KENJI
The name Shuya didn't just bring rage. It tore open a wound that had never healed, plunging me back into a memory I'd sealed in ice.
Flashback
I was seventeen then. The garden of our Kyoto safehouse was drenched in the golden light of a late afternoon. The scent of blue hydrangeas filled the air. My mother, Akira, was showing me how to trim a bonsai tree, her movements as precise and graceful as a dancer's.
Her voice was calm, explaining the philosophy of balance, of controlling nature's wildness. My uncle, Hiroto, sat on the engawa nearby, sharpening a blade, a rare, relaxed smirk on his face as he watched us. It was one of the only peaceful moments I could remember.
The first sound was a soft thwip, and the gardener at the far end of the lawn crumpled. A red bloom spread across his white jacket. Silence for a heartbeat, then chaos.
Men in black, wearing the snarling wolf crest of the Rakurai, poured over the walls. Gunfire erupted, shattering the tranquility. Hiroto was on his feet in an instant, shoving me behind him, his own gun roaring to life. "Kenji, to the house!" he roared.
But I was frozen. I saw my mother. She didn't scream. She stood her ground, a small, elegant pistol in her hand, firing with deadly accuracy. She was a queen defending her castle.
Then I saw him. A boy, no older than me, leaning casually against the gatepost. Shuya Midoria. He wasn't fighting. He was watching, that same sunny, psychotic smile on his face that Nicole would later describe. He looked like he was at a theater performance.
"Akira Soma," he called out, his voice cutting through the noise. "Your husband hides behind his business. You shouldn't have stayed."
My mother's eyes met his, cold with contempt. She raised her pistol. But from the shadows, a sniper's bullet took her in the shoulder. She staggered. Another hit her leg. She fell to her knees amidst her precious hydrangeas.
Hiroto went berserk. He charged toward Shuya, a force of pure fury, cutting down anyone in his path. He almost reached him. But Shuya just nodded, and three of his men tackled my uncle.
I saw the glint of a pipe wrench. I heard the sickening, wet crack as it connected with Hiroto's skull. He went down, and they kept hitting him. And through it all, Shuya kept smiling.
I was dragged away by a surviving bodyguard, my eyes locked on the scene until a door slammed shut. The last thing I saw was my mother, on her knees, looking not at her attackers, but straight at me where I was hidden. Her eyes weren't scared. They were giving me a final, furious command: Remember. Survive. Avenge.
She was dead before nightfall. Hiroto, what was left of him, has never woken up. The doctors call it a persistent vegetative state. I call it a living death.)
End Flashback
The present snapped back. The interrogation room. The blood on my hands. Tokito's grim face.
Shuya hadn't just branded a girl I owned.
He had taken my mother. He had destroyed my uncle.
The world hadn't just shattered. It had burst into flames. And this time, I would make sure Shuya burned in them.
The blood was drying on my fingers, turning sticky. The man's whimpering in the corner was a distant buzz. All I could see was the ghost of a number, seared into skin.
"Eighty-six," I repeated, the words a low growl in the silent room. My jaw tightened, a muscle ticking relentlessly against the bone. A brand. A fucking name tag. Like she was livestock.
The logic of it, the cold, transactional reason, clicked into place in my head, cutting through the white-hot rage. My voice was flat, analytical, as I worked it out loud for Tokito. "For them to brand her… that means she was considered high quality. Valuable. Not some street trash to be sold off in a back alley."
My eyes, cold and focused, lifted to meet his. "So why was she auctioned? Why risk her on the open market?"
I took a step closer, the coppery smell of blood hanging between us. "Two possibilities. One: She was seen as dangerous. Uncontrollable. Too much trouble to keep. Or two…" I paused, my lip curling in a sneer. "They thought she was about to be defiled. Ruined. And they wanted to cash in before her value dropped."
The image of Shuya's smiling face flashed behind my eyes, followed by the memory of Nicole's fragile form in the garden. The puzzle pieces were there, but one was missing. The catalyst.
I stared straight at Tokito, my voice dropping, losing all its sarcasm, becoming pure, hungry curiosity. "What happened?" The question was a blade. "What did she do to make them decide to sell her? Did she tell you?"
The blood was drying on my fingers, turning sticky and dark. Tokito's nod was all the confirmation I needed. I gestured with my chin, a sharp, impatient movement. "By all means."
Tokito leaned against the grimy wall, keeping his voice low, though the choked gurgles from the corner made eavesdropping impossible. "She said there was a man. One of the guards. He'd… made a habit of raping the girls. He came for her that night. Pinned her against a crate."
Tokito's eyes were hard, seeing the story he was telling. "She said he was heavy. Smelled of sweat and cheap alcohol. He had one hand over her mouth, the other tearing at her clothes."
I didn't move, my entire being focused on the image he was painting. The cold concrete, the weight of the man, the panic.
"Her hand was flailing," Tokito continued, his fingers mimicking a scrambling motion. "It found a loose metal bolt on the crate. A heavy one. She didn't think. She just swung. Caught him right in the temple." He tapped the side of his own head. "She said it made a… a wet crack. He just slumped on her. Dead weight."
A slow smile spread across my face. It wasn't a pleasant smile. It was a baring of teeth.
"She said the other guards found her like that. Under his body. They weren't even angry. They thought it was funny. That's when they beat her. Broke ribs. Bruised her so badly she couldn't walk for a week. Then they decided she was too much trouble. Too dangerous. That's when they put her on the auction block."
The silence that followed was broken only by the drip of blood and the ragged breathing of the broken man in the chair.
Then I laughed.
It wasn't a chuckle. It was a short, sharp burst of genuine, surprised laughter that echoed off the concrete walls. The sound was so rare and out of place that even Tokito looked startled.
"She killed him," I said, the words laced with a kind of savage delight. I looked at my bloodstained hands, then back at Tokito, my blue eyes alight with a new, intense fire. "A fourteen-year-old girl, with a bolt. And she killed him." I shook my head, the laughter subsiding into a low, appreciative hum. "It seems my pet is a wild animal after all. Not a broken doll."
I paced a slow circle around the small, bloody room, my mind racing, reassembling the image of Nicole I had in my head. The quiet, trembling girl in the luxurious room was still there. But now, underneath, I saw the ghost of the fighter. The survivor.
"I see," I murmured, more to myself than to Tokito. The pieces clicked into a perfect, beautiful picture. The branding by Shuya. The killing. The punishment. She wasn't just some random victim. She was a prize that had fought back. A high-quality asset with a ferocious spirit.
I stopped pacing and turned to Tokito, my expression settling into one of cold, possessive certainty.
"Let her heal," I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper, yet every word was clear and sharp as a scalpel. "Let her study. Let her play with Nemu and think she's building a life. Let that spirit of hers grow back, strong and untamed."
I looked toward the door, as if I could see through the walls, all the way to the gardens where she sat. "I don't want a broken thing. I want that fire. Let it burn bright."
A twisted, almost affectionate smile touched my lips.
"The stronger she grows, the more satisfying it will be to bend her to my will. I'm not just keeping her, Tokito. I'm cultivating her. I will water that fire with fear and obsession until it belongs only to me. She will be my finest masterpiece."