August 3rd, 2025
Ikebukuro Police Station - 8:36 PM
The fluorescent lights above flickered, giving the narrow jail cell an intermittent glow of sickly white. Ian sat on the cold, hard bench attached to the wall, elbows on knees, his hands hanging loose between them. Sweat glued strands of hair to his forehead. Bruises were starting to form on his knuckles. His jaw ached from Daigo's earlier grab, but it wasn't the pain that bothered him.
It was the weight.
He leaned back, laid down slowly on the slab of a cot, and stared at the cracked ceiling above. His breathing evened out as he pressed a forearm over his eyes.
"What the hell did I just do?" he murmured.
He could've been on a flight by now. On his way to South Carolina. Maybe Charleston. Or Columbia. Starting fresh. Maybe become a mechanic again. Live quietly. Anonymously. But no. One punch turned into two. Rage became instinct. And he lost control.
A small part of him regretted it. But another part?
He felt good. No, damn good. Daigo had it coming. Every taunt in college. Every shove, every public humiliation. Daigo made Ian's life a nightmare back then. He'd walk down hallways with eyes on him, laughter behind his back. People saw him as weak, as prey. That beating was years overdue. He didn't even flinch when Daigo fell.
And yet now, here he was.
A clang of metal woke him from his thoughts.
"Everhart," a voice said. A police officer appeared outside the cell, baton at his hip and clipboard in hand.
Ian groaned softly and sat up. He blinked the fatigue from his eyes and approached the bars.
Outside the cell stood Daigo and his three friends.
Bandaged. Bloodied. But breathing.
Daigo's face looked like it had been stomped by a freight train. His nose clearly broken, both eyes bruised and purpled into slits, bandages covering most of his face. His friends fared better, though one held his ribs while the other winced at every step.
A tall police lieutenant arrived beside them, expression unreadable.
"We're preparing charges. Do you want to press an assault case against him?" the officer asked the group.
Daigo, with visible effort, nodded.
"Yes," one of the friends chimed in, his voice quivering just enough to fake victimhood. "We were just outside the store, getting snacks, and this guy just snapped. He attacked us for no reason!"
"He kept yelling about demons, like he was possessed or something," another added with crocodile tears.
Daigo gave a wheezing laugh behind the bandages. "Crazed bastard. He belongs in a mental ward, not jail."
The lieutenant, poker-faced, nodded. "Understood. We'll proceed with the paperwork."
The group of four turned away, smug grins slowly spreading across their faces as they cast one final look at Ian.
Ian gripped the bars, rage bubbling again.
"You fuckers..."
Daigo's laugh was muffled but cutting. "Enjoy your cage, psycho."
The officer led them away.
Ian exhaled sharply, turning back to the cot. He collapsed onto it, his forearm over his face again. Silence stretched on.
Penthouse Suite, The Ritz-Carlton Tokyo - 8:56 PM
Madison stood at the edge of the penthouse balcony, holding her phone loosely in one hand. Her silhouette was golden against the evening city lights. Behind her, Isabelle sat at a pristine vanity table, brushing through her long hair while curling its ends and applying a light rouge to her cheeks.
A glass of wine sat nearby, untouched.
She was scrolling through social media when something caught her eye. A video posted by a passerby. She tapped it open.
It was shaky, low quality, but what it showed was unmistakable: a man in a unkempt appearance, surrounded by three others. Fists flew. One guy dropped. Then another. The man was relentless.
Then came the part that made Madison's breath hitch.
The man straddled a bloodied man, punching him over and over again until screams filled the background.
The caption: "Psycho beats three men nearly to death outside FamilyMart in Ikebukuro!"
Madison's brows lifted.
"He's a natural..."
"Hmm?" Isabelle called from inside, curling iron still in hand.
Madison turned, walking inside with her phone. She stood beside Isabelle, leaning in.
"Look at this video. This guy - look at his stance, his precision. Clean footwork, controlled aggression. He's a born fighter."
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "Are you watching fight videos again, darling?"
"Just watch."
She hit play and held it in front of Isabelle's face.
The vanity light flickered slightly as the video played.
For the first ten seconds, Isabelle just stared, expression neutral.
Then it hit her.
Recognition.
Her eyes widened. Lips parted slightly.
"...No."
Madison didn't notice. "He fights like an MMA champ. Like a pro who never went pro. Look at the way he pivots with each hook - that's power, technique, and years of repressed anger. I'm telling you, this guy could headline a movie. If he weren't beating someone's skull in."
Isabelle said nothing.
"Babe? You okay?"
Isabelle blinked, then slowly reached for the phone. She replayed the video. Studied the man.
Ian.
It was definitely Ian. No mistake.
Blood smeared his fists. His face was shadowed by his unkempt hair, but she knew those movements, his stature, his lips, his nose.
She felt a pang in her chest. Not fear.
Emotion.
"Madison," she whispered, voice strained.
"Yeah?"
"That man... I know him."
Madison's brow furrowed. "Wait, what? You do?"
Isabelle handed the phone back, breath catching.
"That's Ian Everhart."
"Ian Everhart...? Wait… Your ex? The guy you told me about?"
Isabelle nodded slowly, voice cracking. "Yes."
Madison whistled, astonished. "Damn. Didn't expect that. He wasn't just some sad, quiet guy, huh? He's got a beast inside."
Isabelle didn't respond.
She looked away, heart racing. A storm of memories surged forward. Their laughs. His undeniable charm. The last time she saw him - hollowed eyes, torn words. The goodbye she never wanted.
Now, here he was.
In blood. In violence. In rage.
And yet, her heart ached in ways she didn't know how to name.