The rain kept falling.
Harder now. Heavier. Each drop struck the pavement like a thousand tiny hammers, washing the streets clean while the past sat right beside him, arm draped across his shoulders like an old friend.
Yuki didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But a smile spread across his face—slow, almost lazy, like he had just heard a bad joke and was waiting for the punchline.
"What are you smiling about?" Giyu's voice was low, almost amused.
Yuki turned his head slightly. His light blue eyes studied the man beside him—the monster who had haunted his nightmares for a decade.
"How are your arms?" Yuki asked. His voice was calm. Too calm.
Giyu's grin widened.
He rolled up his sleeves, revealing gleaming prosthetic limbs—black metal laced with subtle silver circuitry. The fingers flexed with a soft whir, mechanical tendons contracting smoothly. They looked expensive. Dangerous.
"Better than flesh and blood," Giyu said, flexing his new hands. "The Vanguard has its uses, even for prisoners. Their medical division owed me a favor."
Then, from his back pocket, he pulled it out.
The black ice dagger.
Yuki's breath caught.
It glinted under the streetlights, obsidian-dark and pristine—not a single crack, not a single drop of rust. The same blade he had forged in that cabin eleven years ago. The same blade that had refused to melt.
Giyu held it up, turning it slowly so the rain slid down its edges. "Remember this? You almost killed me with it."
Yuki's smile vanished.
"Why are you here?" His voice came out harder now. Sharper.
Giyu tucked the dagger back into his pocket. "I'm not here to kill you, Yuki." He leaned back against the bus stop bench, casual, like they were old friends catching up. "I just want to chat. I wouldn't enjoy killing you in your current condition. You can barely walk straight, and that cast..." He gestured lazily at Yuki's arm. "It wouldn't be fun."
He paused.
"How's your Kyorin girlfriend?"
Yuki's fingers curled into fists.
"Maybe I'll see her next," Giyu continued, his voice dropping to a silky, malicious purr. "I've wondered what her blood tastes like. Sweet, probably. Royal blood always is."
Yuki moved.
It wasn't thought. It wasn't strategy.
It was instinct.
His hand shot out—faster than Giyu could track—and snatched the dagger from the man's back pocket. The blade came up in a silver-black arc aimed directly at Giyu's throat.
Stop.
Giyu's metal hand caught Yuki's wrist.
The dagger stopped an inch from his neck.
Rain dripped off the blade's edge, splashing against Giyu's collar.
Silence.
Then Giyu chuckled—low, genuine, almost admiring. "You didn't even hesitate. Straight for the kill. No warning. No demand. Just... death." He tilted his head, studying Yuki's face. "You've changed."
Yuki hadn't changed.
He had simply stopped pretending.
His eyes—those light blue eyes that Seri called magical, that Hana said looked like oceans—were empty. No warmth. No playful spark. Just a cold, endless void that swallowed light. His teeth were bared, not in a grin, but in a snarl. Veins bulged along his neck.
This wasn't the "Phantom of Kinatarou" the crowd cheered for.
This was the boy who had painted a cabin red at ten years old.
Giyu's grip tightened on Yuki's wrist. The metal fingers pressed hard enough to bruise. "You hate me that much?"
Yuki didn't answer.
But his eyes said everything.
Giyu stared back, unflinching. Then his expression shifted—the amusement fading into something rawer. Something almost human.
"I hate you too, you know."
Yuki's snarl flickered.
"Because of you—because of your little friends, your brother, that damned AI—I've lost everything." Giyu's voice hardened. "My forces. My allies. My prodigy is locked up in a Vanguard black site. My hands..." He raised his metal fingers. "Gone."
He leaned closer, his face inches from Yuki's, his breath warm against the rain-cold air.
"But I'll rebuild. I always do. And when I come back..." He smiled. It was worse than his anger. "I'll take everything you love. One by one. And I'll make you watch."
The rain hammered down.
Giyu released Yuki's wrist.
The moment the pressure vanished, Yuki stumbled back half a step, still clutching the dagger. His breathing was ragged. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal.
Giyu stood up slowly, brushing rainwater from his coat. "The next time we meet, boy..." He looked over his shoulder, ember eyes glowing in the dark. "One of us will die."
Then he stepped into the rain.
And vanished.
Yuki stood alone at the bus stop, dagger in hand, heart pounding, rain soaking through his hoodie. The streetlights flickered. The wind howled.
He didn't know how long he stood there.
Minutes. Hours.
Eventually, he walked home.
---
The apartment was warm.
Yukari was waiting by the door, arms crossed, face tight with worry. The moment she saw him—soaked, pale, and clutching that black blade—her breath caught.
"Yuki... where did you get that?"
He didn't answer.
He walked past her, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. The door clicked shut.
The shower ran for a long time.
When he finally came out, hair dripping, dressed in loose sweats, he still carried the dagger. He climbed into bed, lying on his side, and curled his fingers around the hilt like a child clutching a teddy bear.
Luna, already half-asleep, stirred and pressed herself against his back without a word.
Yukari stood in the doorway, watching.
She already knew.
He saw Giyu.
Her chest ached. For weeks—months—Yuki had been smiling more. Real smiles. The kind that reached his eyes. He was healing. Moving forward. Becoming the person he always should have been.
And now Giyu had returned.
And he had handed Yuki a physical reminder of everything he was trying to escape.
Yukari climbed into bed on Yuki's other side and wrapped an arm around him.
"We've got you," she whispered.
He didn't respond.
But his grip on the dagger loosened—just a little.
---
Morning.
Sunlight filtered through the paper screens, casting soft golden rectangles across the tatami.
Yuki woke to warmth.
Luna was tucked under his left arm, her small face pressed against his chest. Yukari was on his right, her blue hair sprawled across the pillow, one hand resting on his shoulder.
They were both hugging him.
Yuki blinked groggily. "...What's this?"
Luna didn't answer. She just squeezed tighter.
Yukari opened one eye, smiled softly, and said, "We're taking care of you."
He looked between them—these two girls who had chosen him, who had decided he was worth protecting.
Something in his chest loosened.
He sat up slowly, carefully untangling himself. Luna whined in protest but curled into the warm spot he left behind.
Yuki walked to the bathroom.
He stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection. Pale skin. Dark circles under his eyes. The silver piercings in his ears catching the morning light.
If Giyu wanted to kill me last night, he would have.
That was the truth. And it terrified him more than any attack ever could.
His eyes drifted to his arm—the heavy cast that had been his constant companion for weeks.
He grabbed the edge.
Ripped it off in one motion.
The plaster cracked and fell away, revealing pale, healed skin beneath. His arm had mended nicely—the bones had knitted, the muscles had recovered. But new scars marked his forearm now. Thin white lines that hadn't been there before.
He stared at them.
Then at the black dagger resting on the sink's edge.
He reached out and touched the blade. Cold. Hungry. Alive.
No.
He wasn't going to let Giyu win.
He pulled a long-sleeved shirt over his head, hiding the scars, and tucked the dagger into his waistband under the fabric.
Then he walked outside.
---
The morning air was crisp—washed clean by last night's rain. Puddles reflected the pale blue sky like shattered mirrors.
Yuki found himself walking toward the café. The same one where Sophia had bought him cake. The same one where she had calmly invited him to her wedding.
He pushed open the door.
The bell chimed.
And immediately, he noticed them.
Men in dark suits stationed at strategic points—by the windows, near the counter, flanking the emergency exit. Bodyguards. Professional ones.
The café was nearly empty.
Except for one table.
It was crowded—eight people sitting around it, plates of pastries and half-empty coffee cups scattered across the surface. They were all Royals. Yuki could tell simply from how they dressed: tailored fabrics, expensive jewelry, postures that screamed I've never carried my own groceries.
One man. Seven women.
Yuki spotted Sophia among them.
She was sitting near the center, posture immaculate, hands folded in her lap. But her face—normally so composed, so unreadable—looked... empty. Not calm. Hollow.
He approached.
"Sophia."
Her head lifted. For a moment, her golden eyes widened—surprise, maybe relief—before the mask snapped back into place.
"Yuki." Her voice was steady. Controlled. "What are you doing here?"
Everyone at the table looked up.
The seven women—young, beautiful, dressed like they belonged on magazine covers—stared at Yuki with open curiosity. The man at the center, seated beside Sophia, turned slowly.
Yuki assessed him immediately.
Mid-thirties. Broad-shouldered. Expensive grey suit, gold cufflinks, hair slicked back with too much product. His smile was polished—the kind rich men wore when they wanted you to know they were richer than you.
"Sophia," the man said, his voice a low, practiced purr. "Introduce us."
Sophia's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"This is Yuki Kinatarou," she said quietly. "My friend. And classmate."
The man's eyebrows rose.
"Kinatarou?" He stood immediately, extending both arms in a gesture that was somehow both welcoming and condescending. "The warrior bloodline! It's an honor. I've spent time in Russia—met many powerful families, but never a Kinatarou." He laughed. "To think one of my wives is friends with such a prestigious name."
Yuki tilted his head.
"...Wives?"
The man gestured broadly at the seven women. "My wives. Wife number seven mentioned she liked this café, so I brought everyone here. A family outing." He smiled, showing too many teeth.
Yuki looked at the women.
None of them smiled back.
They looked at the man—at Conrad—the way prisoners look at guards. Resigned. Empty. Like they had made peace with a cage long ago.
"Wife number seven?" Yuki repeated slowly.
"Yes. Sophia." Conrad placed a hand on her shoulder. "My soon-to-be seventh wife. The wedding is tomorrow."
The room felt colder.
Yuki's gaze shifted to Sophia. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the table, on her untouched coffee, on anything but his face.
He could see it now—the sadness she had been hiding behind that robotic calm. The weight she carried beneath that perfect posture.
She doesn't want this.
Yuki's voice came out harder than he intended.
"Don't call them numbers."
The table went quiet.
Conrad's smile faltered. "Excuse me?"
"Your wives." Yuki's blue eyes locked onto the man's. "They're not numbers. They're people. Speak about them with respect."
The seven women stared at Yuki—really stared, as if no one had ever said that to Conrad before. As if no one had ever dared.
Sophia's hands trembled in her lap.
Conrad's smile returned, but it was different now. Thinner. Sharper.
"You're right," he said smoothly. "Sophia isn't my wife yet." He draped an arm over her shoulders, pulling her close. She stiffened but didn't resist. "The wedding is tomorrow. And after that..." He squeezed her shoulder, his fingers digging in. "I'll have my fun with her. Every day. Every night. I've been patient—I haven't touched her yet, you see. Saving myself for the wedding night." He laughed. "I can hardly wait."
He turned to Sophia, cupped her chin, and licked her cheek.
She closed her eyes.
Her hands were shaking.
The other wives looked away.
Yuki's vision went red.
Kill him.
The thought wasn't a thought. It was a command. Primal. Absolute.
Conrad turned back to Yuki, still smiling.
And then he met Yuki's eyes.
Ice.
Not literal ice—not yet—but the temperature in the café seemed to drop twenty degrees. The air grew heavy. Suffocating.
Conrad's smile died.
His heart slammed against his ribs. His lungs seized. Every instinct honed by years of privilege and power screamed at him.
Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't blink.
If you move, you die.
He couldn't see the bodyguards. Couldn't see the wives. Couldn't see the café.
All he could see was him.
Yuki Kinatarou stood before him like a god of winter, like death wearing a teenager's face. Those blue eyes weren't human. They were glaciers. They were the deep ocean. They were the void between stars.
Yuki's lips moved.
"Хочешь умереть?"
Do you want to die?
Conrad's legs gave out the moment he heard Yuki speak Russian.
He fell backward, crashing off his chair and onto the floor with a undignified yelp. His expensive suit crumpled. His composure shattered.
"GUARDS!" he shrieked. "GUARDS!"
The men in suits surged forward.
The first one reached for Yuki's shoulder.
Yuki punched him.
The impact was swift, brutal, and final. The bodyguard's nose shattered. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he landed.
"STOP!"
Sophia's voice cut through the chaos.
She was standing now, tears welling in her golden eyes, her hands pressed against her chest. She looked at Yuki—really looked—and her lower lip trembled.
"Yuki... stop."
He turned to her.
"It's fine," she said, her voice cracking. "This is... this is for the best. He's my fiancé. Please... just leave."
The words hung in the air.
Yuki stared at her. At the tears she was fighting to hold back. At the way her hands shook. At the mask she was desperately trying to keep in place.
She was lying.
But she was asking him to go.
He took a slow step back.
Then another.
His eyes swept over Conrad—still cowering on the floor—over the bodyguards, over the seven wives who watched him with something like hope.
He turned and walked out.
The bell chimed.
The morning air hit his face—cool, clean, ordinary.
He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, fists clenched, heart pounding.
Then he whispered—so quietly that even the wind almost missed it:
"I'll get you out of there, Sophia. I promise."