Chapter 4 - Sickly Tommorow
The morning began the way all good mornings pretend to: with a promise that nothing will go wrong.
Sunlight leaked through the paper windows of the pharmacy, warm and gold, washing the wooden floors in a honeyed calm. The kettle hissed softly in the corner, releasing a curl of steam that caught the light. Dust motes swam lazily in the air. Outside, the streets of Kyoto murmured with quiet life — the clatter of bicycle wheels, the chatter of shopkeepers preparing for the day, the calls of sparrows perched on telephone lines.
Akio Hukitaske sat behind the counter, sipping a cup of green tea that had long gone lukewarm. It wasn't happiness that settled in his heart, but a steadier, older feeling — contentment worn smooth by time. After all the fire, the loss, the betrayals, this quiet domesticity felt like a miracle that had forgotten it was one.
Rumane was somewhere in the back, lecturing Hikata about the new shipment of herbs from Hokkaido. Their voices carried through the thin walls — Hikata's lazy defense ("they're alphabetized in my order") followed by Rumane's irritated sigh ("your order makes no sense, Hikata!").
The community cat, Mochi, had claimed the sunniest spot on the windowsill. Its tail flicked rhythmically, the feline embodiment of apathy.
A few regulars wandered in. Mr. Tanaka from the temple needed a refill on his back-pain ointment. Mrs. Shiori dropped by to leave a box of homemade rice crackers as thanks for her grandson's treatment.
All of it — the small talk, the laughter, the gentle chaos of a working morning — made Akio's heart ache in that specific way joy sometimes does. He caught himself thinking: Maybe the shadows are really gone this time.
He wanted to believe it. He almost did.
The Breath That Broke the Quiet
The brass bell over the door shattered the calm like glass.
A young person stumbled inside, gasping for air, her hair clinging to her forehead in damp strands. She was shaking, clutching something in her hands.
"Please—someone—help!"
Akio was already up, his tea forgotten. "What happened?"
She held out an empty glass bottle. The label was so worn it was barely legible, but the shape — that slim-necked pediatric vial — Akio knew it instantly.
"Stabilizers," he murmured. "Child-grade."
"My daughter—she has a fever, it's getting worse. I thought I had another bottle but—" She stopped, words breaking into sobs. "She started seizing an hour ago. She hasn't had a dose in two days. Please—please—"
Akio's voice was calm but sharp. "How old is she?"
"Six. Her name's Emi."
"Symptoms?"
"High fever, muscle spasms, slow breathing—she's getting colder, not hotter."
Akio turned. "Hikata! Rumane! Emergency batch. Fever variant six-alpha."
The two appeared almost instantly, expressions hardening into focus. The shift from banter to battle mode was seamless — this wasn't their first storm.
"Hikata," Akio said, "get the secondary compound list. Rumane, sterilize the mixing table and prep a base solution — fifty milliliters, saline carrier, room temperature."
The persons breath hitched. "Can you save her?"
Akio didn't answer right away. He pulled a pen from his pocket and began scribbling quick calculations across an old notepad — adjusting dosage, compensating for the two-day lapse, accounting for probable serum decay. His handwriting was furious but clean, each number locked in muscle memory.
When he finally looked up, his eyes were steady. "She's going to be okay. I promise."
He didn't say if I'm fast enough.
Alchemy in Motion
The pharmacy transformed from clinic to battlefield.
Steam hissed. Glass clinked. The scent of boiling herbs, ethanol, and antiseptic filled the air.
Rumane tied her hair back, eyes flicking over the vials and droppers. "You're doing the prototype method, aren't you?"
Akio didn't look up. "It's the only one that'll work with expired stabilizers."
"That's dangerous."
"So is doing nothing."
Hikata arrived carrying a crate of reagents. "You know, you could just invent a crisis alert system instead of—"
Akio cut him off. "Hikata, powder base. Top shelf. I need 30 milligrams in solution."
Hikata grinned. "Yes, doctor."
His hands moved quickly, familiarity making him almost graceful. Rumane ground feverroot leaves in a mortar, her arms working in practiced rhythm. The room filled with the sharp scent of crushed herbs.
Akio poured the base compound into a flask, then added a viscous blue serum. The two substances hissed as they met. He counted under his breath — one, two, three — then swirled gently, watching the color shift from deep indigo to translucent azure.
"Viscosity looks right," Rumane said.
"Not yet," Akio murmured. He adjusted the flame beneath the distiller, eyes following the thermometer. The pressure climbed — slowly, then sharply. The old copper pipes rattled.
Rumane cursed under her breath. "You're pushing it."
"I know."
"Then stop pushing it."
He didn't. Instead, he reached out, tapped the side of the distiller — once, twice — and the pressure stabilized. The person and the machine understood each other.
Hikata exhaled. "Still gives me chills watching you do that."
"Then don't blink," Akio replied, voice low.
The mixture condensed in a slender vial, glowing faintly blue — a fragile thing born of science and desperation.
He capped it, labeled it with trembling precision, and looked up. "Let's go."
The Emergency Room Reborn
Emi's home was a narrow apartment near the river. The mother had run ahead; Akio followed with his satchel, Hikata and Rumane at his side. The streets blurred. Time was elastic — too fast and too slow all at once.
Inside, the air was hot and heavy with sickness. The small living room had been turned into a makeshift sickbed. A little kid lay there, motionless but for shallow breaths. Sweat gleamed on their forehead. Her lips were tinged grayish.
Akio knelt beside her. "Pulse: weak. Temperature: forty-one-point-five. Respiration unstable."
Rumane unpacked the sterile kit. Hikata cleared the table, moving aside old newspapers and toys.
"Rumane," Akio said softly, "cool compresses, alternating sides. Hikata, disinfect her arm."
He opened the vial and drew the serum into a syringe. His hand was steady. Always steady.
"Her veins are constricted," Hikata said.
"I see it." Akio's tone didn't change. "Hold her wrist. Gently."
He found the vein on the third try — a whisper beneath the skin — and pressed the plunger. The serum spread like frost through her veins, faint blue tracing beneath her skin before fading.
"Now we wait," he said.
The mother stood frozen in the doorway, hands clasped together, tears streaking her face.
Minutes passed. Then, a twitch. A gasp. The little kids breathing deepened. The fever broke like a tide retreating.
The mother fell to her knees. "Thank you… thank you…"
Akio only nodded. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "She'll need another dose in six hours. I'll prepare it. She's stable now."
He stayed another thirty minutes, monitoring vitals, giving quiet instructions. When he finally stood, the room smelled of life again.
Outside, the night had deepened. The cicadas hummed their low, endless song.
The Weight of Stillness
They walked home in silence. The air was cool now, almost cold. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving behind the fragile exhaustion that follows miracles.
Rumane broke the quiet first. "You didn't even hesitate."
Akio shrugged. "There wasn't time to."
"Still," Hikata said, "you could've blown the whole system if your heat calibration was off."
"I've blown worse," Akio said dryly.
Rumane gave a snort-laugh. "Like your entire career?"
He smirked. "That was more of a controlled demolition."
Their laughter rippled down the street — tired but real.
Reflection Beneath the Paper Lanterns
Later that night, the festival lanterns flickered across the rooftops. The city was alive with color and scent — grilled takoyaki, laughter, distant drums.
Akio sat on the pharmacy's roof, watching it all from afar. His tea had gone cold again. He didn't mind.
He could still see Emi's face when her breathing returned, that tiny flicker of life reclaiming its place. It reminded him of his daughter. Of the day he couldn't save her. Of the promise he made never to let another child suffer while he had the power to help.
Rumane climbed up beside him, carrying two fresh cups of tea. She handed him one and sat cross-legged, staring at the skyline.
"You alright?" she asked quietly.
"I think so," Akio said. "It's strange. I thought the serum was my curse. But today it felt like a gift."
Rumane nodded slowly. "You always said you took it to erase your mistakes. But maybe it was never about that. Maybe it was about giving you enough time to make peace with them."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe you're right."
"Of course I'm right," she said. "I'm always right. You're just slow at catching up."
He laughed, soft and genuine.
The two sat there in companionable silence, watching the lanterns drift higher into the night sky. Somewhere below, Mochi yowled indignantly at the sound of fireworks.
Akio's gaze lingered on the horizon. "Rumane… what if relife wasn't meant to change who we are, but to bring us back to it? Like… healing through rediscovery."
She looked at him. "Then I'd say you're finally using science the way it's meant to be used."
He nodded, eyes soft. "For life. Not control."
The city glowed around them — quiet, infinite, alive.
And as the night deepened, Akio felt something inside him shift. Not dramatically. Not like lightning. More like the steady pulse of a heart learning to beat without pain.
The past was still there — its echoes, its ghosts — but they no longer haunted. They simply existed.
He lifted his cup toward the stars. "This is what the serum was meant for," he whispered. "Not power. Not immortality. Just… healing."
Rumane smiled. "Then drink to that, Doctor."
He did.
Below them, the festival drums continued to pulse like the heartbeat of the world.
For the first time in years, tomorrow didn't feel sickly at all.
It felt possible.
[Next: Volume 4, Chapter 5 — The Kid Who Remembered Tomorrow]