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The cold metal of the gun was nothing compared to the absolute, freezing indifference in Ichirou’s eyes.
For his entire life, Riko had chased that gaze. He had starved for it, bled for it, and carved his own soul hollow just to reflect the absolute authority of the Moriyama name. But now, kneeling on the unforgiving floor, the air thick with the metallic scent of his own impending ruin, he finally understood the fatal flaw in his design. Ichirou wasn't looking at a brother. He was looking at a rabid dog that needed to be put down.
The tragic comedy of his life tasted like ash and the brutal swing of Tetsuji’s cane. From the moment he could walk, the Master had systematically stripped away any delusion of a childhood. There were no soft words in the Nest, no warmth, no concept of a loving family. There was only the black-and-white of the court, the grueling pursuit of perfection, and the poisoned promise whispered in his ear.
Be like your father, Tetsuji had hissed, the sharp crack of his cane emphasizing every syllable. Be ruthless. Be feared. Prove you are a true Moriyama, and the main branch will finally claim you.
Riko had swallowed that lie whole, letting it rot his insides. He wore the number One tattooed on his cheek not as a sports jersey, but as a brand of royalty. He built his own empire in the dark, underground belly of the Nest. If his father and brother ruled the criminal underworld with blood and iron, Riko would rule Exy the exact same way. He learned to be entirely heartless. He was taught that mercy was a weakness and that physical violence was the only language the world truly respected. He became the monster they demanded he be, believing with every fractured bone and bruised disciple that he was earning his rightful seat at his father's table.
And then there was Kevin.
Kevin Day was supposed to be the accessory. The flawlessly designed tool, molded to stand in Riko’s shadow and prop up the throne. Tetsuji had crafted Kevin to be good, yes, but Riko was made to be a god. But the sport didn't care about bloodlines. It didn't care about the terrifying weight of the Moriyama name. As the years bled on, Riko felt the suffocating realization that Kevin wasn't just keeping up — he was pulling ahead. The shadow was effortlessly eclipsing the sun.
Riko had failed at the one thing he was created to do. He wasn't the best.
When the panic set in, when the terrifying inadequacy threatened to shatter the fragile glass castle of his ego, Riko reacted the only way he had ever been taught. Violence.
Breaking Kevin’s hand wasn't a sudden, mindless loss of sanity; it was the desperate, calculated execution of Tetsuji’s doctrine. If something threatens your power, you crush it. You break it until it bows. He snapped Kevin's bones thinking it was the ultimate assertion of his dominance, the definitive proof that he was a true Moriyama who took what he wanted and destroyed whatever dared to defy him. It was a learned reflex, a direct reproduction of the Yakuza violence he had been raised to idolize.
But kneeling here now, staring down his own execution, the agonizing irony of it all tore through his chest sharper than any blade or bullet could.
Everything he did to make his family see him as one of them was exactly what made them discard him.
He had played the tyrant. He had tortured, maimed, and commanded with absolute cruelty, expecting Ichirou to look down and see a reflection of the family’s undeniable strength. Instead, Ichirou saw a liability. A screaming, messy child playing Yakuza in a basement, drawing unwanted attention, ruining multi-million dollar investments, and staining the family’s pristine criminal enterprise with amateurish, loud tantrums. Riko thought he was acting like a lord; Ichirou saw him acting like a fool.
The breath rattled in Riko’s throat, a pathetic, wet sound. He looked up at his older brother, desperate for a flicker of recognition, a microscopic shred of grief. There was nothing. Just the cold, business-like calculation of an heir removing a broken piece from the board.
Tetsuji had promised him the entire world if he destroyed his own heart. Riko had shattered himself piece by piece, offering up his empathy, his childhood, and his very soul on the altar of their name. And in the end, it was that same hollow, violent ruthlessness, the very thing he cultivated to win their love, that convinced his own brother to end his life.
I did everything you asked, Riko thought, the darkness finally rushing up to claim him. I became exactly what you made me.
And it still wasn't enough.