk with a pencil in his hand, not scrubbing blood from carpet fibers?!” His fury was palpable now, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

For a long, tense moment, the room was silent save for the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. Hayato leaned back slightly, his voice dropping into something colder, deadlier.

“Osano Najimi is a child, but at least he’s a child who tries. I’ll excuse him. I won’t excuse you.” His gaze swept the table, pinning Kenzou and his silent underlings with icy contempt. “You had older, trained men who could have gone with him. Could have backed him up. But you didn’t. You left him exposed. You left my family exposed.”

Kenzou’s lips trembled. Sweat beaded on his forehead, sliding down his temple.

Hayato straightened, his hands clasping behind his back now in the stance of a man delivering a verdict. “If anything—and I mean anything—happens to Toshiko because of your incompetence, you and your entire team are finished. Fired. Blacklisted from every employer in Akatsuka and beyond. You’ll never work again. Do you understand me?”

Kenzou nodded so fast it was almost pitiful. “Y-Yes, Haruki-sama. We—we understand. It won’t happen again.”

Hayato’s stare lingered a moment longer, sharp enough to cut, before he finally turned away, adjusting his cufflinks with icy precision. “See that it doesn’t.”

The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Kenzou’s team shifted nervously in their seats, casting furtive, accusing glances at one another—at him.

And in the middle of it all, one name hung in the air like a curse and a shield both:

Osano Najimi.

The boy who carried the blame. The boy who wasn’t even supposed to be there.

The garage smelled faintly of engine oil, sweat, and the stale echo of late-night jam sessions. Dust motes swirled lazily in shafts of sunlight that cut through the grimy windowpanes. The clock nailed crookedly to the wall ticked toward 10:00 a.m., and Osano Najimi stood dead center in the chaos, his guitar strapped to him like it was a piece of his own body. His calloused fingers flexed once, twice, hovering above the strings as though preparing for battle.

Kyuji’s garage had become a second home—a cave of amps, tangled cords, dented speakers, and the occasional ramen cup forgotten under stools. Empty soda cans lined the shelf like trophies. The faint thrum of the city outside bled through the walls, but inside, it was just Osano, the guitar, and the audition song he had to own.

He tightened the strap against his shoulder, rolled his neck, and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The first note rang out sharp and metallic, reverberating in the garage. Too harsh. His jaw clenched. He adjusted his grip and tried again. This time, smoother—his foot tapping out the rhythm, heart syncing with the beat. The chords came easier once he let himself sink into the song, but the nerves were still there, gnawing at him, whispering about the audition at 1 p.m., about the proctor’s words: Don’t be late, boy.

He couldn’t be late again. Not for this.

By 10:20, sweat had already gathered at the nape of his neck. His ginger hair stuck damply to his forehead, green eyes narrowed in concentration. Every mistake felt like a gunshot. Every time his finger slipped a fret or his pick scraped too roughly against the strings, he hissed under his breath and started the section over. He wasn’t going to let a single imperfection survive.

The garage’s battered clock ticked louder in his head than it did on the wall. At 10:45, he hit a breakthrough—his hands moving almost unconsciously, muscle memory finally locking into place. His voice followed, low and gravel-edged at first, then building into something raw, something alive. The garage walls seemed too small to contain it.

By 11:00, he was drenched in sweat. His plain black tee clung to his back. He ripped it off and tossed it over a chair, standing in just his jeans, body tense and lean, veins in his arms straining as he shredded through the song’s hardest section. His abs flexed with every breath, but his focus was razor-sharp—nothing mattered except hitting each note with precision.

11:20. His confidence built. He closed his eyes and let himself feel it—the meaning behind the song, the heartbeat of it, not just the technical skill. He remembered why he was here: why he fought to do this alone, without his parents, without anyone’s influence. He wanted this music to be his own proof of existence.

At 11:45, he sat cross-legged on the oil-stained floor, guitar resting across his thighs, head tilted back as he caught his breath. Fingers sore, lungs burning, but his chest buzzed with a rare exhilaration. He was closer than he’d ever been to ready.

When noon hit, Osano stood, strapped the guitar back on, and played the full piece one final time, no stops, no corrections. His voice rang out, cracking slightly but in a way that gave the song more grit, more soul. When the last chord echoed into silence, he stayed frozen for a moment—green eyes wide, chest heaving.

For the first time that morning, a small smile cracked across his face.

He was ready.

The auditorium was large, cold, and echoing with the faint hum of air-conditioning. The stage lights weren’t too harsh, but bright enough to spotlight him as though he were standing naked under their scrutiny. Osano walked onto the stage, his scuffed guitar case banging against his knee, his boots clicking with uneven rhythm on the polished floor. His pulse was a drumline in his chest.

On the other side of the long table sat three judges: the proctor from earlier—the man who had believed in him against all odds—beside the Head of the Music Department, an older gentleman with a sharp suit and an even sharper gaze, and the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, who carried herself with an elegance that made Osano straighten his back. They looked at him with curiosity, even surprise.

“Electric guitar?” the Head of the Department murmured, exchanging a glance with the Dean.

Osano rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. “Y-Yeah. Sorry if that’s… not the usual. I don’t really do piano or violin.”

The proctor leaned forward, lips quirking into the faintest smile. “Don’t apologize. Show us what you’ve got.”

Their calmness disarmed him slightly. He exhaled, slung the guitar strap over his shoulder, and let his fingers brush against the strings like greeting an old friend. He had practiced this song all morning, sweat dripping down his back, mistakes gnawing at his self-confidence. But here, now, standing before them—he had no room left for doubt.

He closed his eyes and began.

The first few strums were controlled, steady, his voice low but clear:

“You know I’m impatient

So why would you leave me waitin’ outside the station

When it was like minus four degrees?”

The notes reverberated across the empty hall, each chord bouncing off the walls, making the silence between lines feel heavier, more intimate. His voice carried a grit that betrayed his nerves, but it wasn’t weakness—it was rawness. Honest.

“And I, I get what you’re sayin’

I just really don’t wanna hear it right now

Can you shut up for like once in your life?”

His jaw clenched, and he began to lean into the rhythm, fingers moving with more certainty. His foot tapped against the wooden stage. The judges’ pens had stilled, eyes fixed on him.

“Listen to me, I took your nice words of advice about

How you think I’m gonna die lucky if I turn 33…”

By now, Osano’s throat loosened, his voice gaining body and edge. The calm, almost conversational tone began morphing into something sharper, a storm barely contained. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, each line an accusation hurled into the void.

“Okay, so yeah, I smoke like a chimney

I’m not skinny, and I pull a Britney every other week—”

His hand moved faster on the strings, the amplifier spitting out each riff with urgency.

“But cut me some slack, who do you want me to be?”

The calm veneer cracked. His voice rose, cracked slightly, but carried all the frustration of a young man who’d had enough of being told he wasn’t enough. He leaned forward as though shouting into the faces of ghosts, the guitar growling under his fingers.

The Dean blinked, surprised at the sudden shift. The Head of the Department leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The proctor… the proctor looked proud.

“’Cause I’m too messy, and then I’m too fucking clean

You told me, ‘Get a job,’ then you ask where the hell I’ve been

And I’m too perfect, ’til I open my big mouth

I want to be me, is that not allowed?”

The words poured out of him now, anger spilling into the air. His voice was no longer calm—it was unrestrained, unpolished, but painfully authentic. He spat each lyric as though it were a confession.

The riff between verses ripped through the hall, echoing sharp and jagged, filling the air with a defiance he couldn’t put into words any other way.

“And I’m too clever, and then I’m too fucking dumb

You hate it when I cry, unless it’s that time of the month

And I’m too perfect, ’til I show you that I’m not

A thousand people I could be for you, and you hate the fucking lot—”

His knuckles whitened around the neck of the guitar as he hit the final line, voice breaking into a shout.

“You hate the fucking lot...”

"You hate the fucking lot!"

The last riff tore from his instrument, a guttural scream made of strings and distortion, vibrating in the air long after his voice had stopped.

Silence.

The kind of silence that feels alive, that fills your ears with blood rush and heartbeats.

Osano’s chest heaved. Sweat clung to his forehead, his shirt sticking to his skin beneath his jacket. He stared at the guitar, fingers trembling slightly.

The judges sat motionless for a beat, almost as though stunned.

The Dean was the first to speak, her voice low but thoughtful. “That… was not what I expected.”

The Head of the Music Department leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Raw. Untamed. But… authentic.”

The proctor, smiling faintly, clapped his hands once. “That’s Osano Najimi for you. He doesn’t half-ass anything—even when the world tells him he should.”

Osano lifted his head slowly, uncertain. “S-So… was that… okay?”

The Dean and the Head exchanged a look, then nodded almost in unison.

“It was more than okay,” the Dean said.

The Dean’s words hung in the air, the gravity of them sinking into Osano’s chest like an anchor—except instead of dragging him down, it held him steady. For a moment, he just stood there, fingers still lightly resting against the strings of his guitar, buzzing faintly from the last chord he hadn’t quite muted. His pulse hammered in his ears.

The Head of the Music Department leaned forward, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s rare,” he said, “to see someone bring that kind of raw energy into this room. Most candidates… they hide behind refinement. You didn’t.”

Osano gave a small, nervous laugh, his hand automatically raking through his ginger hair. “Yeah, well… refinement’s never really been my thing.”

The proctor, sitting off to the side, folded his hands on the table. He didn’t have the same polished air as the Dean or the Head, but his eyes were bright, almost proud. “Osano,” he said, his voice softer, almost familiar now. “That was good. Really good. But you know how this works. Audition or not, everything hinges on your entrance exams. Those results will be out at three o’clock today.”

The words landed heavy. Osano swallowed, his throat dry. Three o’clock. He nodded quickly, gripping the neck of his guitar a little tighter. “I get it. Yeah. I… I’ll wait.”

“You did well under pressure today,” the proctor added, his gaze steady on Osano. “If you can do the same in class, you’ll survive here. We’ll need a copy of your medical clearance, your performance portfolio, and your personal essay by the end of the week.”

Osano blinked. “Essay?”

The Head chuckled at his expression. “Don’t look so shocked. Every program has one. We want to know who you are outside of your guitar. Write about your journey, your influences, why you chose music. You’ve got a voice worth hearing, both on stage and on paper. Don’t waste it.”

Osano’s heart thumped harder, but this time it wasn’t just nerves—it was something closer to exhilaration. The Dean nodded once more, then reached for the stack of papers at his side, sliding a packet across the desk toward him. “Read through this carefully. Requirements, schedules, expectations. If your exam scores align, you’ll be joining us here at Akatsuka University.”

The packet looked heavier than it should have, like it carried more weight than simple paper. Osano stared at it for a beat before taking it in both hands, careful not to wrinkle the edges.

The proctor stood, smoothing down his tie. “Three o’clock, Osano. Don’t go running off somewhere and lose track of time. I’d hate for you to miss your own results.”

Osano barked out a short laugh, still flushed from adrenaline. “Yeah, no kidding. I’ll… I’ll be here. I promise.”

He slung his guitar over his back, clutching the packet with one hand. For the first time in months—maybe years—he felt something burning in his chest that wasn’t just anger or defiance. It was possibility.

Three o’clock.

If the exams lined up, his entire future was waiting for him just beyond those doors.

At 1:05 p.m., the weight of the packet in Osano’s hands was heavier than the guitar slung across his back. The Dean’s words still echoed in his ears—end of the week—but his gut told him not to wait. He’d been burned too many times by procrastination, by “later,” by assuming he had more time than he did. If there was even the smallest chance he could walk out of this day with not just his exam results but also his requirements squared away, he wasn’t going to waste it.

He ducked into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The campus was alive with summer heat and chatter, but Osano barely registered it. He scanned the packet quickly, his green eyes darting over the bold print headings.

1. Medical clearance.

2. Performance portfolio (minimum three recordings, physical or digital).

3. Personal essay (1–2 pages, handwritten or typed).

He exhaled through his teeth. “Okay. Okay. This is doable.”

His mind moved fast. Medical clearance first. He knew a guy—well, more like his parents knew half the medical staff in Tokeino City Hospital. But he wasn’t calling them. No way. Luckily, Akatsuka University had its own clinic. He spotted the arrowed signs on the wall and broke into a brisk walk, his boots thudding against the tile.

By 1:15, he was filling out forms at the clinic desk, the nurse raising an eyebrow at his urgency.

“You don’t have to rush, you know,” she said. “You’ve got until Friday to turn this in.”

Osano shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got time now. Might not later. Just… please.”

She smiled faintly at his determination and waved him through. The checkup was quick—blood pressure, reflexes, a few standard questions. The doctor gave him a clean bill of health, stamping the clearance paper with a satisfying thunk. By 1:35, he was jogging out of the clinic, paper tucked carefully into the packet.

Next: the portfolio. His pulse spiked. He didn’t exactly carry around recordings of himself like some overprepared honors kid. But then he remembered—Kyuji’s garage. The amp, the old camcorder, the USB stick they used when they recorded practice sessions for fun. If he could get there and back before three—

He was already dialing Kyuji’s number as he cut across campus.

“Kyuji, bro, where’s the USB with our recordings?”

“Uh—what? Why?”

“Don’t ask. Just tell me!”

“Top drawer, under the pedal tuner.”

“Bless you. I’m coming over.”

By 1:45, he was tearing down side streets on his bike, hair whipping against his forehead. The sun beat down, sweat stinging his eyes, but he didn’t stop. The garage was just a blur of familiar chaos when he burst in—Kyuji and Rai both staring at him.

“Osano, what the hell—”

“No time!” he shouted, skidding across the floor, yanking open the drawer. His hand closed on the USB like it was salvation. He was gone before they could ask more.

By 2:05, he was back on campus, USB clutched in his fist. He ducked into the library, breathless, and begged one of the staff to print the files and burn them onto a CD. It took bribing them with vending machine coffee, but by 2:25 he had a neat little disc slipped into a case. Requirement two: done.

That left the essay.

His hands trembled slightly as he opened his notebook on one of the library desks. The words didn’t come at first. He stared at the page, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Write about who you are. Why you chose music.

Why?

Because he couldn’t not. Because music was the only place he felt alive, the only thing that shut out the chaos in his head, the only voice that didn’t betray him.

His pen scratched fast across the paper, ink smudging where his hand pressed too hard. By 2:45, he had a messy but heartfelt page and a half, his signature scrawled at the bottom.

He exhaled hard, shoulders sagging, and stacked the papers together in the packet—medical clearance, portfolio, essay. All of it. Done.

By 2:55, he was standing outside the admissions office, packet clutched tight, sweat still drying on his temples. He’d done it. Every requirement, every scrap of proof they’d asked for—he had it all, in hand, before the clock struck three.

And now, there was nothing left but the wait.

2:57 p.m.

Osano stood in the hallway outside the admissions office, packet in hand. His chest still rose and fell too fast from the sprint across campus. The sweat on his back stuck his shirt to his skin, but his grip on that packet never faltered. He’d done it.

He pushed it across the counter, the clerk blinking at him like he was a strange breed of student.

“You could’ve waited until Friday,” she murmured, sliding the stamped receipt back to him.

He just muttered, “I don’t wait,” and tucked it safely into his pocket.

Now… all that was left was the results.

The bulletin board was only a few steps away, tucked into the shade of the wide hallway. A crowd had already started to gather, the buzz of voices prickling at his ears. Everyone knew the results would be posted at 3 p.m. sharp. That meant two minutes. Two long minutes.

He stopped just short of the crowd, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His green eyes flicked to the clock above the doorway. 2:58.

Don’t think about it. You’ve done all you can. Stop pacing, stop clenching your jaw, stop—

2:59.

His heart thudded harder. Someone nearby laughed nervously, clutching their friend’s sleeve. Another muttered prayers under their breath. Osano’s fists curled. He hated this part. Waiting. The silence before the verdict.

Then the door creaked open.

A staff member in neat slacks stepped out with a thick stack of papers, tacked them onto the board, and smoothed the corners.

3:00.

The hallway exploded.

Students surged forward, a tide of sneakers squeaking against tile. People craned necks, shoved past shoulders, voices overlapping. Osano stayed back, jaw tight, fighting the instinct to dive in with them.

Instead, he waited. He always waited. He’d rather face the truth when the noise died down than elbow his way through desperation. His foot tapped against the wall. The seconds dragged like hours.

Finally, the crowd began to thin. Students left with faces either glowing or crushed. Some clutched their papers to their chest, some dragged their feet in silence.

Osano pushed himself off the wall and stepped forward, each stride heavier than the last.

His eyes scanned the sheet. Column after column of names. His pulse hammered so loud it drowned out the chatter.

Najimi, Najimi, Najimi—

There.

Najimi, Osano – QUALIFIED

He froze. His breath hitched sharp in his throat. For a second, he thought he’d misread it. But no—it was there, in black and white.

He passed.

The tension in his shoulders melted all at once. His knees nearly buckled, though he caught himself against the edge of the board. A laugh bubbled up in his chest, but he smothered it, running a hand down his face instead.

I did it. Holy shit. I actually did it.

The moment Osano’s eyes locked onto his name on that board, his whole body jolted like electricity had run through him. Passed. He passed. The weight that had pressed on his chest all week dissolved into something feather-light, sharp, thrilling.

Without even realizing it, he was running.

The hallway blurred past him, his sneakers pounding against tile. His packet of requirements was tucked firmly under his arm, and his other hand clutched the stamped receipt like it was a medal. Students glanced at him as he tore through the corridor, some startled, some laughing—most dragging their feet in relief or disappointment while he blazed ahead with the momentum of someone who refused to let this moment slow down.

By the time he reached the Dean’s office, his breath came in heavy bursts, his ginger hair clinging slightly to his forehead. He didn’t stop to fix himself. He shoved the door open, and the sharp sound echoed through the room.

The Dean and the Head, who were mid-discussion, both looked up in surprise.

There he was—Osano Najimi—lean, broad-shouldered, green eyes burning with triumph, cheeks flushed from the sprint. And there was that smile. Bright, wide, unguarded. The kind of smile that caught people off-guard because it wasn’t his usual scowl or smirk.

He strode to the desk and placed the neatly completed packet and his stamped proof of submission down in front of them with a soft thud.

“All done,” he said, voice rough from running but laced with undeniable pride.

The Dean blinked, leaning back slightly in her chair.

“…Already?”

Osano nodded once, still catching his breath. “You said requirements. I got them. You said results. I got those too.” He tapped the receipt with two fingers, then leaned back slightly, that grin still tugging at his mouth.

The Head chuckled softly, exchanging a glance with the Dean. “Students usually… ah, take their time. Some even wait until the last day of the deadline before bringing these in.”

“Yeah, well…” Osano shrugged, that restless fire in his veins still burning. “I didn’t see the point in waiting.” His green eyes gleamed. “I’ve been waiting long enough just to get here.”

The Dean folded her hands together, regarding him carefully. The boy’s confidence wasn’t arrogant—it was raw, determined, the kind that spoke of nights spent practicing until his fingers blistered, of hours cleaning jobs he never asked for, of pressure that would have crushed anyone softer.

Finally, the Dean’s lips curved into the faintest smile.

“I see,” she said slowly. “Well, Najimi… welcome to Akatsuka University.”

Those words hit Osano harder than he expected. For a second, his smile faltered—his throat tightened, his chest caved in with something deeper than triumph. But then he straightened, nodded firmly, and let the grin return.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, steps lighter than they’d been in years.

Osano could barely keep still. He’d snagged himself a window seat on the train back to Tokeino, but his knee bounced furiously, the adrenaline still rushing through him. The words “Welcome to Akatsuka University” replayed over and over in his head like his favorite guitar riff, and every time he thought about it, his grin widened until his cheeks hurt.

He was already drafting the text he’d send to the boys—Rai would cheer like an idiot, Juno would probably type in all caps, and Kyuji would send some dry but secretly proud remark. And then there were his parents. Oh, he couldn’t wait to march up to them and slap this news in their faces. Yeah, I did it. Without you. Without your money, your name, your strings. Me. The thought made his blood pump harder, hot and victorious.

The train jolted to a stop at the next station, and he barely noticed—until someone brushed past him and slid into the seat right across from his.

He blinked.

Ayano Aishi.

Of course it was her. The one person he couldn’t seem to escape in this city, not that he’d admit he minded. His childhood friend, perpetually unreadable, sitting with her hands folded neatly on her lap, her expression as calm as ever. But she tilted her head ever so slightly at him, eyes scanning his face.

“You’re in a good mood,” she said softly. Her voice was always so even, so quiet, but it had a way of cutting right through him. “You’re not usually… happy.”

Osano barked out a laugh. “Gee, thanks.” His grin only widened though, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, practically buzzing. “Nah, but—you’re looking at the newest Akatsuka University student.”

For the first time, her expression shifted, if only by a fraction. Her eyes softened, her lips parted slightly, and—was that the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her mouth?

“…Congratulations,” she said. And though her voice was still even, there was a warmth under it, one that made his chest feel tight. “You worked hard. You deserve it.”

The praise hit him harder than he expected. He tried to wave it off with a scoff, leaning back in his seat, but his ears were burning red.

“Tch. Don’t make it sound so serious.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, grinning despite himself. “What about you, huh? You submit your stuff yet?”

Ayano blinked once. “I did.” Then she said it as though it were nothing: “I got into Saikou University.”

For a moment, Osano just stared at her. Then his mouth dropped open. “Saikou University?”

She gave a small nod, but her gaze flickered toward the window, almost… disappointed. “Yes. It’s good. But… it means we won’t be at the same university.”

The words slipped out of him before he could stop them. “Then I’ll just visit Saikou University.”

Her eyes snapped back to him, startled. He leaned forward again, trying to play it off, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, glowing red. He cleared his throat, voice gruff.

“I mean—don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not gonna hang around that stuck-up campus for anyone else. Just you. If I’m visiting, it’s only for you.”

Ayano froze. Her lashes lowered, and for the first time since he sat down, a flush crept across her pale cheeks. She dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap, her composure cracking just enough for him to catch it.

“…I see,” she murmured, too quiet for anyone else on the train to hear.

Osano’s heart stuttered in his chest. He felt the heat crawl up his neck, his grin faltering into something nervous, almost boyish. For once, neither of them said anything. The train rocked gently along the tracks, the city rushing past the window, and in that quiet moment, both of them sat across from each other, blushing like idiots.

The train clattered along the tracks, a low hum vibrating beneath their shoes. Osano leaned against the metal pole across from Ayano, still unable to wipe the crooked grin off his face. His guitar case rested by his side, the strap dangling loosely, and he tapped his fingers against it like he couldn’t stop buzzing.

“So,” he started, voice a little awkward now that the initial rush of excitement was cooling into something quieter—more fragile. “What, uh… what course did you end up picking? At Saikou, I mean.”

Ayano tilted her head just slightly, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. Her voice was calm, even, as always. “Medical Technology.”

For a second, Osano froze. He blinked, the words sinking in, and something tugged at his chest—memory, sharp and vivid. Late-night conversations when they were fifteen, sprawled out on the apartment rooftop, him saying, “We’ll be MedTech buddies, yeah? Busting our asses in labs together, making fun of our professors.” And she’d nodded, quiet but content, as if that promise was enough.

“Oh.” His grin faltered for the first time since he’d stepped off campus. “Right. MedTech.”

Ayano didn’t move, didn’t frown, but there was a flicker in her eyes—a stillness that was heavier than her usual quiet. “You once told me you’d take it with me.”

Her words weren’t accusatory. They were soft, almost observational. But they pressed against him harder than a shout. Osano rubbed the back of his neck, his ears hot.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” he muttered, laughing under his breath, though it came out more like a sigh. He tapped his boot against the floor, eyes darting to the blurred cityscape passing outside. “Guess I lied. Or—nah, not lied. I just… y’know. Music wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t ditch it.”

Ayano watched him quietly. And then, to his relief, she nodded. “That’s good. You’ve always loved music.”

That struck him in a way he didn’t expect. No one really said it like that—matter-of-fact, as if she’d been paying attention longer than anyone else. He felt his throat tighten, so he shrugged it off with a crooked smirk.

“Maybe in another life,” he said lightly, “we’ll be Medical Technologists together. White coats, test tubes, the whole nerd package. You and me in some lab, blowing stuff up.”

Her lips quirked—barely, but it was there. The faintest shadow of a smile. “Maybe.”

The train screeched to a halt, doors hissing open. They stepped out together, but as always, their paths split at the station stairs—Ayano heading one way, Osano the other. He gave her a casual wave, trying not to think too hard about that tiny almost-smile she’d given him. His chest still buzzed, though, and he was ready—ready to run home and throw his victory in his parents’ smug faces.

Yeah, I did it without you. Akatsuka University. Music Major. No strings attached.

He bolted through the streets, boots slapping against pavement, guitar case bouncing at his side. His heart was pounding with triumph by the time he shoved open the apartment door.

“MA! PA!” he barked, voice sharp with adrenaline. “Guess what—”

But he stopped dead.

His parents were already waiting in the living room. His father sat with a newspaper folded neatly across his lap, his mother perched elegantly on the couch, tea steaming at her side. Between them, on the coffee table, sat a thick packet of papers stamped with a logo he knew all too well.

Saikou University.

Both of his parents were seated stiffly on the leather sofa, dressed like they’d just come back from work. On the glass coffee table lay a crisp folder, the emblem of Saikou University stamped across the cover. His chest tightened.

“What the hell is this?” Osano’s voice dropped, eyes narrowing.

His father didn’t even look smug—just cold, businesslike. “We anticipated your little independence stunt,” he said smoothly. “We had to be two steps ahead of you. You’ve been enrolled at Saikou University. Bachelor of Science in Medical Technology.”

The words hit him like a gut punch. Osano blinked, confused, then betrayed. “What—? No, no, no. I already enrolled. I got accepted into Akatsuka for music. Music, dammit! What are you talking about?”

His mother’s lips curved into the faintest smile, but her tone was sharp as glass. “You didn’t need to bother yourself with entrance exams, Osano. We spoke with the board. Pulled some strings. You’re in Saikou now. A far better school than Akatsuka will ever be.”

His pulse spiked, heat crawling up his neck. “I didn’t even take the exams there! You can’t just—”

“We already took care of it,” his father cut in, rising to his feet. His presence loomed, casting the room in a colder shade. “I called the President of Akatsuka University personally. You’ll be pulled from their roster by tomorrow morning. And for your nonsense attempt at rebellion, you’re blacklisted from ever enrolling there again.”

The room tilted for a moment. The papers blurred in Osano’s vision, his buzzing triumph crashing into static. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Everything I worked for, everything I wanted—just erased with one goddamn phone call.

The room tilted for a moment. The papers blurred in Osano’s vision, his buzzing triumph crashing into static. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Everything I worked for, everything I wanted—just erased with one goddamn phone call.

“Osano,” Hinano’s voice cut through the silence, her tone too soft, too placating—like the hush of a hand smoothing down a child’s hair after a scraped knee. She stepped forward carefully, lips pressed into a thin line before curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sweetheart, listen. This isn’t a loss. This is… actually good news.”

Osano’s head snapped up, disbelief flashing in his eyes. His mother pressed on quickly, folding her hands as if she could hold the weight of his fury together with her fingers.

“You’ll be in Saikou University now, in Medical Technology. And…” she trailed off, searching for the right hook, “…you’ll be in the same department and block as Ayano.”

Ayano. Of course they’d drag her name into this, the only card they had that could make him hesitate. Both his parents knew her, knew she’d been his shadow since childhood, the one constant tether in his chaotic life. And yes—they approved of her. Too much. They always spoke of her with a kind of reverence, the good influence they hoped would temper their son.

But right now? That meant nothing.

Osano let out a bitter, guttural laugh, shaking his head. “You think I give a damn about that right now?!” His voice cracked with fury, his chest heaving. “You destroyed everything I worked for. Every all-nighter. Every stupid audition. Every hour I bled into this. And for what? So I can play your game?!”

Hinano’s eyes flickered, faltering under his rage, but before she could respond, Osano spat it out—his rebellion. “Fine. Then I’ll just drop out of Saikou’s first thing tomorrow morning.”

The air split like glass.

His father—Osuke—straightened in his chair, his jaw set like stone. He hadn’t moved much until then, letting Hinano play peacekeeper. But now his eyes narrowed, dark and sharp as blades.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Osuke said, his voice low, each word striking like a hammer.

“Watch me,” Osano hissed back, his shoulders squared, fire burning where joy had once been.

And then it ignited—an eruption years in the making.

“You think you know better than me?” Osuke thundered, rising to his full height, his presence filling the room like a storm. “You, who hasn’t worked a single day in your life without our money? Who sits here, spewing curses, wasting potential on garbage noise you call music?”

“It’s not garbage!” Osano roared, his voice raw. “It’s the only thing that’s mine! Not yours, not Mom’s, not anyone else’s—MINE! And you can’t take it away from me!”

“You’re delusional!” Osuke barked back. His finger jabbed the air like a weapon. “You will not embarrass this family with your reckless fantasies. You’ll go to Saikou, you’ll become someone respectable, and you’ll thank me for saving you from ruining your life!”

“Respectable?!” Osano’s throat tore with the force of his words. His face flushed red, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes but burning away from the heat of his rage. “You don’t give a shit about me! You just care about the family name, about controlling everything I do! You never once believed in me—you just want to own me!”

The tension snapped. Osuke’s face twisted, veins protruding at his temple. His gaze darted to the black electric guitar strapped to Osano’s back—the same one he’d carried into every audition, every practice, every lonely night hunched over strings when no one else cared.

And then, with terrifying calm, Osuke reached forward and wrenched it from his son’s hands.

“No—DON’T—” Osano lunged after him, his voice shredding, desperation lacing every syllable. But before he could grab it back, Osuke raised the guitar high and slammed it against the hardwood floor.

CRACK!

The sound reverberated through the living room like a gunshot.

Osano froze for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, breath caught in his throat. “STOP! STOP, DAMN IT, STOP!” His voice broke as he lunged again, but Hinano’s arms locked around him from behind, iron-clad in her fear.

“Osano, don’t—please—” she whispered, but her voice was lost under the violence of wood meeting wood.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Each slam was a nail in the coffin of his independence, his freedom, his voice. Splinters scattered across the floor like shrapnel, strings twanging broken cries before snapping into silence.

Osano thrashed in his mother’s hold, his own screams tearing from his chest raw and ragged. “STOP! DAD PLEASE! DON’T DO THIS! STOP, DAMN YOU!” His hands clawed at the air, reaching for what was left of the guitar, his body trembling with fury and grief.

But Osuke didn’t stop. He brought the shattered remains down again, and again, until all that was left was a pile of unrecognizable wreckage at his feet. His chest heaved, sweat beading at his temples, his hands still gripping the broken neck of the instrument like a weapon.

The room was silent except for Osano’s ragged breathing, his voice cracking through sobs of rage. He sank against Hinano’s arms, his eyes locked on the ruins scattered across the floor. His chest burned. His throat tore. His heart—the very thing he fought to protect—lay in splinters before him.

The silence was thick enough to choke on. It pressed down on the ruined living room, on the fragments of wood and twisted strings littering the floor like a corpse, on the still form of Hinano clutching her son’s shoulders as if afraid he would break too.

And then—Osuke’s voice. Low, almost absentmindedly, as if he weren’t the one standing over the wreckage of his son’s dream.

“The things I do… for love.”

Osano’s head snapped up, his tear-streaked face contorting, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. For a heartbeat, he thought he’d misheard. But no—the words hung there, dripping with that calm, detached cruelty his father always wielded.

Osano’s fists shook at his sides, his chest heaving. “Love?” he spat, the word like poison. He shoved against Hinano’s hold, stumbling to his feet. His glare cut into Osuke like a knife, his voice breaking into jagged edges.

“You don’t fucking love me. You’ve never loved me!”

Hinano flinched, her eyes wide as though her son had just stabbed her straight through. “Osano—don’t say that.” Her hand reached for him instinctively, trembling. “I carried you, I raised you, I—I’ve loved you from the moment I—”

He turned on her, eyes blazing. “No.” His voice cracked but his fury filled the room. “You don’t fucking love me either.”

Hinano froze as if struck. “Osano…”

“You both don’t love me—you love what I’m supposed to be. Your perfect little heir. Your golden fucking boy who smiles and obeys and becomes whatever puppet you dress him up as.” His lip curled. “But me? Who I am? What I want? That’s never mattered to you. Not once.”

Osuke’s silence was colder than ice, his expression unreadable. Hinano’s throat bobbed, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“And you know what?” Osano’s voice dropped, hoarse but sharp, every word like glass in his mouth. “I don’t love you either. Not anymore.”

Hinano recoiled, her breath hitching, as if the ground had been yanked out from under her. Her hands clutched at nothing, desperate to hold onto him, but he was already walking away.

Osano stormed down the hall, into his room. The sound of drawers ripping open, of bags thrown onto the bed, of zippers shrieking filled the house. His breath came in ragged bursts as he shoved clothes, notebooks, and his remaining things into a backpack. Every slam of a drawer was a curse. Every stuffed sleeve was another layer of armor.

Hinano hovered helpless in the doorway, tears spilling, whispering his name like a prayer.

“Osano… please…”

He didn’t answer.

The last thing he grabbed was his battered phone charger, yanking it from the wall with a harsh snap. He slung the bag over his shoulder, chest heaving, jaw set like iron. His room—his prison cell—looked bare, abandoned.

He marched past his parents, his eyes bloodshot but cold now, lifeless in a way that scared even Hinano.

“From this day forward,” he rasped, every word laced with venom, “you’re nothing to me. And I’m nothing to you.”

Hinano reached out—just barely grazing his arm. “Osano—”

He ripped away.

The slam of the front door cracked through the house like a gunshot.

Outside, the night air bit his skin, sharp and unforgiving. But Osano didn’t stop. His sneakers pounded against the pavement, his breaths harsh and uneven, his chest hollow yet burning.

He didn’t look back.

Not once.

The Najimi house behind him was no longer his home. Just four walls full of strangers who destroyed him with a smile and dared to call it love.

He was done.

The phone vibrated in Osano’s pocket, breaking through the pounding in his skull. He ignored it at first, stomping down the uneven sidewalk with his backpack half-slung on one shoulder, his sneakers scuffing against the cracked pavement. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and summer rain, but he didn’t care—he couldn’t care. Everything he had been building, clawing toward, had been shattered in the living room he just stormed out of.

The phone buzzed again. Longer this time. Relentless.

Osano cursed under his breath and yanked it out. The screen lit up with a name he hadn’t seen in a while—

Kenzou Umiyama.

His gut dropped.

He stared at the name a moment too long, considering whether to swipe red and let it die. But his thumb betrayed him, sliding green, pressing the phone to his ear.

“...What.” His voice was shredded raw, his throat still carrying the echo of screaming.

“Don’t you ‘what’ me, Najimi.” Umiyama’s voice hissed through the receiver, low and sharp like broken glass. “Do you have any goddamn idea what you’ve done?”

Osano stopped walking. The street noise blurred into a dull hum behind him. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid.” Umiyama spat. “Because of you, every last one of my cleaners from Haruki Hotels & Resorts is blacklisted. Fired. Wiped off the books. Do you hear me? Do you understand what that means? That’s dozens of people who can’t put food on the table. That’s years of work, gone. All because you—”

Osano pulled the phone away from his ear, his hand trembling. His pulse throbbed in his temple. “Because I what?”

“Because you missed one fucking drop of blood, you useless piece of shit!” Umiyama roared. “One goddamn drop! Toshiko Haruki, the fucking heiress, gets dragged into custody, and guess what they find? Hm? They find the trail you didn’t clean! They tied her to Kaito Hinata’s death because of YOUR mistake!”

Osano’s breath hitched, like someone had punched him in the ribs. His mouth went dry. That morning replayed in his mind—the fatigue, the reek of bleach, the stinging burn in his lungs as he scrubbed until dawn. He thought he’d gotten everything. He swore he had.

A drop. One drop.

“Bullshit,” he rasped, but his conviction faltered.

“No, Najimi. Not bullshit. You cost me my people, my network, my trust with the biggest hotel line in this city. Do you have any idea the weight of that? You made me look like a goddamn fool. And now? Now everyone’s looking for someone to blame. Guess whose name is at the top of that list?”

Osano’s knees weakened. He stumbled back against a lamppost, the metal cold against his shoulder. He wanted to scream back, to tell Umiyama to shove it—that he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, that he wasn’t the one who left corpses in luxury suites. But the words stuck in his throat.

Because deep down, beneath the anger, beneath the raw hurt from his parents, there was a creeping, gnawing horror.

Maybe Umiyama was right.

Maybe this was on him.

His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles ached. “...So what, huh? You calling me just to spit on me? To rub it in? To ruin my night more than it already is?”

Umiyama’s laugh was hollow, humorless. “Ruin your night? Kid, you don’t get it. This isn’t about your night. This is about your life. You fucked up. And when people fuck up like this in our line of work... they don’t get a second chance.”

The line went quiet, heavy with unspoken threat.

Osano’s chest heaved. The lamppost pressed harder against his back. His entire body screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go.

The universe had cornered him.

And it was only 5 in the afternoon.

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store buzzed faintly, casting everything in that tired, washed-out glow that made the world look more pitiful than it already was. Osano sat slumped against the instant noodle aisle, a can of cheap beer cracked open in his hand, untouched. His hood was drawn up, but it didn’t hide the rawness in his eyes or the tremor in his jaw. His other hand dug into his pocket, feeling the crumpled wad of yen like it was a lifeline. ¥150,000. His last paycheck. His last fucking shred of control.

The glass doors slid open with a soft ding. He didn’t look up—didn’t care who it was. But a voice, steady and low, cut through the static in his skull.

“...Osano?”

His head snapped up. Ayano stood at the entrance, a plastic bag swinging lightly at her side, pastel sweater sleeves hanging loose over her hands. She blinked at him, then dropped the bag onto the counter without a word and crossed the store, her eyes locked on his wrecked state.

He couldn’t stop the ugly laugh that ripped from his throat. “Figures. You’d see me like this.” He shoved his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands until they stung. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

Ayano crouched down in front of him, her face calm, but her gaze sharp and searching. “What happened?”

His laugh sharpened into a snarl. “What happened? My fucking life happened. My parents—my job—my future—” His voice cracked, and he shoved the beer can away, spilling foam across the linoleum. “I don’t have a place to stay. I don’t even have work anymore. I’ve got—” he yanked the wad of bills from his pocket, shaking it at her like proof, like a joke—“this. That’s it. That’s all I fucking have left.”

Ayano’s eyes flicked to the money, then back to him. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pity. She just said, softly, “The apartment next to mine is for rent.”

Osano froze.

Her voice stayed quiet, matter-of-fact, as if she were telling him the time. “One hundred thousand yen a month. It’s small, but… it’s safe.”

He stared at her, chest heaving, jaw slack. “Are you—” He choked, half on a laugh, half on the lump in his throat. “You’re fucking kidding me. Just like that? You think I can just—just pick up and start over? You think that fixes anything?”

Ayano tilted her head slightly. “No,” she admitted. “But it gives you a place to sleep. And walls that are yours.”

Her words landed like stones, quiet but heavy. He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream at her, too, like he had at his parents. But the fury was gone now, drained out of him and left only with the hollow ache. His lips trembled as he muttered, “...I don’t deserve that.”

Ayano didn’t answer right away. She only sat with him, her pastel sleeves brushing against the broken black of his hoodie, until the silence pressed softer instead of heavier. Then, gently:

“You don’t have to deserve it. You just need it.”

Osano stared at her for a long, long moment, his eyes burning again—but this time not from rage. He scrubbed at his face with the heel of his palm and muttered, broken and hoarse, “...Fuck, Ayano.”

The clock on Ayano’s phone read just past five when the two of them stood outside the apartment complex office, the fading light casting a dim orange hue across the narrow streets. Osano shifted restlessly beside her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, head ducked like he was trying to disappear.

The landlord was an older man with thinning hair and tired eyes, the kind of man who’d seen too many tenants come and go. He listened as Ayano, soft-spoken but firm, explained the situation: Osano was a student, a good one, just out of luck.

The man’s gaze flicked to Osano, who couldn’t quite meet it. His mouth opened, then shut again. He braced for rejection, for another lecture, for someone else to remind him he’d fucked everything up.

But instead, the landlord sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Fifty thousand for the first month,” he said. “You can make up the rest later. Just don’t cause trouble.”

Osano’s head snapped up, disbelief etched across his face. “...Fifty?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” the landlord muttered, already scribbling on the paperwork.

Ayano nodded once in gratitude, sliding the envelope of yen across the desk. Osano just stood there, stunned, his throat tight.

When the door to his new apartment finally creaked open, Osano stepped inside slowly, as if afraid it might vanish if he moved too fast. The place was bare, walls pale and empty, but it had a bed, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with working lights. Four walls. A roof. His.

He set his bag down by the entryway and turned in a slow circle, taking in every corner like he was memorizing it. Relief hit him in a strange, suffocating wave. He felt his knees threaten to give.

Ayano lingered by the door, watching him quietly.

He turned to her, words stuck in his throat, until finally they stumbled out. “...Thank you.” His voice cracked on it. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Ayano… seriously. I—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what to say. I thought—I thought I was done for. And then… you.”

She blinked at him, expression unreadable, then let a faint smile slip through. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… rest.”

The quiet hum of the city outside filled the space between them. Osano swallowed hard, looking at her—really looking at her—for the first time that day. The pastel softness of her sweater. The calm steadiness in her eyes. The way she always seemed to appear when he was at his lowest.

“...You saved my ass,” he muttered, softer this time, almost ashamed of how much it meant.

Ayano’s gaze flickered, her voice low but certain. “That’s what friends are for.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it was fragile, like the thin glass wall of a snow globe, containing something neither of them dared to touch too roughly.

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Ayano stepped closer. Her hand brushed against his sleeve—just barely there—before she tilted her face up and pressed the lightest kiss to his cheek.

It was fleeting. Barely a breath. But it lingered like fire on his skin.

“Goodnight, Osano,” she murmured, her voice steady in contrast to the quiet tremor that ran through him.

And then she was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Osano stood frozen where she’d left him, hand twitching slightly as though it wanted to reach up and touch the spot. His ears burned, his cheeks hot, and his heart—damn it—his heart was hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.

He let out a shaky laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Tch… figures,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “The universe kicks my ass all day, then throws me that.”

He dropped heavily onto the bed, still grinning faintly despite himself. His whole world had been stripped bare in the span of hours—his job, his money, his security. But sitting there in the empty apartment, warmth still clinging to his cheek, Osano thought… maybe the universe didn’t hate him that much after all.

Not if it left him with her.

Osano sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the thin mattress dipping under his weight. The walls of the new apartment were bare, the air stale with that empty-room smell—like no one had lived here for years. He dragged his palms over his face, groaning.

He needed a new job.

That much was obvious. He couldn’t stay with Haruki Hotels, not after today. Not after the fuck up. The images replayed over and over in his mind like a scratched CD: the drop of blood he missed, Umiyama's frantic phone calls, and then the fallout—dozens of cleaners fired. Blacklisted. Hated.

Because of him.

Osano’s chest tightened, his jaw locking so hard it ached. Everyone and their damn mothers probably wanted his head on a stick right now. He couldn’t even blame them. If the roles were reversed, he’d be gunning for blood too.

So where the hell was he supposed to go? The job market was already brutal. Add a blacklisting and a reputation as the guy who ruined dozens of livelihoods? He was poison now. He knew it.

That left him with nothing.

Nothing except—

His fingers brushed against something stiff in his pocket. He frowned, pulling it out. A card.

The matte red paper gleamed under the fluorescent ceiling light. Simple. Minimal. Only a name and a number printed in stark white.

Info-kun.

Osano stared at it, his gut twisting. He remembered when he got it—half a joke, half a dare, someone whispering about the shady shut-in with connections to anything and anyone if you had the cash. Osano hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Hell, he only kept it because it looked kind of cool.

But now…

Now it felt like the universe had shoved it into his hand for a reason.

He turned it over once, twice, the weight of it digging into his palm. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like where his thoughts were going. But sitting here, stripped down to nothing, with the sound of Ayano’s soft voice still echoing in the back of his head—That’s what friends are for—he realized he didn’t have many options left.

If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to keep living one wall away from her…

He might just have to call him.

Osano turned the card over again and again in his hand until the edges started to curl. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew this was the kind of number you didn’t call unless you were ready to sink into something you couldn’t crawl out of.

But what else did he have?

He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over the keypad. His chest was tight, his throat dry. “...Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, and dialed the number.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then, a click.

A long pause, followed by a lazy, muffled voice:

“Well, well, well. Look who’s calling me. Thought you were too good for my line of work, Najimi.”

Osano froze. His grip on the phone tightened. That smug tone. He could practically see the smirk through the speaker.

“Chishiki,” Osano muttered, already annoyed.

“Ohh, so formal. Haven’t heard from you in months and the first thing you do is growl my name like a sulky teenager. Cute.” A soft chuckle. “What’s the matter, hothead? Mommy and Daddy finally cut you off? Or did you screw up so bad even the corporate suits don’t want your mop anymore?”

Osano’s jaw flexed. He should’ve expected this. Info-kun didn’t just do favors—he savored them. He’d milk the humiliation out of anyone who called him desperate.

“...I need work,” Osano said flatly, pushing the words out before his pride clawed them back down his throat.

The silence that followed was deafening. Then, the low whistle of mock sympathy.

“Need work. Oh, I love when you beg. Say it again, Najimi. Slower this time.”

Osano’s temple throbbed. “Don’t fuck with me. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know you’re serious. That’s what makes this delicious. The infamous Osano Najimi—Mr. Righteous, too proud to even touch my scraps—calling me.” Chishiki’s voice softened, amused, cruel. “Look who’s desperate now.”

Osano bit down on his cheek, hard enough to taste iron. He wanted to hang up. He wanted to hurl his phone across the room. But he stayed. He stayed because he couldn’t walk away—not from this.

Finally, he forced out, low and rough, “Are you gonna give me something or not?”

Chishiki hummed, the sound dragging out, taunting.

“Oh, I’ll give you something. But I don’t work for free, Najimi. You know the rules. Everything’s a transaction. And right now… you’re not in a very good bargaining position.”

Osano shut his eyes, his knuckles white around the phone. His whole body buzzed with tension, like a live wire ready to snap.

On the other end, Chishiki sighed as if Osano’s frustration was background music, something pleasant to toy with.

“Relax,” Chishiki drawled. “I’m not gonna bite. Not yet.” There was the faint scrape of something—keyboard keys, maybe, or the drag of a straw through the bottom of a drink. “You want work? Fine. But you don’t just walk in and get handed the real deals. You gotta prove you can play in my sandbox without crying to the teacher.”

Osano’s lip curled. “A test?”

“Mmm. Think of it as… an audition.”

Silence stretched for a moment, filled only with Chishiki’s steady typing. Then:

“There’s a… mess. A little one. Outskirts of Akatsuka, by the river warehouses. Should still be fresh.”

Osano’s gut twisted. He didn’t ask what “mess” meant—he already knew. His pulse quickened in a way he hated, not quite fear but close enough.

“Details?” he forced out.

“Two bodies. Yakuza grunts. Let’s just say their boss isn’t thrilled they lost the fight. Your job is to go in, make the place sparkle, and disappear them. Standard cleanup. Nothing fancy.”

Osano swallowed. He’d done cleaning jobs before, but this wasn’t spilled beer at a dive bar or puke in a hotel bathroom. This was blood. Real blood. Flesh. Bone.

Chishiki must’ve sensed his hesitation, because he chuckled, low and sharp.

“What’s the matter, Najimi? You scared of a little red paint? Or maybe you’re worried you’ll get your pretty little shoes dirty?”

“Shut the hell up,” Osano snapped, heat rising in his chest.

“Oooh, there’s that fire. I missed it.” Chishiki’s voice turned sing-song. “Do it right, and maybe I’ll toss you a bone worth chewing. Screw it up…” He let the sentence dangle, heavy and deliberate. “Well. Let’s just say word spreads fast in this city. You don’t want that kind of reputation, do you?”

Osano’s hand trembled, just a little. He pressed his thumb harder into the phone, grounding himself.

“…Fine. Send me the address.”

“Atta boy.” A soft click of keys. “Message incoming. Oh, and Najimi?”

“What?”

Chishiki’s grin was audible.

“Try not to vomit. It ruins the flooring.”

The line went dead, leaving Osano alone in the dim apartment, his reflection faint in the window glass.

His chest felt tight. His fingers twitched against the phone before he shoved it into his pocket. No going back now.

The warehouse was colder than he expected, air seeping through the broken panes of glass like it was alive, biting down into his skin. The metal door screeched when he pushed it open, the sound loud enough to echo in the emptiness.

And then the smell hit him.

It was thick. Sweet. Metallic. Rot and iron all tangled together. It slammed into the back of his throat and made his stomach curl. He forced his jaw shut before he gagged, the sound coming out like a grunt as he yanked his shirt collar over his nose. Didn’t help. Nothing would.

He stepped inside.

The bodies weren’t bodies anymore.

One was tied to a chair, the ropes soaked through, the man’s chest open like a butcher’s display. Skin flayed in strips, ribs broken and bent. His eyes had been gouged out, sockets caved inward.

The other was on the floor. Pieces of him scattered across the concrete—fingers snapped off, jaw slack, teeth missing, the inside of his stomach spilled like raw garbage.

Osano’s breath stuttered, his eyes burning.

“Holy fuck…” he whispered.

But he moved. He had to.

He pulled gloves over trembling hands, snapping them into place. Each motion felt distant, like he wasn’t in his own body, just watching himself. He set down the black bag of supplies—industrial bleach, absorbent powder, heavy-duty trash bags, scrub brushes, a face mask.

The face mask came last. He tugged it on, pressing it hard against his nose. The smell dulled, but didn’t vanish. He’d have to live with it.

Osano started with the chair. His hands clenched the frame, dragging it upright, the corpse slumping. Blood squelched against his gloves, hot despite the chill. His stomach lurched, but he swallowed it down, jaw locked so hard it ached.

“Not the first time someone made a mess,” he muttered to himself. His own voice kept him steady, like if he was talking he wasn’t about to puke. “Just a bigger mess, that’s all.”

He cut the ropes, the fibers sticky with gore. The body slid down with a heavy thud. He had to grab the man under the arms and drag him to the tarp he’d spread out. His boots slipped on the wet floor, the squeak of rubber over blood.

It took everything in him not to think about the man’s face, his ruined mouth.

The second body was worse. He couldn’t even call it a body. He had to scrape up the fragments, fingers and bits of bone, his gloves slick as he shoved them into bags. His chest heaved, bile rising. He pressed his mask tighter against his face, forced himself to breathe shallow, controlled.

“Just pieces,” he whispered. “Like trash. Just pieces.”

He spread more powder, sprinkled it like snow over the worst stains. The clumps absorbed, dark red turning brown. Then he scrubbed. His arms burned as he dragged the brush across the floor, the sound sharp, the smell flooding out again with each pass.

Time blurred. It was just motion: scrub, pour, scrape, bag. His back ached, sweat beading at his hairline. The bleach stung his eyes, mixing with the sting already there from the smell.

Hours later—though it felt like days—the warehouse floor was bare again. Stained, sure, but not screaming with what had been here. The chair was gone, the bodies sealed in heavy bags, dragged to the waiting trunk Chishiki’s contact had promised.

Osano stood in the middle of the empty space, chest heaving. His gloves were shredded, his clothes reeking of blood and chemicals. His stomach still churned, but he hadn’t thrown up.

He hadn’t failed.

He pulled off his gloves with a snap, hands trembling. For a moment, just a moment, he almost laughed. Bitter, harsh, but real.

“Fuck you, Chishiki,” he muttered into the silence. “I did it.”

And yet, as he looked around at the empty, clean floor, he couldn’t shake the thought that something of it still clung to him. That no amount of bleach was going to scrub it out of his skin.

The phone pressed cold against his ear, Osano leaned back against his bare apartment wall, his body still trembling from the adrenaline and the stench he couldn’t quite wash out of his nose. He hit call. The line rang once, twice—then Chishiki’s lazy, singsong voice slithered through.

“Well, well, look who didn’t choke. I was half expecting to get a call from the cops about some poor janitor fainting face-first into a pile of guts.”

Osano gritted his teeth. His throat was dry, his voice low. “It’s done. Place is spotless. Not a trace left.”

There was silence on the other end, followed by a soft chuckle, almost disappointed. “You sound proud, Najimi. Cute. You’re scrubbing out disemboweled Yakuza like a housewife and you’re proud of yourself? Hah. I guess desperation breeds efficiency.”

Osano’s jaw tightened, his free hand curling into a fist. He wanted to snap back, to spit venom, but all that came out was a rasp. “…You said it was a test. Was it good enough?”

“Good enough?” Chishiki dragged the words out, savoring them. Then, with a sudden, clipped finality: “Perfect.”

A pause. Osano’s chest loosened just slightly, but Chishiki didn’t let him breathe long.

“You held it together, powered through the gore, didn’t leave a trace. Most rookies puke, cry, or leave fingerprints. You? You gutted through it. Impressive. Almost makes me think you were meant for this. How romantic.”

“Shut up,” Osano muttered, heat rushing up the back of his neck.

On the other side of the line, Chishiki laughed softly, like a predator toying with its prey. “For your… stellar services, twenty-five thousand yen. Consider it your welcome gift to the family business. Don’t spend it all on tissues for your tears.”

Osano glanced at his scarred knuckles, at the faint streaks of red still under his fingernails. His stomach turned, but his voice stayed steady. “…Fine. Send it through.”

“Oh, I will. Good job, crime scene cleaner.” The title dripped with mockery, yet there was a strange edge of approval beneath it. “Now get some rest. You’ll need it.”

The line clicked dead.

Osano lowered the phone slowly, staring at the dim glow of the screen. Twenty-five thousand yen. Blood money. He shoved the phone onto the table and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Osano sat hunched on the edge of his mattress, the springs groaning beneath his weight. His hands still smelled faintly of bleach no matter how hard he’d scrubbed them raw. He rubbed at his nose with the back of his wrist, but it didn’t help—the stench was inside him now, embedded in the fibers of his clothes, his skin, maybe even his lungs.

Twenty-five thousand yen. He should’ve felt relieved, maybe even triumphant. Rent was covered. Groceries for the month too. He wouldn’t have to call his parents or grovel at some minimum-wage job where everyone hated his guts. But as he sat there, staring at the dull glow of the city lights bleeding through his blinds, all he felt was a hollow weight pressing down on his ribs.

Cleaning up other people’s messes was one thing. Cleaning up death like that… it was something else. He could still see it when he blinked—the slick floors, the torn flesh, the way the silence pressed in like the walls themselves knew what had happened there. He’d mopped it away, wiped it clean, bagged the pieces like they were nothing but garbage. But none of it had really disappeared. Not from him.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. His reflection stared back at him from the dark window: tired, pale, lips pressed thin, his hair falling over his eyes. He didn’t look like himself anymore. He looked like someone already sinking into something he couldn’t crawl out of.

Osano swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. He didn’t know where this path was leading. Maybe the next job would be worse. Maybe one day he’d mess up, leave a streak, a hair, a trace—and someone would find him. Maybe he’d be swallowed whole by whatever game Chishiki was playing with the city’s underbelly.

And yet… what choice did he have?

He exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging. Scared. He’d never admit it out loud, but that’s what it was. Fear curling in his gut, tightening its grip with every thought of the future. He had no map, no guarantee, no way out. Just that mocking voice on the other end of the phone, dangling jobs in front of him like scraps of meat.

Osano scrubbed his palms down his jeans and let himself fall back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. His heart thudded heavy in his chest, his mind refusing to quiet.

Where was this going to take him? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

All he had was the whisper of bleach in his lungs, the faint ghost of blood on his hands, and the small, bitter thought he clung to like a lifeline:

Whatever happens, happens.