...04/10/2009 Sunday; Dark Hour...
Takaya blinks, confused.
The surprise is genuine — something rare on his face.
He pulls the hammer of the revolver back into place with a sharp click and lifts his foot off Shinjiro's wound.
Then he turns.
Takaya's eyes travel over Ken from head to toe, analyzing every inch of his body.
The hunched shoulders. The trembling hands. The posture of someone who has already given up on everything.
"Oh..." His voice is lower now. The revolver lowers, the barrel pointing toward the ground. "That, I didn't expect."
Ken nods. The movement is too quick, too nervous.
"I'm not lying." The words come out uneven, as if saying them faster would make them more true. "I'm the navigator. That's the only reason they let me join S.E.E.S, even though I'm just a kid."
Shinjiro tries to stand. His arms tremble, his muscles refuse to obey, but he doesn't care.
Desperation rises in his chest like fire, burning through everything in its path.
He can't let Ken die.
"No..." His voice is muffled, cut by pain and the blood still spilling from his lips. "Amada... stop being an idio—"
Takaya's foot crashes into his ribs before he can finish.
The impact is sharp, precise. Shinjiro feels the air leave his lungs in a choked groan. His body slams back to the ground, his back hitting the concrete.
"Quiet." Takaya's voice is no longer curious. It's irritated. "I'm not talking to you."
Ken glances sideways.
He sees Shinjiro lying on the ground. His hands trembling. The blood spreading around him.
He sees the man he swore to kill.
And feels nothing.
Not the hatred he thought he would feel. Not the satisfaction of seeing his mother's killer bleeding on the ground.
Just emptiness. A hollow space where there used to be so much — years of planning, anger, waiting for the right moment.
Shinjiro is going to die.
It doesn't matter anymore.
"I don't have a reason to stay alive anymore." Ken's voice is low, his eyes fixed on the ground. "I'm nobody..."
Takaya watches.
The revolver sways slowly in his hand as he tilts his head, eyes still fixed on the boy. There's something new there — curiosity, perhaps.
Or just the fleeting interest of someone who's found an unexpected toy.
"You're carrying a weapon three times your size." His tone is thoughtful. "It makes sense that you're the navigator. You don't know how to fight."
Ken clenches his fist.
Anger comes — fast, hot — but dies before it can take hold. Because it's true.
Compared to Hiro, Akihiko, Mitsuru, Minato... everyone in S.E.E.S... he's nothing. Always has been.
Just a boy with a spear too big for him and a revenge plan that no longer means anything.
He takes a deep breath. His chest rises and falls. His eyes meet Takaya's.
"If you're going to kill me..." His voice doesn't shake. "Then just do it."
For a moment, Takaya simply looks at him.
Then something changes in his expression. His eyes gleam. The smile returns — not the mocking grin from before, but something bigger.
Something that slowly spreads across his face, like a wave rising before it crashes.
"So..." His voice is almost a whisper. "You accept salvation."
Takaya begins to laugh.
A macabre laugh. Mocking. Free. It echoes between the buildings, bouncing off the walls, filling every corner of the alley with a sound that makes the skin crawl.
The revolver rises.
The barrel points at Ken's head.
Takaya's smile is now manic.
His eyes shine with something inhuman, something that doesn't care about revenge or justice or any of the things mortals use to give meaning to their deaths.
"What a wonderful end your life will have."
Takaya's hand doesn't tremble. The gun is steady, the barrel aimed at the boy's forehead.
"Very well..." The hammer is pulled back. The click echoes in the silence. "Rest in peace."
Ken looks at the dark hole at the end of the barrel. The cold metal. The steady hand holding it. The smile behind it.
Fear comes.
It's inevitable. His body screams at him to run, his most primal instincts rebelling against the coming death.
His legs want to move. His arms want to rise. His mouth wants to scream.
But what's the point?
He has nothing left to lose.
His soul is calm. As if he had accepted this long ago. As if he had only been waiting.
Slowly, Ken's eyes begin to close.
And an image comes to him.
His mother.
She's sitting on the couch, the afternoon light pouring through the window, bathing everything in a soft golden glow.
She's sewing — his coat, the one that tore when he tripped running in the park.
The needle moves up and down patiently, and there's a small smile on her lips, the one she wore when she was focused.
"Mom..."
Ken's voice is calm. Calmer than he ever thought possible.
Takaya's finger tightens on the trigger.
The world slows.
The bullet leaves the barrel, cutting through the air in a perfect straight line.
Until—
Footsteps echo.
Heavy. Desperate. Someone running as if their life depends on this very moment.
Followed by the sound of a strained grunt — raw, torn from deep within the chest.
Something moves in front of Ken.
When he opens his eyes... he sees Shinjiro running toward him.
Shinjiro wraps his arms around Ken with overwhelming force, something impossible for someone in his condition.
His arms close around him, shielding him completely.
The shot hits Shinjiro in the back.
The sound is wet. Muffled. The bullet sinks into flesh, and Shinjiro lets out a pained groan — not quite a scream, not quite a breath, something in between.
Blood sprays.
Ken feels Shinjiro's weight collapse onto him. Feels his arms still wrapped around him, tightening, as if still trying to protect him.
He feels Shinjiro's entire body tremble, his legs giving out, the air leaving his lungs in a broken, wet sound.
Shinjiro's legs fail.
He falls.
Both of them hit the ground together — Shinjiro on top, Ken beneath him.
The concrete is hard against the boy's back, but he doesn't feel it. All he feels is the weight, the warmth, the blood pouring endlessly.
Ken struggles.
He tries to push. Tries to move the body off of him.
His small arms press against broad shoulders, his fingers gripping the fabric of the coat, and then—
His hand touches Shinjiro's back.
Where the bullet struck.
Warm. Wet. Slippery.
Ken's fingers sink into the wound without meaning to, feeling torn flesh, blood running across his palm.
Slowly, trembling, he raises his hand in front of his face.
And sees it.
Blood glistening under the Dark Hour's light. Running between his fingers in thick streams, dripping onto his face.
Takaya lowers the revolver.
His arm falls to his side, the gun still smoking, but his eyes are no longer on it. They're fixed on Shinjiro's body lying over Ken.
On the bloodstain spreading across the back of the dark coat.
On the arms still wrapped around Ken, as if even after the shot, even with a bullet lodged in his lungs, there was still something left to protect.
Why?
The question echoes in Takaya's mind like a discordant bell.
Why did Shinjiro step in front of the bullet? Why protect someone who had spent years planning his death?
Takaya's expression tightens.
It isn't anger. It's something deeper, more visceral — a disgust born not from what he sees, but from what he cannot understand.
He walks toward them, slow steps dragging across the bloodstained concrete.
He stops beside the fallen bodies, looks down, and shakes his head.
Disdain.
"What was the point of that?" His voice comes out confused. "Why would you give your life to protect this child?"
There's something cracked in that arrogant tone, a fracture where curiosity leaks through — uncomfortable, almost unsettling.
Shinjiro doesn't answer.
His entire body aches — every breath feels like a blade stabbing into his lungs, every heartbeat spreads more blood through the open wound.
His vision blurs at the edges, colors bleeding into gray, and a ringing in his ears keeps growing louder.
But he still feels the weight of his own body over Ken, his arms refusing to let go.
He feels the boy's warmth beneath him — small, trembling, stubbornly alive.
And that's enough.
Before Takaya can say anything else, hurried footsteps echo nearby.
Takaya lifts his head. His eyes narrow as he sees silhouettes appearing at the alley's entrance — two figures running, heavy footsteps, ragged breathing cutting through the silence.
"Shinji!" Akihiko's voice tears through the air.
Takaya watches them approach, their faces still blurred by distance but their intent clear as glass.
The hand holding the revolver tightens around the grip hard enough to make his fingers crack.
His gaze drops to the ground — to Ken beneath Shinjiro, still there, unmoving, his eyes fixed on his own bloodstained hands as if they no longer belonged to him.
"Your allies have arrived." Takaya's voice regains its arrogant tone.
"How disappointing..." He spins the revolver around his finger. "Just when things were starting to get interesting."
He stops spinning the weapon. With a smooth, almost lazy motion, he tucks the revolver back into his belt.
Takaya turns and begins to walk away.
He doesn't look back. Doesn't say another word. He simply walks, slow steps, hands in his pockets, his pale silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the alley as if he had never been there at all.
Ken blinks a few times, startled.
The sound of Takaya's footsteps fades into the darkness, but Ken is still there, lying on the ground, his back pressed against the cold asphalt, his hand still raised in front of his face.
Shinjiro's body still over him.
Heavy. Warm. Motionless.
Then Akihiko and Hiro arrive running, their footsteps frantic, their breathing uneven.
Hiro gets there first, his eyes already searching for Shinjiro — until he finds him.
And the world stops.
Shinjiro's body on the ground. The blood spreading across the pavement.
The black veins now covering his entire face, crawling down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his coat.
And Ken beneath him, frozen, his eyes locked on something no one else can see.
The color drains from Hiro's face. His eyes widen, every nerve in his body going rigid.
"No..."
The word comes out as a whisper. Not a scream — but the denial of someone staring at the truth and still refusing to accept it.
TO BE CONTINUED...