That evening, rainclouds loomed again, though the sky held back its tears—for now.
The Reaper mansion was filled with murmurs and silence. Guests dressed in mourning stood still in the wide corridors, heads bowed.
When Akira returned, the stench of alcohol clung to him like second skin.
His shirt wrinkled. His hands shaking.
A half-empty bottle of whiskey hung loosely in his grasp.
His eyes were swollen. Red. Vacant.
But when he stepped inside and saw the arrangement, the wreaths, the black-draped room… something inside him snapped.
His father's funeral.
Without his permission.
The bottle slipped from his hand.
"Who gave you permission to conduct his funeral?!"
Gasps.
Every guest turned. Faces drained of color. Fear shot through the air like electricity.
Rose stood up, her voice sharp with rage.
"You killed your own father, and now you want to dictate his funeral too?!"
Akira's eyes darkened.
"You want to follow him next?"
Rose gasped, stepping back, her eyes wide with horror.
Then—
SLAP!
A sudden, echoing sound cut the air in half.
Astra stood in front of Akira, his hand trembling.
Akira's head had turned from the impact, and now he stared at him with disbelief.
Astra, his voice shaking but firm, pointed toward the exit.
"OUT."
Akira's eyes narrowed. His breath shallow.
Without a word, he hurled the whiskey bottle against the floor. It shattered, glass and liquor exploding in every direction.
He walked out of the funeral room, not once looking back.
Behind him, Astra dropped to his knees. His shoulders shook as tears poured down.
Yuke ran to her, catching him before he collapsed fully.
—
Akira wandered down the hallway in silence.
Eventually, he sat alone at the long dining table, sinking into the host's chair like it no longer belonged to him.
The emptiness inside his chest was louder than the storm outside.
Then footsteps echoed.
Frank entered the room.
"Young master…"
A familiar voice.
"Oh, Frank… What is it?"
Frank stood in the doorway, silent for a second… then stepped forward and extended a folded paper with both hands.
"…Young master, please sign it."
Akira's tired gaze dropped to the paper. He reached for it slowly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips—but it wasn't one of joy.
It was the kind of smile that broke hearts.
"…A resignation letter, huh?"
He checked his pockets, lazily tapping his coat.
"Pen?"
Frank handed him a pen, avoiding eye contact.
Akira stared at the paper for a long time.
His thumb hesitated over the signature line.
"…I wish I could sign my own resignation as well."
The words slipped out like a whisper—quiet, empty, far too honest.
He signed it anyway.
Then held the paper out to Frank with a bittersweet calm.
"You're free now. Have a happy life ahead."
Frank took the letter, lowering his head respectfully.
"…You too, boss."
And then he walked away.
The room was quiet again.
For a few seconds, Akira just sat there, holding the pen between his fingers.
Then he dropped it.
His forehead hit the table, arms covering his head.
And he broke.
Sobs racked his body—quiet at first, then louder.
"My happiness is already far gone…"
He clutched his own shirt near his chest.
"…What will I do without you, Aki…?"
His voice trembled like a broken instrument, shattered beyond repair.
Just then, the soft creak of a door echoed behind him.
Yuke and Astra entered quietly, watching him fall apart from the shadows of the doorway.
Astra stepped forward, tears swelling in his eyes, his hand reaching out to gently touch her son's head.
But before he could—
Akira straightened up.
He wiped his tears quickly with the back of his hand, stood from the chair, and walked past them in silence.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't meet their eyes.
Didn't leave any piece of himself behind in that room.
Just—
Footsteps.
And then the sound of the front door opening.
Then closing.
And Akira was gone.
---
The key clicked.
The apartment door creaked open.
Akira stepped inside.
Silence.
No scent of fresh coffee. No footsteps rushing to greet him. No soft laughter from the kitchen. Just the cold echo of a place long emptied.
He took one step in… and it hit him.
Memories came crashing down like a storm through shattered windows.
He walked to the couch—his fingers brushing its worn edge—and suddenly, he could see it again: Aki leaning against him, legs tangled together, both laughing over something too small to matter.
It was warm back then.
It felt like forever ago.
He opened the bedroom door slowly.
The air inside still held the ghost of a scent he couldn't name but had memorized long ago.
His eyes fell on the bed.
Aki's words echoed loud enough to drown the world—
"I will decorate this house so beautifully that your heart will always cling to it."
His knees gave in.
He collapsed beside the bed, trembling fingers clutching at the sheets, as if they could bring Aki back from wherever he'd gone.
Tears soaked the fabric.
He cried until the sun disappeared.
And night returned with all its cruel stillness.
Later, Akira sat on the floor near the glass wall, the city lights flickering like distant memories beyond the window.
A half-filled glass of liquor trembled in his hand.
He stared into the bitter amber.
"…Even the drink tastes bitter without you."
His voice cracked under the weight of it.
More tears.
He leaned his head against the glass, staring into the night sky, hoping to feel something—anything.
Then—
A soft giggle.
His eyes snapped open.
There.
Across from him, leaning gently against the glass wall, sat Aki.
Smiling.
Alive in light and air.
As if he'd never left.
Akira's heart skipped. He blinked, unsure if he was dreaming, hallucinating, or losing what little sanity he had left.
"Aki…?" he whispered.
He reached out.
But before his hand could pass through, Aki's fingers curled around his.
Warmth.
No.
Not warmth.
Just the memory of it.
Aki slowly leaned forward and nuzzled against Akira's palm, eyes closed, as if trying to drink in the only thing left of this world that ever mattered.
Akira couldn't feel him. But he could see him.
And that alone almost broke him.
"How…?" he asked, barely breathing.
Aki opened his eyes.
And smiled.
"Didn't I promise to stay with you? Look—I came back for you."
Akira's breath caught in his throat.
His chest tightened painfully.
He pressed a hand against his heart, where it hurt the most.
And just sat there… staring at the ghost of his everything.
Aki's fingers traced his cheek, tender, patient, calm.
And Akira let him.
For hours, they stayed like that.
One real, one not.
But together, somehow—
Again.