There are two paths forged when reckoning comes for past mistakes: one accepts the weight, embracing consequence with stoic resolve; the other flees, scrabbling desperately against the inevitable tide, willing to drown the world in blood, even their own, just to avoid the fall.
Peter embodied the latter, not in avoidance, but in the sheer, terrifying force he unleashed upon those who dared cross lines etched in pain and trauma. He moved now not like a man, but like a force of nature – a hurricane tearing through the sterile calm of the hospital hallway. His cowled figure was a blur of dark fabric and grim purpose, each stride eating up the distance to the third floor, to Ayato's room, to the monsters who had returned to torment their prey.
Hiroki pounded the linoleum close behind, his own heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of Peter's silent fury. Worry, cold and sharp, clawed at his gut. He knew what Peter was capable of; he'd seen the aftermath, heard the chilling justifications. But he also knew Ayato's fragility, the horrors the boy had already endured. The thought of Kasumi and Takaya near him, alone with him, sent waves of protective rage surging through Hiroki, fueling his sprint.
They didn't use the elevators – too slow, too public. Peter hit the stairwell door with the force of a battering ram, the metal groaning in protest. He took the concrete steps three, sometimes four at a time, his powerful legs propelling him upwards with relentless speed. Hiroki pushed himself to keep pace, his lungs burning, muscles straining.
They burst onto each landing like apparitions, startling nurses pushing carts, dodging slow-moving patients on crutches, ignoring the startled cries and annoyed shouts that followed in their wake. Hiroki stumbled once, colliding lightly with an IV stand, sending bags swaying precariously, but he didn't stop, didn't apologize. His focus was absolute: stay with Peter, reach Ayato. The world outside their desperate race ceased to exist. There was only the pounding of their feet, the harsh rasp of their breathing, and the sickening certainty that time was running out.
Reaching the third-floor corridor, Peter didn't slow down. Doors blurred past. Patients and staff flattened themselves against the walls as the dark, cowled figure sprinted by, a palpable aura of menace radiating from him. He zeroed in on the room number – Ayato's room. He reached the door, his hand shooting out to grab the handle—
Locked.
A cold dread washed over Peter, instantly replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. His breath hitched. No. No. He took three quick steps back, planting his foot firmly. With a guttural roar, he kicked.
CRACK-BOOM!
The door exploded inward, splintering around the lock, slamming against the interior wall with enough force to shake the frame.
The scene that greeted them stole the air from Hiroki's lungs as he arrived fractions of a second behind Peter.
Horror. Utter, sickening horror.
Ayato lay helpless on the hospital bed, his face obscured by a thick pillow pressed down hard by the figure leaning over him – Kasumi. Her expression was a twisted mask of concentration, her knuckles white as she applied pressure, attempting to suffocate the life out of her own cousin. At the foot of the bed, Takaya, grinning maliciously, held Ayato's thrashing legs down, preventing him from kicking or making noise. Ayato's muffled struggles were weak, desperate.
And in the corner, unnoticed by the attackers, sat the girl Hiroki had seen Peter carrying earlier. She was tied securely to a chair, a thick bandage gagging her mouth, her eyes wide with terror, tears streaming down her face as she watched the murder attempt unfold.
Hiroki froze. Just for a second. The image burned itself onto his retinas – the betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute vulnerability of Ayato. Then, the ice in his veins turned to magma. A blood-boiling rage, fiercer than anything he had felt before, consumed him. This wasn't just an attack; it was desecration.
He didn't think. He reacted.
With a snarl ripping from his throat, Hiroki launched himself forward, ignoring Kasumi, his entire focus locked onto Takaya. He covered the distance in two explosive strides. Takaya looked up, surprised by the intrusion, his grin faltering—
Too late.
Hiroki grabbed Takaya's arm, wrenching it away from Ayato's legs. Simultaneously, his other fist shot upwards in a devastating uppercut. The spiked knuckles on his glove tore through Takaya's shirt sleeve and bit deep into the flesh beneath his jaw, leaving ragged, bleeding gashes.
Takaya screamed, stumbling backward from the force and the searing pain. Hiroki didn't give him an inch. He grabbed Takaya's shirtfront, using his momentum to hurl the larger man violently against the nearest wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Before Takaya could recover, Hiroki slammed a brutal punch into his stomach, the spikes digging in again. Takaya doubled over, gasping. Hiroki followed instantly with a sharp, clean jab straight to the temple.
THUD.
Takaya's eyes rolled back, and he slid down the wall, collapsing into an unconscious heap on the floor.
While Hiroki dealt with Takaya, Peter's focus snapped instantly to Kasumi. She looked up from her grim task, startled by the violent intrusion, her eyes widening as she saw the cowled figure advancing towards the bed like death itself.
Peter didn't waste a fraction of a second. He closed the distance, his hand flashing out in a vicious slap that cracked across Kasumi's face with brutal force. The impact sent her reeling sideways, tumbling off the edge of the bed and onto the hard floor with a cry of pain and surprise.
Ignoring her completely, Peter lunged towards the bed, ripping the pillow away from Ayato's face.
His heart plummeted.
Ayato wasn't moving. His face was pale, tinged with a terrifying blueish hue around the lips. His chest was still. Utterly still.
He wasn't breathing.
"No..." The word was a choked whisper from Peter. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through his usual control. He placed two fingers against Ayato's neck – no pulse. Or maybe too faint to detect?
Time compressed. The world narrowed to the still figure on the bed. Peter acted on pure instinct, years of unseen training kicking in. He laced his fingers together, placing the heel of his hand firmly on the center of Ayato's chest.
Pump. Pump. Pump.
He began CPR compressions, hard and fast, putting his weight into each one, trying to force the stalled heart back into rhythm. The rhythmic pressure against Ayato's sternum was the only sound besides the boy's terrifying silence and Kasumi's whimpering from the floor.
Thirty compressions. Peter tilted Ayato's head back, pinched his nose shut, and sealed his mouth over the boy's. He forced two breaths into Ayato's lungs, watching intently for the chest to rise. It did, barely.
He went back to compressions. Faster now. More desperate.
Pump. Pump. Pump.
Nothing. Ayato remained terrifyingly still, lifeless.
"COME ON!!!" Peter roared, the sound raw with desperation, fear cracking through his voice. He administered two more breaths, his own lungs aching.
Still nothing.
Dread coiled in Peter's stomach. Was he too late? Had Kasumi succeeded? The thought was unbearable. He slammed his fist down onto the bed beside Ayato in frustration before immediately resuming compressions, pouring every ounce of his focus, his will, into bringing the boy back.
Pump. Pump. Pump. Breaths. Pump. Pump. Pump.
And then—
A gasp.
A ragged, desperate intake of air that tore through the silence. Ayato's body convulsed weakly on the bed, his eyes fluttering open, wide with the primal terror of someone snatched back from the brink of oblivion. He coughed, choked, drawing in precious oxygen in shuddering breaths.
Relief, overwhelming and absolute, washed over Peter. He nearly collapsed onto the bed himself, his own breath catching in his throat. He had done it. Ayato was breathing.
Seeing the raw fear still etched on Ayato's face, the lingering shock of near-death, Peter gently gathered the trembling boy into his arms, pulling him close against his chest, shielding him.
"Shh, it's okay," Peter murmured, his voice thick with emotion, stroking Ayato's hair. "You're safe now. You're safe. I've got you." He held him tightly, offering comfort and protection, trying to anchor the boy back to the living world.
Across the room, Hiroki let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The sight of Ayato gasping for air sent a wave of relief through him so potent it almost made his knees buckle. He turned his attention to the girl still tied to the chair in the corner, her terrified eyes watching everything.
Hiroki walked over quickly, his movements now gentle as he worked on the knots binding her wrists and ankles. He pulled the gag carefully from her mouth. The girl gasped, taking in deep, shuddering breaths, tears continuing to stream down her face, her eyes red and swollen from crying silently through her terror.
She looked up at Hiroki, her expression lost and frightened. Hiroki wasn't sure what to say, how to comfort her after what she'd witnessed. So, he did the only thing that felt right. He gently, hesitantly, patted her head, his touch surprisingly soft.
"It's fine now," he said quietly, his voice calm and steady. "We're here. You're safe."
The simple words, the gentle touch, seemed to break something within her. A fresh wave of sobs wracked her small frame. She lunged forward, burying her face in Hiroki's hoodie, her small hands gripping his shirt tightly as she cried, letting out all the pent-up fear and horror.
Hiroki stood still, awkwardly patting her back, letting her cry. "Let it out," he murmured, his tone almost paternal despite their age difference. "I know how scared you were. It's okay now." He continued to hold her, offering silent support, a steady presence in the aftermath of the storm.
Peter, still holding the trembling Ayato, watched Hiroki comfort the girl. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips beneath the cowl. Hiroki was learning, growing, finding strength not just in combat but in compassion.
But the moment of peace was fragile, instantly shattered as Peter's gaze shifted back to Kasumi, who was now pushing herself up from the floor, her face a mask of disbelief and dawning terror. The anger in Peter's eyes, momentarily banked by the relief of saving Ayato, flared back to life, colder and more menacing than before.
He gently eased Ayato back against the pillows, ensuring the boy was stable, before standing up. He walked towards Kasumi, his movements slow, deliberate, each step heavy with unspoken threat. Kasumi scrambled backward, crab-walking away until her back hit the wall, her eyes wide with primal fear.
Peter crouched down in front of her. He reached out, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and yanked her head up forcefully, forcing her to meet his gaze.
The moment their eyes locked, Kasumi gasped. Recognition, sharp and terrifying, flashed across her features. Goosebumps erupted on her skin. It was him. The same eyes. The same chilling aura. The monster from that night. Her mouth opened, perhaps to scream, perhaps to plead, but no sound came out. Her arms felt like lead, her tongue thick and useless. She was paralyzed by a fear that went deeper than the immediate violence – a fear rooted in a shared, dark past.
Suddenly, a sharp, insistent ringing cut through the tense silence. Brrrring! Brrrring!
Everyone froze. The sound emanated from a smartphone lying discarded on the small bedside table next to Ayato's bed. Kasumi's phone.
Kasumi's eyes darted towards it, a flicker of desperate hope in them. She made a weak attempt to reach for it, but Peter tightened his grip on her hair, pulling more aggressively, eliciting a choked cry of pain.
"Don't even think about it," he hissed, his voice dangerously low.
He released her hair only to grab her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin like talons. He dragged her closer to the table and snatched up the ringing phone with his free hand. He glanced at the caller ID, then back at Kasumi, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl.
He walked over to the wrecked door, kicked it shut with his foot, the broken wood groaning in protest. He turned back to the room's occupants – Hiroki still comforting the crying girl, Ayato watching weakly from the bed, Kasumi trembling in his grasp, and Takaya unconscious against the wall.
"Nobody interrupts," Peter stated, his voice calm but carrying absolute authority. He walked back to Kasumi, holding the phone up. He tapped the screen, accepting the call and immediately activating the speakerphone, turning the volume up high.
"H-Hello?" Kasumi stammered, trying desperately to sound normal despite the terror gripping her.
"Hey Kasumi~ are you there, honey?" A woman's voice, warm and familiar, came through the speaker. Kasumi's mother.
"Y-yes, Mom," Kasumi replied, her voice trembling almost uncontrollably. Peter squeezed her wrist slightly, a silent, painful warning. Don't act suspicious.
"Sweetie," the mother continued, her tone shifting, becoming heavier, laced with an underlying sadness, "can you bring Ayato with you back to his house later? There's... there's something I need to tell him. Something important."
An uneasy tension filled the room. Peter's grip on Kasumi didn't loosen. Hiroki looked up from comforting the girl, a frown creasing his brow. Even Ayato, weak as he was, seemed to sense the shift, his breathing becoming slightly more ragged.
"W-why, Mom?" Kasumi asked, forcing the words out. "Is... is there something wrong?"
There was a pause on the other end, filled only by the faint sound of the mother taking a shaky breath. "It's... it's about Kenzo and Yumi," she finally said, her voice thick with unshed tears. Ayato's eyes snapped wide open at the mention of his parents' names. He pushed himself up slightly on the bed, his gaze fixed on the phone in Peter's hand.
"They were on their way back... from that business trip," the mother continued, her voice cracking. "The plane... there was a problem and..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence immediately. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Ayato had gone completely still, his face pale, his eyes filled with a dawning dread.
"...And this morning," the mother finally whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush of grief, "we heard... the plane crashed. There were no survivors."
The words dropped into the room like stones into a deep, dark well. No survivors.
Ayato's world tilted. The air rushed from his lungs. The fragile grip he had on reality, on the simple fact of being alive after Kasumi's attempt, shattered completely. His parents. Gone. Just like that. The room spun, the edges of his vision blurring. The muffled sounds – Kasumi's stifled sob, Peter's steady breathing, Hiroki's quiet murmurs to the girl – faded into a roaring silence in his ears.
He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He simply… broke.
With a surge of desperate energy he shouldn't have possessed, Ayato threw the thin hospital blanket aside and scrambled out of bed, ignoring the searing pain in his arm and the dizziness threatening to pull him under. His bare feet hit the cold floor. He didn't look at Peter, didn't look at Kasumi crumpled on the floor, didn't look at the unconscious Takaya. His eyes were wide, unseeing, fixed on something far beyond the confines of the room.
He bolted.
He shoved past Peter, who was momentarily stunned by the boy's abrupt movement, and burst out of the broken doorway into the corridor. He ran, stumbling, weaving past startled nurses and visitors, fueled by a grief so profound it felt like madness.
"Ayato!" Peter yelled, snapping out of his shock, immediately giving chase.
Hiroki looked up, startled, seeing Ayato disappear down the hall and Peter sprinting after him. He gently eased the crying girl away from his chest. "Stay here," he instructed her softly but firmly. Before leaving, he quickly shrugged off his black hoodie and draped it over her trembling shoulders. "Keep it."
Then, Hiroki turned and sprinted after Peter, leaving the girl huddled in the oversized hoodie, watching them go with wide, fearful eyes.
Back in the room, the sudden chaos provided the opportunity Kasumi needed. Scrabbling on the floor, ignoring the throbbing pain in her face and wrist, she crawled over to the unconscious Takaya. With frantic urgency, she shook his shoulder, slapped his face, trying to rouse him. "Takaya! Wake up! We have to get out of here!"
He groaned, stirring slightly. Kasumi hauled him partially upright, half-dragging, half-supporting his dead weight as they stumbled out of the room and disappeared in the opposite direction, vanishing into the hospital's maze-like corridors like the cowards they were.
Meanwhile, Ayato burst through the hospital's main entrance and out into the night. The rain had returned, heavier now, plastering his thin hospital gown to his skin instantly, chilling him to the bone. But he barely felt it. The physical cold was nothing compared to the icy void that had opened up inside him.
He staggered onto the wet pavement, rain mixing with the tears that now streamed freely down his face. He looked up at the dark, weeping sky, his body trembling uncontrollably.
"This is a joke," he whispered, his voice cracking, swallowed by the sound of the downpour. He shook his head violently, denial warring with the crushing weight of reality. "It's a lie... It has to be..." A broken, choked laugh escaped his lips, sharp and painful. "It's just... just a prank..." His voice trailed off into a sob as he repeated the words like a desperate mantra, trying to convince himself, trying to hold onto a reality that no longer existed. The words felt hollow, brittle, like thin ice cracking under the unbearable weight of truth. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a lie. It was the devastating, final punctuation mark on a life already shattered by betrayal and abuse.
He took another shaky step forward, ready to run again, to run anywhere, to run away from the truth—
A firm hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him. Ayato flinched violently, spinning around, expecting another attacker, another blow.
But it was Peter. His cowl was soaked, water dripping from the edges, but his eyes beneath it were steady, filled not with anger, but with a deep, quiet understanding.
"Come with me," Peter said simply, his voice calm amidst the storm inside and out. He turned, gesturing towards the M3 GTR parked nearby, its headlights cutting through the rain.
Hiroki reached them a second later, panting slightly. He saw the raw grief etched on Ayato's face, the utter devastation in his eyes. "Ayato," Hiroki said gently, reaching out and carefully taking the trembling boy's good arm. "Let's get in the car. Come on."
Ayato didn't resist. He felt numb, hollowed out, letting Hiroki guide him towards the car like a sleepwalker. Hiroki opened the front passenger door, helping Ayato slide into the seat, before quickly getting into the back himself. Peter was already behind the wheel, the engine rumbling to life again.
The doors closed, sealing them inside, muffling the sound of the relentless rain. Peter put the car in gear.
"Jelunia, need help here," Peter said, his voice tight but controlled. The holographic display flickered on the dashboard.
"How may I assist you, Mr. Rasel?" Jelunia's voice was, as always, perfectly calm.
Peter turned slightly towards Ayato, who was staring blankly ahead, raindrops tracing paths down the window beside him. "Ayato," Peter said gently. "Tap the location of your home on the map."
Ayato didn't respond verbally. His hand, trembling slightly, reached out towards the holographic map displayed on the windshield. His finger hovered, zoomed out slightly, then tapped decisively on a residential area across town. A small pin dropped onto the map.
"Jelunia," Hiroki spoke up from the back seat, his voice low. "The location Ayato picked. How long? Show us the fastest way, minimal traffic."
"Analyzing route," Jelunia replied instantly. "Optimal path calculated. Estimated travel time: ten minutes. Displaying route now." A bright green line illuminated the holographic map, weaving through the city grid.
"Alright," Peter said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Everyone, sit tight."
He didn't need to say it twice. The M3 GTR surged forward, the powerful engine roaring as Peter navigated the wet streets with a focused intensity that bordered on terrifying. This wasn't the joyful abandon of their earlier drive; this was a mission, fueled by grief and urgency. He took corners with sharp, controlled drifts, the tires hissing on the slick asphalt, but his movements were smoother now, calculated to minimize jostling, mindful of the fragile passenger beside him. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon and rain.
Five minutes passed in silence, filled only by the engine's growl, the swish of the wipers, and Ayato's quiet, ragged breathing. They were halfway there. Peter glanced over at the boy, still clad only in the thin hospital gown, shivering slightly despite the car's heater.
"Ayato," Peter said, his voice softer now. "Open the dashboard compartment."
Ayato blinked, slowly turning his head. He fumbled with the latch for a moment before the compartment clicked open. Inside, neatly folded, was a set of clothes: a soft, dark blue sweater, a pair of black jeans, and even a pair of clean sneakers.
"Put those on," Peter instructed, his eyes back on the road. "Before we get there."
Ayato stared at the clothes, then back at Peter, confusion warring with his numbness. He reached out hesitantly, touching the soft fabric of the sweater. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest – a flicker of something other than pain or despair. He didn't understand why Peter was doing this, why this stranger cared, but he didn't question it. Slowly, awkwardly maneuvering in the confines of the racing seat with his injured arm, he began to change out of the humiliating hospital gown and into the clean, dry clothes. They were slightly too large, clearly belonging to Hiroki, but they felt... safe. Solid.
"Thanks," Ayato whispered, his voice hoarse, finally pulling the sweater over his head. "I... appreciate your kindness."
"No problem," Peter replied gruffly, keeping his eyes on the road as he expertly navigated another turn. "Just make it quick. We're almost there."
The remaining five minutes passed in a heavy, suffocating silence. Ayato, now dressed, stared out the window, the city lights reflecting emptily in his wide, tear-filled eyes. Hiroki watched him from the back seat, his own heart aching with a sympathy born from shared trauma. Peter drove, his face grim, the earlier intensity replaced by a somber focus.
Finally, Peter slowed the M3 GTR, the engine's roar softening as they turned onto a quiet residential street. He pulled up smoothly in front of a modest, traditional-style Japanese house. Even from the car, they could hear it – the low murmur of voices, punctuated by muffled sobs, leaking out into the rainy night. Lights glowed warmly from within, a stark contrast to the darkness that had just enveloped Ayato's world.
A palpable wave of dread washed over the car's occupants. Hiroki felt his muscles tense. Peter gripped the steering wheel tighter. Ayato's breathing grew shallow, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap, shaking uncontrollably.
Before Peter could even put the car in park, Ayato threw the passenger door open and stumbled out into the rain, heedless of the downpour soaking his borrowed clothes. He ran towards the house, towards the source of the grief, towards the confirmation of his worst nightmare.
"Ayato, wait!" Peter called out, killing the engine and quickly getting out of the car. He rushed after the boy, knowing this sudden confrontation, this raw exposure to the collective grief inside, could break him completely.
But it was too late.
Ayato burst through the front door, stumbling into the genkan. The low murmur of voices inside abruptly ceased. All eyes turned towards him – aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends – their faces etched with sorrow, pity, and a shared, unspoken understanding of the tragedy. The air was thick with the scent of incense and grief.
And there, positioned solemnly in the center of the main room, were two simple wooden coffins.
Ayato stopped. His breath hitched. His wide, tear-filled eyes fixed on the coffins. He took one slow, hesitant step forward, then another, drawn towards them as if by an invisible, agonizing force. The gathered relatives watched him, their expressions pained, some reaching out instinctively but stopping themselves, knowing there was nothing they could say, nothing they could do.
He reached the coffins. He looked down.
His mother, Yumi. Her face, usually so warm and full of life, now peaceful, still, pale.
His father, Kenzo. The man who had always been his rock, his source of pride, now silent, unmoving.
The reality crashed down on Ayato with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a lie. They were gone. Forever.
His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the tatami mat floor between the two coffins, the sound a dull thud in the heavy silence. Memories, sharp and unbearably poignant, flooded his mind, tearing through the numbness.
His father's proud voice after a mediocre school report: "Son, you do your best, and I'm proud of it, no matter what, because I know you would never give up!"
His mother's warm embrace after a scraped knee: "Sweetie, I know how bad the world is, but even though, mommy will always love you and her arms are always open for you." He remembered his father joining the hug, teasingly asking, "What? Can't share a hug with me too?" Their laughter, their warmth, their unwavering support – all extinguished in an instant.
The last time he saw them, waving goodbye as they left for that damned business trip.
The dam inside him broke.
"AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
A raw, guttural scream tore from Ayato's throat, echoing through the silent house, filled with unbearable anguish, rage, and despair. It wasn't just a cry of grief; it was the sound of a soul shattering into a million irreparable pieces. He slammed his forehead against the floor, again and again, his hands tangling violently in his own hair, pulling, tearing, as if trying to rip the pain out of his skull. Sobs wracked his body, each one a convulsive agony, tears mixing with the rain still dampening his face. He screamed again, a primal outpouring of loss that left everyone in the room frozen, heartbroken witnesses to his utter devastation.
Peter reached the hallway entrance just as Ayato collapsed, his own face grim. He walked slowly towards the kneeling boy, his usual composure strained. He knelt beside Ayato, placing a heavy, grounding hand on his trembling back, offering silent support in the face of overwhelming grief.
But as Peter looked up, his gaze swept across the room, landing on a framed family photograph displayed prominently on a nearby shelf – Ayato as a child, beaming between his smiling parents, Kenzo and Yumi. A standard, happy family portrait.
Except... Peter saw something else. Something only he could see.
Subtly overlaid on the picture, shimmering like heat haze but visible only to his eyes, was a dark, thin slide, obscuring the top left corner. And beneath it, scrawled across the image in ethereal, dripping letters of blood-red light, were words that made Peter's blood run cold, his earlier controlled fury surging back with terrifying intensity.
"Hope you like this prize from me, failure!"
The message pulsed faintly, a mocking, spectral taunt invisible to everyone else in the room. Peter's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently. His eyes narrowed, burning with a hatred that seemed ancient and deeply personal.
It was happening again. The same signature. The same invisible tormentor leaving its mark, twisting tragedy into a personal attack aimed directly at him.
What dark game was being played? What hidden connection did Ayato's parents have to Peter's shadowed past, to the entity that haunted him? What unspeakable secrets lay buried beneath this seemingly random tragedy, now marked by the same bloody script that had appeared in the P.E. room?
The questions swirled in the heavy, grief-stricken air, darker and more terrifying than the deepest black.
To Be Continued...