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It seems inevitable, in hind sight. Isao practically groomed Narumi to be his successor from the moment he met him. A strong combatant, with no family ties, no loyalties to anyone or anything, except the First Division. The first real home Narumi's ever had. One tailored by Isao to support his chosen heir. The man Isao entrusted their nation's safety to when he became director.
He'd assigned Kikoru to the First Division as well. His only child, his daughter. Pictures from her youth still decorate the man's empty office, but Kikoru is no child. Not anymore.
That fact is on full display, her body sprawled across Narumi's bed, across Narumi himself. The two tangled in the sheets, limbs entertwined. Sweat slick on their skin, little bruises on their necks. Lovebites.
Narumi didn't even twitch when Hasegawa burst in. Dead to the world, his arm slung around Kikoru's waist, holding her against him. Her body slotting into Narumi's like a puzzle piece. Blonde hair splayed out over her back and his chest.
It's the softest he's ever seen Narumi. Asleep, expression raw and open. A far cry from the sleep deprieved maniac he'd been corraling since Isao's death. All the adrenaline and anger finally drained away.
Once, when Hasegawa questioned the decision to promote Narumi to captain all those years ago, Isao had joked that command might mellow the younger man out. Might satisfy his need for belonging. Something had to, eventually.
Backing out of the room, Hasegawa closes the door. An almost inaudible click the only evidence of his visit. He left them to whatever they'd found together in their shared grief.
Isao's daughter. His successor. Everything had changed since the director's death, but Hasegawa has a feeling Isao still won. Still got exactly what he wanted, in the end.