The world had shifted in ways the Uki brothers could no longer name. The snow had returned in bitter flurries, coating the edges of Tokyo in a deceptive, pristine white. But beneath the glittering blanket, the city remained jagged, cruel, and relentless. And beneath that, something new had begun to twist inside Yatsumiya and Bradzi.
They had returned to the city with nothing but instinct, memory, and the faint echo of a figure who had once called them inside and offered warmth. Akio Hukitaske had been that person. A lighthouse in an endless storm of cruelty and neglect. But light was dangerous to those who had learned to survive in darkness, and shadows—the long shadows of the Yaka Organization—had a way of reshaping everything they touched.
It began with whispers. At first, subtle: a hand offered in a forgotten alley, a phrase that promised safety, power, mastery over the vulnerability that had defined their childhood. Then, it escalated—an embrace of cold science, an insistence that survival required more than instinct; it required obedience, precision, and surrender.
Yatsumiya, older but older in understanding, was the first to hear the call.
"Children like you," said the recruiter, her voice smooth as mercury, "don't survive by clinging to warmth. You survive by controlling it. By understanding it, bending it… shaping yourself into what the world fears."
Bradzi had listened quietly, his pale face unreadable, eyes reflecting the dim neon lights that leaked through cracked windows. Their lives had been defined by loss. Their hearts had learned to shiver long before the cold ever touched them.
And so, they followed.
Entering the Yaka Organization
The headquarters of Yaka was not a building. It was a labyrinth—steel, glass, and shadows interwoven into impossible corridors, where the faint hum of electricity mixed with the faint copper scent of antiseptics. The walls were lined with small, numbered rooms: laboratories, observation decks, and training halls where children were taught the delicate, terrifying calculus of survival under Yaka's doctrine. And where orphans were also experimented on for the production of time itself.
Yatsumiya and Bradzi were given numbers—designations that promised identity yet stripped away the names they had held onto so desperately. Uki-03 and Uki-04. Not people. Assets. Experiments.
The first lessons were subtle. Observation, endurance, and manipulation. They were introduced to the philosophy that would guide the rest of their lives: pain was optional. Obedience was survival. Humanity was a liability. And above all—loyalty to Yaka was absolute.
The twins adapted quickly. Necessity had already carved them into survivors sharper than most adults could ever become. They learned the methods: how to erase a memory, how to enhance reflexes through chemical and surgical means, how to predict the actions of others with frightening precision.
Bradzi, the younger, became the silent observer. Calculating, pale, restrained. Every movement, every expression, every heartbeat noted, stored, and analyzed. Yatsumiya, fiery and restless, became the executor: bold, daring, a blade sharpened by cruelty. Together, they were unstoppable. Together, they were almost… untouchable.
The Transformation
Days and nights blurred. Lights never fully dimmed. Time became an abstraction measured not in hours, but in the precision of movement, the intake of chemicals, the exacting rhythm of survival drills. Yatsumiya's laughter—once brittle, once human—was replaced by a smirk honed for intimidation. Bradzi's eyes, once heavy with sorrow, now glimmered with calculated detachment. And hollow comedy.
And somewhere deep inside, both remembered Akio.
They did not remember warmth as kindness anymore. They remembered it as weakness. And weakness was something Yaka taught you to excise.
Yet the memory was alive enough to haunt them.
Late one night, in a laboratory flooded with blue light and the hum of refrigeration units, Yatsumiya whispered to Bradzi, the words barely audible over the whirring of machines:
"Do you remember… the warmth?"
Bradzi didn't answer immediately. He focused on a vial, swirling its contents—a neon green serum that promised heightened reflexes. "I remember it," he said finally. "But it's irrelevant. Akio's world is not ours anymore."
Irrelevant. The word tasted like ash. But it was what they needed to survive. To belong.
The Doctrine of Yaka
The leaders of Yaka were merciless philosophers. They taught that pain could be engineered, fear could be measured, and obedience could be perfected. The children—orphans, lost, desperate—were ideal subjects.
Yatsumiya and Bradzi learned fast, absorbing every lesson with the cold diligence that only years of childhood suffering could create. The doctrines infiltrated their thoughts, rewiring their beliefs. They were no longer merely survivors—they were instruments, sharpened and honed to execute the ideals Yaka demanded.
Akio became a distant figure in their memories: a figure who had once offered safety, a flicker of light now filtered through the lens of cynicism. They told themselves he had been naive. Weak. Unsuitable for the world they now belonged to.
Control. The word pulsed with promise, humming like electricity through their veins. They were no longer children—they were warriors shaped by pain, knowledge, and doctrine.
The Planning
Months passed, and their skills grew. The Yaka Organization trusted them with increasingly complex operations: surveillance, infiltration, extraction. They became shadows that moved with surgical precision, instruments of strategy and fear.
Yet somewhere beneath the surface, buried under synthetic confidence and chemical fortitude, memories of Akio lingered—warmth they no longer understood, kindness they no longer desired to seek.
It was Yatsumiya who first decided the confrontation was necessary. As Akio was starting to rise again in the news logs of Yaka's calls.
"We return," he told Bradzi. "We go to him. Not to forgive. Not to plead. But to… show him what we've become."
Bradzi's lips twitched, a faint echo of a childhood smile. "He will not understand. He cannot."
"Good," Yatsumiya said. "Then we'll teach him."
Snow and Strategy
The night they left Yaka's headquarters, snow fell thick and unrelenting. The world outside their controlled environments had not softened; it had only hardened with the season's cruelty. Streetlights cast eerie halos through the falling flakes, turning the city into a canvas of shadows and flickering gold.
They drove silently in a stolen cruiser, headlights cutting through the storm. Every movement, every breath measured. Every instinct fine-tuned by months of training under Yaka.
Akio had no way of knowing they were coming. He never could have predicted the culmination of their transformation.
The Highway Confrontation
The highway stretched before him, a ribbon of black ice under the snow, unbroken and silent. Akio shifted the car into reverse, instinctive caution pulling him back.
Nothing.
The gearstick moved, but the vehicle didn't respond. The dashboard flickered once, then died. All lights extinguished. The heater's hum faded into silence. Smoke hissed from the hood. The car was a corpse.
Akio's breath fogged the cold air inside the car. His hand slid toward the emergency stunner as a sense of wrongness settled over him like a winter coat too heavy to shed.
Then he saw them.
The first figure walked toward him. Slowly. Steadily. Each step deliberate, echoing across the snowy highway. The crunch of boots against frozen asphalt was amplified by the emptiness around him.
In his hand, he carried something luminous. A vial, glowing faintly blue, liquid writhing like a living thing.
The child's grin sharpened as he reached the car. Without hesitation, he smashed the vial against the grill. Glass shattered. Liquid spread like a stain, and the pulse reverberated through the chassis—a low hum rattling Akio's bones.
The cruiser shuddered, then died completely.
Akio's fingers tightened around the stunner.
The child tilted his head, calm, casual, yet radiating a strength beyond his age. He seized the driver's side door and ripped it off its hinges. Metal screeched, clattering into the snow. The wind tore through the cabin.
Akio raised the stunner.
"Don't bother," the teenager said. Light, almost playful. Hollow beneath the tone. "I deleted my pain response last month. Reinforced the neurons. Stun all you want—I won't even flinch."
Surgical incisions ran behind his ear, fresh, angry red against pale skin.
"Name's Dr. Yatsumiya Uki," he said, smiling as though it were a gift. "I'm your successor."
Behind him, Bradzi's eyes glimmered. Silent. Calculated. The storm of their past and the doctrine of Yaka had combined, reshaping their hearts into flames Akio could no longer reach.
Akio's own breath hitched. Recognition. Shock. Fear. All tangled into one.
The snow fell around them, but for the first time in his life, Akio Hukitaske felt the full weight of the darkness he had once tried to shelter them from.
The world outside—the bitter Tokyo winter, the neon streets, the alleys that had once been their refuge—seemed distant, irrelevant. What remained was only the burning hearts of the Uki brothers, forged in suffering, molded by doctrine, and finally returned to the pharmacist who had once dared to trust them.
And as the snow swirled across the frozen highway, the future of their bond, and the price of warmth, hung in balance.
The End?... - The Ending Connects Into The Fourth Chapter Of Pharmaceutical Rewrite! - Reading Already Avaliable.