Chapter 6 - Deadlines and Dreams Collide
The second semester at Nakamura High didn't begin so much as erupt. The once-dreamy corridors filled with a frenzied hum of activity—colorful banners for the cultural festival flapped in the wind, student council announcements echoed through the PA system, and even the teachers seemed to vibrate with nervous energy. There were exams looming, club exhibitions to prepare, and projects due in rapid succession.
For most students, it was a flurry of chaos.
For Akio Hukitaske, it was survival.
Between morning chemistry quizzes, after-school tutoring sessions, and the endless obligations of the newly revived Pharmaceutical Science Club, his days blurred together. He'd wake before dawn to study formulas he already knew too well—knowledge retained from his previous life—and still feel the pressure of trying to appear like an ordinary fourteen-year-old kid or fifteen-year-old kid overall.
The irony wasn't lost on him. In his past life, at thirty-two, he'd spent years drowning in schedules, performance reports, and suffocating deadlines. And now, reborn into youth, he found himself… doing it all over again. Only this time, there was a difference. This time, it mattered.
The Trio That Shouldn't Have Worked
Riki Yamahade had grown quieter. Not soft, but thoughtful. The delinquent mask remained—hands shoved in pockets, smirk ready at a moment's notice—but underneath was something changing. He was studying more, showing up to class on time, and even catching Hikata's stray notebooks when they inevitably went flying across the room.
"Don't think too hard about it," he'd say when Akio thanked him. "Just don't let the nerd brigade get wiped out without me."
Rumane Kaskesuba, meanwhile, had become both ally and mirror. She absorbed lessons faster than most could write them down, yet carried that lingering sadness behind her calm composure. One evening, after a long study session in the library, she surprised Akio by placing a small red headband in his hands.
"It suits you," she said, almost whispering. "You've got the presence of someone who saves people—even when you don't mean to."
Akio blinked, caught off guard. "I'm not… really that kind of person."
She smiled faintly. "Not yet. But you will be."
He didn't tell her how much that small gesture shook him. It wasn't just fabric—it was belief, a quiet acknowledgment that she saw something good in him, something worth keeping.
And Hikata, ever unpredictable, was becoming strangely brilliant in his own absurd way. One afternoon, balancing precariously on a desk chair, he shouted across the room:
"Hey! Crab shells are made of chitin, right? What if we use them to make dissolvable medicine capsules? Eco-friendly! Crab-powered medicine! We'd be heroes of the sea and pharmacy!"
The classroom went silent. Even Riki paused mid-sentence.
"That's… actually not a terrible idea," Akio admitted, rubbing his chin.
Hikata gasped theatrically. "See? I'm a visionary genius!" Then, in the same breath, he spiked up Akio's hair and declared, "You should keep it that way—as a promise between us! The Crab Capsule Pact!"
Akio just sighed, but somewhere deep inside, he held onto that silly vow like a charm.
Cracks in the Foundation
Despite the laughter, a quiet unease was settling in Akio's heart. He could feel it—the past tugging at him like a ghost refusing to rest. He'd wake from dreams that weren't quite dreams—glimpses of a house he no longer owned, a voice calling his name, the faint smell of burnt toast.
He brushed them away during the day, immersing himself in equations and friendship, but memory has a way of seeping through the smallest cracks.
The first real fracture came during his class presentation.
Scene 2 – The Echo of a Forgotten Child
The room buzzed with youthful chatter. Posters hung on the walls. Sunlight filtered through the windows, soft and golden. Akio stood before the projector, hands steady on the remote, ready to begin. His topic was close to his heart: The Effects of Childhood Trauma and the Role of Pharmacological Therapy in Emotional Recovery.
He'd rehearsed the script in his head a dozen times. Each word carefully chosen. Each slide meticulously designed.
"Research indicates," he began, voice calm and measured, "that trauma experienced in early childhood alters not just emotional processing but biological systems—particularly stress hormone regulation and immune responses. Medications that stabilize cortisol levels have shown—"
He clicked to the next slide.
A child appeared on the screen. Sitting in a hospital gown, clutching a stuffed animal. Just a stock photo, chosen at random.
But then—her eyes.
Brown. Wide. Too knowing for their age.
His daughter's eyes.
The air vanished from his lungs. His mouth went dry. A shiver ran through him, cold and electric. His fingers tightened around the remote until it cracked.
Someone laughed lightly in the background, thinking he'd frozen from stage fright. But he wasn't there anymore.
The classroom dissolved into static. His pulse roared in his ears.
He saw her again—not in the photo, but in memory. Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, drawing with crayons. A purple cat, fat and cheerful. She had giggled when he told her it looked more like a potato.
Then the smell of gasoline. The screech of tires. The sound that should never exist—metal against metal, life tearing apart in an instant.
He stumbled back. The projector light painted his face ghostly white. His breath hitched once, twice—and then he ran.
Through the hallway, past startled students, down the stairwell.
Out into the open courtyard.
He collapsed beside the old camphor tree, choking, his stomach twisting violently. The grass beneath him turned slick with bile. He pressed a trembling hand to his stomach, but the pain was beyond the physical.
A voice broke through the haze.
"Akio!"
Rumane. Breathless, concerned. Her shoes splashed through puddles as she reached him. "What happened? Are you—"
"I'm fine," he lied, wiping his mouth. "Just… pressure."
But his voice broke on the last word.
She crouched beside him, saying nothing. Her silence was understanding, not judgment.
And in that silence, the memories poured out.
His daughter would've been eight now. She'd loved singing badly in the car, insisted ketchup counted as a vegetable, and called him "Dada" long after most kids would've said "Dad."
He remembered the morning of the accident—arguing with his wife about work, leaving in anger, slamming the door.
He was at the lab when the call came.
A drunk driver. A fire.
No survivors.
He'd gone numb. Not the cinematic, tearful kind of grief. Just emptiness. A hollow echo that stretched through the rest of his life until, one night, it broke him entirely.
That was when he'd been injected with the experimental serum—the one that rewrote his body, his time, his fate.
And now here he was, reborn into youth. Alive again. But not her. Never her.
Akio buried his face in his hands beneath the camphor tree. The sky above him was painfully blue, as if mocking his grief.
Scene 3 – Bonds and Unspoken Truths
He told no one. Not the truth, at least. How could he? How do you explain to your friends that you're not truly fourteen—that your soul carries decades of regret and the memory of a child long gone?
But they felt it.
Rumane left a small white flower on his desk the next morning. She didn't say why, but she didn't need to. She had lost someone, too. Grief recognized grief.
Yasahute began walking home with him after school. They rarely spoke, but Akio found comfort in the quiet companionship.
Riki offered his usual brand of rough kindness: "You look like hell, woww. Wanna hit the gym? Punching stuff helps."
Akio smiled faintly. "You think everything can be solved with punching."
"Not everything," Riki replied. "But some things shouldn't stay bottled up."
And Hikata…
Hikata appeared the next day wearing a ridiculous rubber duck hat.
"Quack therapy!" he announced proudly. "Scientifically untested, morally questionable, emotionally healing!"
Akio couldn't help it—he laughed. A full, genuine laugh that startled even himself.
For the first time in weeks, the tightness in his heart loosened.
The Healing of Time
The seasons shifted again. Spring bled into summer, and the trio—no, the group—kept moving forward.
Their Pharmaceutical Science Club began gaining attention. Akio designed basic experiments to help students understand medicine's everyday applications. Hikata turned those lessons into chaotic entertainment, somehow managing to attract an audience.
Riki began focusing on experimental drug compounds under supervision, fascinated by how chemistry could be used to treat pain without addiction. Yasahute took to studying psychological medicine, developing a quiet passion for trauma recovery. And Rumane—brilliant, stoic Rumane—became the club's heart, balancing Akio's precision with empathy.
Late nights in the lab became a ritual. The faint buzz of fluorescent lights, the hum of machines, the smell of alcohol and ink.
In those quiet hours, Akio found peace. He still dreamed of his daughter—always smiling, always out of reach—but the dreams no longer crushed him. They carried warmth.
The Future He Built
Years passed like chapters turning themselves.
They graduated. Riki went on to study biomedical engineering. Rumane pursued pharmaceutical research at university. Yasahute specialized in clinical psychology. Hikata, of course, became a celebrity—hosting a wildly popular science variety show titled Doctor Detectives! that somehow blended comedy and education without imploding.
And Akio?
He graduated top of his class. Then, after several years of study and countless late nights, he opened a small independent pharmacy in a mountain town—a quiet place kissed by wind and sakura petals.
The grand opening was humble. No press, no ribbon-cutting ceremony—just a hand-painted sign above the door:
HUKITASKE PHARMACY
"To heal what we cannot fix. To mend what we cannot say."
The shelves were lined with medicine, but also compassion—simple cards explaining each treatment in plain language, a corner for herbal remedies, and a drawer filled with small sweets for children who came in afraid of needles.
He worked with steady hands and a lighter heart. Sometimes, he'd look out the window and watch the children running past, their laughter rising into the warm mountain air.
He'd imagine one of them turning and waving, her brown eyes bright.
And in that vision, he no longer felt the stabbing guilt of the past—only peace.
Because this time, he hadn't wasted his life chasing titles or redemption.
He had built something real.
He had learned how to live, and how to heal.
And when he dreamed of his daughter now, she no longer wept. She smiled.
He smiled back.
Because his second chance wasn't meant to erase the pain—
It was meant to honor it.
It was meant to heal.
(The End of Volume 1)