Chapter One: The Day the World Changed Shape
Rain made everything in Aozora look like it had been washed once too often.
It wasn't a clean rain. It carried the smell of the port and the sour hint of coal smoke that had started to creep in from the new engines. It slicked the roof tiles, darkened the wood of the gates, and turned the courtyard earth into a heavy paste that clung to sandals and pride equally.
Kurogane Riku sat on the edge of the engawa with his knees pulled up, bare feet tucked under him to keep from touching the mud. He could feel the cold of the morning through the thin boards anyway. Fifteen years old and already too tall for the house to pretend he was a child, he watched the rain slide off the eaves in steady strings and tried to keep his face neutral, like he had been taught.
Neutral was harder when your father held scissors.
Not Mother's small sewing scissors, the ones that clicked like a bird's beak as she mended sleeves by lamplight. These were the heavy shears used to cut paper in the magistrate's office when a document was amended, annulled, or "clarified." They looked wrong in Father's hands. Too blunt. Too final.
Father sat opposite him in the courtyard under the narrow awning that never fully kept the rain out. A low chopping block had been dragged out and set between them. Riku recognized it. He had practiced on it when he was younger, chopping bundles of straw with a wooden sword until his wrists burned and his father's voice went hoarse from correcting him.
The block still had faint cuts in it, old and uneven. Little scars, like someone had tried to carve their way into becoming worthy.
Now it waited like an altar.
Hikari stood to Riku's right, just behind him, close enough that her sleeve brushed his shoulder whenever she shifted her weight. She had her hand around his wrist. Her fingers pressed in hard, nails making crescent moons in his skin. Riku didn't pull away. He didn't ask her to stop. The grip wasn't pain so much as an instruction. Do not move. Do not flinch. Do not make this easier by looking away.
She didn't look at him.
She looked at Father.
Father's hair was wet at the edges where the rain had found him. His topknot was carefully oiled, still neat, still stubbornly belonging to yesterday. On his lap sat a cloth folded twice, indigo and plain, the kind used to wrap things you did not want the neighbors to see.
The smell of ink drifted in from the magistrate's office down the street. It was close enough that if Riku listened he could sometimes hear the thump of the stamp on paper through the rain, a steady rhythm like a heart that wasn't his.
Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.
Progress, in time.
Father's hands hovered over the shears. They were not shaking in big movements. It was smaller than that. A trembling you only noticed because you knew what those hands used to look like when they wrapped around a practice sword. They had been steady then, steady in a way Riku had worshipped as a child. When Father corrected his grip, the pressure had been firm and certain. When Father poured sake for guests, the stream had been clean, never spilling.
Now there were ink stains in the grooves of Father's fingers, dark smudges that did not wash out. Calluses had formed in different places, not from the hilt of a blade but from holding brushes, from pinching paper, from pressing a stamp down a thousand times until the wrist learned obedience.
Father cleared his throat, like he was about to read a proclamation. Like he was about to apologize.
Instead he said, very quietly, "It came this morning."
Riku's throat felt dry. He swallowed. The movement made Hikari's grip tighten slightly, like she could feel his nerves through skin.
"What came," Riku asked, though he already knew.
Father's eyes flicked toward the gate, toward the street, toward the world beyond their courtyard. Not fear exactly. Calculation. The kind of look a man gave when deciding how much truth was safe to let out.
"A notice," Father said. "All former samurai households in this district. We are to present ourselves. Adjustment. Compliance."
The words sounded like the magistrate's ink. Heavy. Official. Designed to crush anything soft.
Riku stared at the shears. He could see his own reflection in the dull metal, warped by the curve. His face looked older in it, stranger.
He tried to speak again. His voice came out thinner than he wanted. "Why does it matter what we look like."
Father's mouth pulled tight. It was almost a smile, if you didn't know better. If you wanted to believe.
"It matters to them," Father replied.
Hikari's thumb pressed into Riku's pulse. He realized she was counting his heartbeat, or maybe she was making sure it didn't run away.
Riku glanced up at her.
Hikari's eyes were fixed on Father's hands. Her face was calm, but there was a tightness around her mouth, a slight lift to her chin that made her look older than her years. Riku couldn't read it yet. It wasn't grief, not the kind he recognized. It felt sharper.
Father shifted on the floorboards. The indigo cloth in his lap rustled.
"You don't have to do it," Riku said before he could stop himself. The sentence landed in the courtyard like a stone tossed into a basin, making ripples, awkward and loud.
Father's gaze snapped to him. For a moment the man Riku remembered was there. The samurai who had once stood in armor for ceremonies, who had once spoken oaths with a straight spine.
Then it faded, and what remained was Father as he was now, shoulders slightly rounded from days spent sitting at a desk that wasn't his by choice.
"I do," Father said.
Riku's jaw clenched. He didn't want to sound like a child. He hated that his voice rose anyway. "Why."
Hikari's fingers dug in. Not to stop him. To anchor him.
Father's eyes dropped to the shears.
He did not answer at first. The rain filled the silence, steady and patient. Somewhere down the street, a rooster crowed as if the morning was normal, as if this was just another day where boys became men and men became old without the world shifting under their feet.
When Father finally spoke, it was softer. "Because they asked."
Riku stared. The answer didn't make sense. It felt wrong in his mouth, like biting into something and realizing it was rotten.
"They asked," Riku repeated.
Father's hands flexed. The shears clicked once, a tiny sound that made Riku's shoulders jump. Father saw the flinch. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in something like regret.
"They did not ask politely," Father added.
From the street came the sound of footsteps, quick and purposeful. Someone running with a message. Someone laughing too loudly. Someone trying to pretend this whole town wasn't holding its breath.
Riku leaned forward. "So you just... you just kneel and let them."
Father's gaze sharpened. "Mind your tone."
That sentence was familiar. It should have steadied Riku. It did the opposite. It made something hot rise behind his ribs.
Riku looked at the chopping block. He remembered straw bundles exploding apart under the wooden sword. He remembered Father nodding once when he did it right, that small nod like a blessing.
Now the block waited for hair.
"Was it all a lie," Riku asked, and hated the way his voice cracked on the last word.
Father blinked. "What."
"All those stories," Riku said. "Serving our lord. Duty. Honor. Standing straight. Was it all just... words to make me behave."
Hikari sucked in a breath through her nose, a tiny sound. Not shock. A warning.
Father's expression changed. Not anger. Not yet. Something empty opened in his face, like a door someone had forgotten to close.
He set the shears down on his lap, carefully, as if they might cut him even there.
"When I was your age," Father said, "my father placed a sword in my arms."
Riku's hands curled on his knees. He waited. He had heard this story before, in pieces, like a song repeated until you stopped listening to the words.
Father continued anyway, voice steadying as he spoke of the past. "He told me, 'This is what makes you worth feeding.'"
The rain sounded louder.
Father's gaze lifted to Riku. His eyes were tired. Not old, not yet, but worn in a way Riku hadn't noticed until now.
"I believed him," Father said. "It carried me through years where I had nothing else to hold on to."
Riku swallowed. "So why not tell me that."
Father's mouth twitched. A humorless thing. "Because it would be a lie."
The words hit harder than a slap.
Riku's chest tightened. "It wasn't a lie for you."
"It was," Father said quietly. "It was just a useful one."
Hikari's grip on his wrist changed. It loosened, just slightly, like she was surprised too. Like she hadn't expected Father to admit that out loud.
Riku turned his head and stared at the rain. He didn't want Father to see his eyes. The courtyard felt smaller than usual, like the walls had leaned in to listen.
"If I told you a sword is what makes you worth feeding," Father went on, "then I would be giving you a path that ends at a wall."
Riku laughed once, sharp. "A wall."
Father nodded. "A wall. Or a bullet. Or a prison. Or a ditch."
Riku's nails bit into his palms. "So what, then. I'm worth feeding because I can... stamp papers."
Father's jaw tightened at the mention of his job, like Riku had struck him with the word.
"No," Father said. "You are worth feeding because you are my son."
The sentence should have been warm. It came out strained, like a rope pulled too tight.
Riku wanted to believe it. He wanted to let that be enough. He could feel the part of him that still wanted to kneel, still wanted to be the good son, reaching for it.
But another part of him, raw and loud and newly awake, spit it back.
"That's not how the world works," Riku muttered.
Father's eyes sharpened. "And you know how it works."
Riku snapped his head up. "I know you're cutting my hair because some men in uniforms decided our family is embarrassing now."
Hikari's grip tightened again, hard enough to hurt.
Father's shoulders rose and fell in one controlled breath. He looked, for a moment, like he was counting something. Like he was choosing his next step carefully.
"They call it equality," Father said. "They say we are all the same now. No more privileges."
Riku's laugh came again, harsher. "Privileges. Like being allowed to exist."
Father's mouth flattened. He glanced toward the gate again, and Riku followed the look.
Outside, the street was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant people were listening behind shutters.
Father spoke lower. "There are men who would like an excuse to make an example of someone. If I refuse, if I make noise, if I act like I am still what I was, then they do not just punish me."
Riku's throat tightened. He knew what Father meant. He just didn't want to.
"They punish us," Father said, voice barely above the rain. "Your mother. Hikari. You."
Hikari's fingers on his wrist went rigid. Her eyes flicked to the house, where Mother would be listening from behind a screen, pretending not to.
Riku's stomach twisted. He hated that Father could use their names like that. Like a shield. Like a chain.
"So you bend," Riku said, each syllable tasting bitter. "Because you're scared."
Father's eyes flashed. The first real heat. "Yes."
The word was sharp, clean. No excuses.
Riku blinked.
Father leaned forward slightly. "Fear sharpens different edges when you are not alone," he said. "When you have mouths to feed that are not your own."
Riku's lips parted, but no words came. His anger didn't know where to go if Father admitted it like that, if Father didn't pretend he was noble.
Hikari's grip loosened again. Not because she was relaxing. Because she was thinking.
Father picked up the shears. The metal looked colder now.
"I am not asking you to agree," Father said. "I am asking you to sit still."
Riku stared at the shears.
The topknot on his head felt suddenly heavy, like it had weight beyond hair, beyond tradition. Like it was a handle someone could grab.
Rainwater dripped off the end of the awning and splashed into the mud, making small craters that filled immediately.
Father reached out.
His fingers gathered Riku's topknot. They were careful, almost tender. Riku could smell the oil in his hair, familiar, comforting in a way that made his chest ache.
Father's ink-stained thumb pressed lightly against Riku's scalp, as if memorizing the shape.
Riku's eyes burned. He kept them open. He would not blink. Hikari's nails stayed in his wrist like a reminder.
Father lifted the shears.
There was a pause, a thin slice of time where the whole world seemed to lean in.
Riku's mind flooded with images. His father in armor. His grandfather's stern face in the old portrait that hung in their cramped living space. The wooden sword in his own hands, swinging until he thought he would die of exhaustion, just to earn a nod.
He thought of boys his age in the street who never had topknots, who never had to carry a name like a burden.
He thought of the magistrate's stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.
The shears closed.
Snip.
The sound was soft.
That was the worst part. The sound was so small. Like a leaf tearing. Like a blade of grass giving way. Like the world didn't understand what it had just done.
Riku felt the weight leave his head, sudden and wrong. Cool air touched the crown of his scalp, exposed, unfamiliar. He lifted a hand automatically, fingers searching for the knot that wasn't there.
His palm met short hair.
Not empty. But not him.
The severed topknot fell into the mud with a wet slap that sounded louder than the snip. Dark hair against dark earth, coiled like a small animal that had been killed.
Down the street, someone laughed.
It was quick, thin, nervous. It could have been amusement. It could have been fear. It could have been someone laughing because if they didn't, they would scream.
Riku's hand stayed on his head. He pressed as if he could push the hair back into its old shape.
Father stared at the topknot.
He did not move for a long moment.
His fingers, still holding the shears, trembled again, more visibly now. Not from weakness. From holding something inside too tightly.
He reached forward and lifted the cut hair carefully, as if it was fragile. As if it was sacred. He placed it on the chopping block, right in the center, where Riku's wooden sword had struck a thousand times.
The rain speckled it.
Riku's throat worked. He could taste bile.
"Is that it," Riku asked, voice low.
Father didn't look up. "For today."
Hikari's grip on his wrist loosened fully. She released him. Her fingers left behind crescent marks, pale against his skin.
Riku didn't move. He stared at the hair on the block.
Hikari spoke for the first time in what felt like hours. Her voice was quiet, flat. "We have to go."
Father blinked, like he had forgotten she was there. He looked at her, then at Riku.
Riku's chest felt like it had been carved out and filled with something heavy and hot.
He stood abruptly. The boards creaked. Rain hit his face. The cold should have shocked him back into sense. It didn't.
He pointed at the hair on the block. "That's what they wanted."
Father's gaze followed the gesture. He nodded once, slow.
Riku's voice rose despite him. It shook. "And you gave it to them."
Father looked up then.
Riku expected anger. A shout. A command. Instead Father's face was... tired. So tired it made Riku's rage falter for a heartbeat.
"I gave them hair," Father said. "So they would not take more."
Riku's hands clenched into fists. "You could have fought."
Father's eyes hardened. "With what. A kitchen knife. A memory."
"With your spine," Riku snapped.
Father's jaw tightened.
Hikari's voice cut in, sharp as a slap even though she didn't raise it. "Riku."
Riku barely heard her.
He stepped closer to Father, rain soaking his sleeves. "All those lessons," he said. "All those stories about standing for what's right. You made me believe it mattered."
Father's eyes flickered. Something hurt moved behind them, quick as a fish under water.
"It did," Father said.
"Then why didn't you," Riku started, and the words tore out of him before he could soften them, "WHY DIDN'T YOU FIGHT!"
The shout bounced off the courtyard walls. It felt too big for the small space, like a dragon roaring in a teacup.
Silence followed, heavy and sudden.
Even the rooster down the street shut up, as if offended.
Hikari's face went pale. She grabbed Riku's sleeve, not his wrist this time, pulling hard enough to make him stumble a half-step.
Father's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed.
He stood.
He was not tall, not compared to Riku now, but when Father stood with his full height and his full attention, the air changed. Riku's heart stumbled.
Father took one step forward.
His voice was quiet. That was worse than shouting.
"Because I have buried friends," Father said. "I have watched brave men die and leave their wives to starve. I have watched sons grow up with nothing but a name and a hole in their chest where their father should have been."
He took another step.
Rain slid down his face like sweat.
"And because," Father continued, the words sounding like they hurt his teeth, "if I fought today, I would be fighting for my pride. Not for you."
Riku's mouth opened. He wanted to argue. He wanted to spit something sharp and heroic.
The words wouldn't come.
Father's hand lifted slightly, as if he might grab Riku's shoulder. He stopped himself. His fingers curled, empty.
"I will not give you the same lie my father gave me," Father said. "I will not tell you that dying beautifully is the same as living well."
Riku's vision blurred. He blinked hard, angry at himself.
Father's voice softened. "I know what it looks like," he said. "I know it looks like surrender. I know you feel ashamed."
Riku's throat tightened. He hated that Father could name it. Hated that he was right.
Father glanced at the chopping block again, at the hair, at the rain speckling it.
Then he looked back at Riku. "If you want to be angry at me," he said, "be angry. But do not confuse my choice with cowardice. It was not made for my comfort."
Riku's lips trembled. He bit them until he tasted blood.
Hikari's hand stayed on his sleeve. Her fingers were steady, but her eyes were bright in a way that made Riku look away.
Father lowered his gaze. He seemed to shrink slightly, like speaking those words had cost him. Like admitting the truth had taken more strength than swinging a blade ever would.
In the house, a floorboard creaked. Mother. Listening. Not coming out.
Rain kept falling. Patient. Unbothered.
Hikari tugged Riku's sleeve again. "Come," she said, and there was something in her tone that didn't allow debate. Not kindness, not cruelty. Necessity.
Riku let himself be pulled back toward the engawa, his feet dragging through mud that wanted to keep him.
Father sat down again slowly, as if his knees had suddenly aged ten years. He set the shears on the cloth in his lap. His hands shook again, more now, trembling with something Riku didn't have the words for.
Riku watched the shaking and felt a mean thought flash through him. Weak.
Then he saw Father's knuckles, white from gripping the shears too hard, and the thought tasted wrong. Cheap. Too easy.
Hikari moved to the basin near the porch and dipped a cloth into it, wringing it out with brisk motions. She held it out to Riku without looking at him.
"Clean your face," she said.
Riku took the cloth. His hands were clumsy. He wiped rain and something else from his cheeks. He didn't want to name what.
He glanced down into the basin.
His reflection stared up.
A boy with shorn hair, eyes too sharp, mouth set too hard. Someone he didn't recognize, and somehow someone he had been waiting to meet.
He touched the crown of his head again, fingers brushing the short hair.
The skin there felt exposed. Like the world could reach in and grab him.
Hikari leaned over the basin, her face appearing beside his reflection. Her eyes met his in the water, not directly. It felt safer that way.
"You're going to do something stupid," she said softly.
Riku's throat tightened. "No."
Hikari's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "That was a stupid answer."
Riku swallowed. "What do you want me to do."
Hikari's eyes slid toward Father, then back. Her voice lowered even more. "I want you to live long enough to become useful."
The words were cold, but there was something underneath them that made Riku's chest ache.
"Useful for what," he muttered.
Hikari didn't answer. She straightened, wringing the cloth again. Her gaze was distant, fixed on something beyond the courtyard walls, beyond the rain, like she could already see the shape of the future and was deciding where to cut it.
Father spoke again, voice small. "Riku."
Riku looked at him.
Father's eyes were on the basin, on the water, on the boy's reflection. He didn't seem to be speaking to Riku alone. It felt like he was speaking to the version of Riku he wished could exist.
"I know it hurts," Father said.
Riku's jaw clenched.
Father's voice cracked just slightly on the next word. "I'm sorry."
Riku stared at him.
Sorry was not something fathers said, not in the stories. Sorry belonged to strangers and beggars. Sorry was weakness.
And yet Father said it anyway.
It made Riku's anger twist into something more complicated, something he didn't want to hold.
Riku turned away first. Coward. Or mercy. He didn't know.
Hikari said, "We're late."
She meant the magistrate's office. The adjustment. The compliance.
Father stood again, slower now. He folded the indigo cloth over the shears and the severed topknot like he was wrapping a body. He held it close to his chest for a moment, eyes closed, like a prayer.
Then he tucked it under his arm and walked toward the gate.
Riku followed, feet heavy, rain soaking his sleeves. Hikari walked at his side, close enough that her shoulder brushed his.
In the street, the town pretended not to look.
Neighbors' eyes slid away too fast. Men who had once bowed to Father now examined the ground with sudden interest. Women whispered behind sleeves. Children stared openly, then were yanked back inside by mothers who smiled too brightly.
Riku's scalp felt like it was burning. Not from cold. From being seen.
They reached the magistrate's office.
It smelled like ink and damp paper and old wood. The stamp sound was louder inside.
Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.
A clerk took Father's name without looking up. Another clerk held out a form with neat characters, too neat, as if nothing in the world was messy.
Father signed.
Riku watched the brush move. He watched Father's hand tremble and still write cleanly anyway.
Hikari stood behind Riku, a shadow at his back.
When it was done, Father bowed to the clerk. Not deep. Not submissive. Just enough to satisfy the ritual of the new world.
The clerk nodded like he had fed a dog.
Outside, rain kept falling.
Riku walked home with them, silent. The street felt different. The buildings were the same, the stones the same, but the air had shifted. Like the sky had decided to press closer.
Back in the courtyard, Father placed the wrapped cloth inside a storage chest. He did it carefully, like he was putting away a weapon he might need again.
Riku watched him do it. He didn't speak. He couldn't.
When Father left to return to the office, his sandals making small wet sounds on the stones, Riku stayed by the basin.
Hikari lingered beside him.
"You saw it," she said.
Riku stared at the water. "I saw him give up."
Hikari's hand came down on the back of his neck, not gentle. She forced him to look at her.
Her eyes were bright now. Angry. Focused.
"He didn't give up," she said. "He chose."
Riku's throat tightened. "He chose to be small."
Hikari's grip tightened. Her voice dropped, dangerous. "He chose to keep us breathing."
Riku flinched, not from pain, but from the weight of it.
Hikari let go.
For a moment they stood there, both soaked, both shaking in different ways.
Then Hikari turned away, shoulders squared. "Dry your hair," she said, like she was talking about something ordinary. Like she could keep the world from collapsing by naming chores.
She went inside.
Riku stayed.
He stared into the basin until his reflection blurred again and again with raindrops.
And somewhere inside him, along a line he hadn't noticed before, something cracked open.
The part of him that had wanted to kneel stayed in the courtyard, wet and quiet.
The part of him that wanted to stand up, even if it meant being alone, took its first breath.
The next weeks taught Riku that humiliation did not end when the scissors closed.
It followed you like the smell of rain on old wood.
In the marketplace, men who had once greeted him with respectful nods now offered him the same look they gave any boy running errands. Not cruel, not kind. Just empty. Like his name had become a coat everyone agreed not to notice.
Sometimes that was worse than mockery.
He caught himself walking differently, shoulders hunched, as if trying to become smaller so the eyes would slide past him. Then he would remember his father standing in the courtyard, saying he chose life, and rage would flare hot enough to straighten his spine again.
At night, Riku lay on his futon and listened to the town breathe.
The sake shop below their rented rooms was noisy. Men drank to forget, drank to pretend, drank because they didn't know what else to do with their mouths now that speaking honestly could get you arrested. Laughter rose in bursts, then died. Occasionally a shout would cut through, a fight starting over something stupid, something small enough to be safe.
Riku would lie there and stare at the ceiling beams, counting them like he could measure his future by wood.
He would touch his hair, still too short to tie.
It grew in unevenly, stubborn in places, refusing to lay flat. He hated it.
He hated that something as simple as hair could change the way the town looked at him.
He hated that he cared.
On mornings when the rain eased, he climbed onto the roof.
He did it quietly, barefoot on slick tiles, hands finding cracks and edges without thinking. The roof was treacherous, loose in places. A misstep could send him sliding into the alley. He liked that risk. It felt honest.
From there he could see Aozora.
Or what Aozora was becoming.
The port was the first thing you noticed. It had always been busy, always smelled like fish and salt and sweat, but now it looked like something growing too fast. Cranes rose like long-necked birds made of wood and rope. Steam engines coughed and spat, leaving streaks of soot that the rain couldn't fully wash away. Foreign ships anchored in the bay like dark teeth, their shapes unfamiliar, their flags bright.
Banners with the new government's emblem fluttered from buildings. Fresh cloth, clean paint, the kind of bold symbol that pretended history started yesterday.
Riku sat on the roof ridge and watched men move like ants below, hauling crates, shouting, bowing to officials in uniforms that looked too crisp for the mud under their boots.
His hand would drift to the sword at his waist.
It was old. A relic. The lacquer on the scabbard cracked in fine lines like dried riverbeds. The wrapping on the hilt had been redone three times by Riku's own clumsy fingers, each attempt tighter, neater, desperate to make it look like something that belonged in a story.
Sometimes, alone on the roof, he drew it halfway.
Just enough to see the steel catch the light.
The blade was honest. It didn't care about banners. It didn't care about stamps. It didn't pretend.
Riku liked that.
He would hold it there, half-drawn, and whisper promises into the wind that he wasn't sure anyone else could hear.
"I'll be strong," he would mutter. "Strong enough that no one can cut us down like hair."
He didn't know who "us" was, exactly. His family, yes. His name, yes. His pride, definitely.
He would imagine himself older, taller, sword brighter, stepping into the magistrate's office and making the stamp stop. He would imagine Father watching him with something like relief instead of tired resignation.
He would imagine the world being put back into shape, like clay pressed back into a mold.
Then a gull would scream over the bay, harsh and real, and the fantasy would crack like thin ice.
He knew, even then, that the world didn't work like that.
But he also knew he needed the promise anyway.
On the days when he couldn't stand the roof, he went to the streets.
The streets taught him faster than Father ever had.
In the beginning it was small fights.
Boys scrapping over marbles, over dumplings, over insults that felt like daggers when you were fifteen. Riku found himself stepping into those fights without thinking, shoulders turning, fists rising, body moving like it was trying to remember the forms Father had shown him, even if his head didn't know what to do with them.
He won more often than he lost. Not because he was skilled. Because he was angry, and anger made him refuse to stop.
That earned him bruises. It also earned him a reputation.
It started with whispers.
"Samurai boy."
"Thinks he's still special."
"He hits hard."
Then it shifted into something else.
People began to look for him when trouble brewed, like he was a tool you could grab off a shelf when you needed something heavy.
Riku told himself he didn't care.
He cared.
One summer evening, the rain came back in thin sheets, not a storm, just enough to make the dirt slick and the air smell like wet fish.
Riku was cutting through an alley behind the market, heading home with nothing in his hands but irritation. He had argued with Hikari that morning, the kind of argument where neither of them said what they meant. Hikari had looked at him like he was a loose nail in a floorboard, something that could trip everyone if it wasn't hammered down.
Riku hated when she looked at him like that.
He turned the corner and saw them.
Three dockworkers, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up, faces shiny with sweat despite the rain. They had that casual looseness of men who knew their bodies were weapons. They crowded a fruit seller against his cart.
The fruit seller was older, cheeks sunken, hands trembling as he held onto the cart handle like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Beside him, a girl clung to his sleeve, eyes huge, lips pressed together to keep from making a sound.
One dockworker, the biggest, leaned in close, his grin wide and ugly. He held up a coin purse and shook it lightly, teasing.
"Tax," he said, voice loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to attract officials. The careful cruelty of men who knew where the line was. "Magistrate forgot to send someone. We're helping."
The fruit seller's mouth opened and closed. "I paid," he whispered. "I paid last week."
The dockworker laughed. "Then pay again. Easy."
Riku froze.
He could have walked away.
That thought flickered through his head like a cowardly bird, quick and tempting. Walk away. It's not your fight. Don't be stupid. Don't give Hikari more reasons to look at you like a nail.
Then the girl's fingers tightened on the man's sleeve, knuckles white, and Riku felt something in his chest pull taut.
His mouth opened before his mind fully decided.
"Leave him alone," Riku said.
The words fell into the alley like a stone.
All three dockworkers turned.
The biggest one looked Riku up and down slowly, taking in the short hair, the sword at his waist, the posture that was trying too hard to be fearless.
His lips curled. "Well, well."
He stepped forward, boots splashing in a puddle.
"Little lord lost his way," he said, voice dripping amusement. "Thought you lot were all shaved and tamed now."
Riku's stomach tightened. He hated that the man's words hit. He hated that they were true enough to sting.
"I said leave," Riku repeated.
The dockworker tilted his head, mock curious. "Or what."
Riku's heart hammered.
He could feel his own body, suddenly too present. The wetness of his sleeves. The slickness of the ground. The weight of the sword at his waist, a comfort and a lie.
He didn't answer fast enough.
The dockworker stepped in close and placed a heavy hand on Riku's shoulder, not even squeezing, just resting there like he owned the space.
"You're cute," he said. "Trying to play hero."
Riku saw the fruit seller's eyes dart toward the sword. Begging without words. Don't. Please don't make it worse.
Riku's pride flared.
His hand moved.
He swung his fist.
His knuckles slammed into the dockworker's cheekbone with a sickening crack. Pain shot up Riku's arm, bright and immediate, like his bones had protested the idea of hitting something real.
The dockworker's head snapped to the side.
For one perfect heartbeat, everyone froze.
Even the rain seemed to hesitate.
Then the dockworker turned back slowly, mouth half open, surprise turning to rage.
"You little," he started.
Riku didn't wait for the sentence to finish.
He swung again.
The second dockworker grabbed Riku's arm and yanked. Riku stumbled, boots sliding on wet stone. The third dockworker kicked his knee from behind. Riku's leg buckled and he hit the ground hard, the impact knocking breath out of him.
Mud soaked into his clothes instantly, cold and humiliating.
A boot pressed into his ribs.
Riku gasped, pain flashing white behind his eyes.
"Hero," someone spat.
Riku's hand found something, anything, fingers closing around a broken plank near the cart. He ripped it up with a grunt, wood splintering, and swung it blindly.
It connected with a shin.
The dockworker who yelped staggered back, clutching his leg.
Riku pushed up, chest heaving, plank held like a club.
It was nothing like Father's lessons. No stances. No measured breath. Just chaos, instinct, refusal.
The biggest dockworker lunged.
Riku swung the plank and caught his knee, the satisfying thud making the man grunt. The dockworker grabbed the plank anyway and yanked, trying to tear it from Riku's hands.
Their faces were close now. Riku could smell the man's breath, sour with cheap liquor and something else, the rot of entitlement.
"You think you're still somebody," the man snarled.
Riku's vision narrowed. He heard the fruit seller's daughter start sobbing, the sound thin and desperate. He heard the fruit seller whispering something like a prayer.
Riku's throat burned. He didn't know if he was helping. He didn't know if he was ruining everything. He only knew he couldn't stop now.
A fist slammed into his jaw.
Riku's head snapped back. Stars burst behind his eyes.
He tasted blood.
He spat it into the mud and laughed, a harsh sound that surprised even him.
The dockworker's eyes widened. "What's funny."
Riku wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood and rain together. "You hit like a drunk," he muttered.
The dockworker's face twisted. He raised his fist again.
The punch didn't come.
A voice cut through the alley, calm and sharp.
"Three against one," it said. "That's how you tell the difference between men and animals."
The dockworkers froze.
Riku blinked through rain and blood and saw a man at the mouth of the alley.
He wasn't tall. Not broad. He wore a worn kimono, clean but faded, and his hair was iron-gray, tied back in a way that looked old-fashioned enough to be illegal, but not quite defiant enough to invite immediate trouble.
In his hand was a walking stick.
He didn't swing it.
He didn't need to.
He stood with a kind of stillness that made the air feel heavier, like the alley itself had decided to stop moving.
The biggest dockworker snarled. "Mind your business, old man."
The man's gaze didn't flicker. "It is my business when fools spill blood where I have to walk."
One dockworker laughed nervously. "Who are you."
The man tapped the walking stick once against the stone.
The sound was small, but it landed like a period at the end of an argument.
"I am someone who doesn't like cleaning up stupidity," he said. "Move along."
The biggest dockworker hesitated.
Riku saw it, the way the man's instincts warred with his pride. He wanted to assert dominance. He also recognized something in the stranger's stance, something old, something that didn't belong to dockyards and taxes.
The dockworker's eyes flicked to Riku's sword, then back to the stranger.
"You a teacher," the dockworker said, mocking. "Teaching shaved boys to play samurai."
The stranger's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Something like that."
The biggest dockworker spat into the mud. He looked at his friends, then at the fruit seller, then at Riku.
"This isn't over," he snapped, but his voice was thinner now.
He backed away, dragging his injured leg slightly, pride bleeding out with each step.
The other two followed, muttering curses, shoulders hunched like dogs that had been kicked.
When they were gone, the alley felt too quiet.
Riku stood there with the plank still in his hands, breathing hard, chest aching, jaw throbbing. Rain dripped off his hair and down his neck.
The fruit seller collapsed against his cart, shaking. "Thank you," he whispered. He bowed repeatedly, too fast, too desperate, like if he stopped bowing the world would come back and hit him again.
The girl stared at Riku, eyes huge. Fear and awe tangled together. Riku hated that look. He didn't deserve awe. He hadn't been brave. He had been angry.
The stranger stepped closer.
Riku tensed. His grip tightened on the plank.
The man's gaze flicked over Riku's bruises, the mud, the blood at his mouth. He sighed, like this was an annoying lesson repeating itself.
"You swing your body before your mind," the man said.
Riku swallowed. "I didn't ask for help."
The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You got it anyway."
Riku's pride flared weakly. "I didn't die."
The man's eyes glinted, something between amusement and assessment. "Not today."
He held out his free hand.
Riku stared at it, suspicious. Then he realized the man wasn't offering kindness. He was offering efficiency.
Riku took it.
The grip was strong. Shockingly strong for such an unassuming arm. The stranger hauled him up with a single pull, steady as a rope.
Riku's boots slipped once, then found purchase.
The stranger released him immediately, like touching was not his habit.
He looked at Riku's sword. "Samurai's son."
It wasn't a question.
Riku's throat tightened. He forced the words out. "Not anymore."
The stranger's mouth twitched again. A ghost of something that might have been sympathy, or might have been contempt.
"Names change," he said. "Bones don't."
Riku didn't know what to say to that.
The stranger tapped his walking stick lightly against the ground. "You want to keep throwing yourself into alleys like this," he said, "you should learn how to do it without dying. Or without getting someone else killed."
Riku bristled. "I was helping."
The stranger's gaze sharpened. "Were you."
The question hit harder than the fist to Riku's jaw.
Riku glanced at the fruit seller, who was still shaking. At the girl, who had stopped crying but looked like she might start again if anyone moved too fast.
Riku's stomach twisted.
He had wanted to be a hero. He had wanted to be the kind of man in Father's stories.
He had not thought about what it felt like for the people standing nearby.
The stranger watched him wrestle with that and didn't interrupt. The rain did.
Finally, Riku muttered, "They were hurting him."
The stranger nodded once. "Yes."
Riku's hands clenched. "So what was I supposed to do."
The stranger's eyes narrowed slightly, like he was considering whether Riku was worth the effort.
Then he said, "You were supposed to decide before you spoke."
Riku's face heated. "I did decide."
"No," the stranger said. "Your mouth decided. Your body followed. Your mind is still catching up."
Riku's jaw tightened. He hated this man. He hated that the man sounded right.
The stranger turned his head slightly, listening. Somewhere beyond the alley, voices drifted. Officials, maybe. Or just townsfolk. Either way, the alley wasn't safe for long conversations.
The stranger looked back at Riku.
"My name is Takami," he said. He paused, then added as if it mattered more, "Jirō."
Riku blinked. "Takami Jirō."
Jirō's mouth twitched. "Some people call me Jūbei. When they want to pretend I am someone from a story."
Riku didn't know why, but that made his chest tighten.
Jirō tapped the stick once. "I teach boys how not to die when they are foolish," he said. "Do you want to learn."
Riku's pride flared. "I'm not foolish."
Jirō's eyes flicked to Riku's bruised jaw, to the mud soaked into his clothes, to the blood drying at the corner of his mouth.
Jirō said nothing.
Riku swallowed.
The fruit seller spoke up, voice trembling. "Sir Takami, thank you," he said, bowing again. "Thank you. I will repay you, I swear."
Jirō waved a hand, dismissing it. "Pay attention next time," he said. "That is repayment enough."
The fruit seller nodded rapidly, like he would agree to anything.
The girl stared at Jirō now, eyes wide.
Jirō glanced at her. His gaze softened just slightly. "Go home," he said.
The girl hesitated, then tugged her father's sleeve. The fruit seller fumbled with his cart, wheels squeaking as he dragged it away, disappearing into the rain like a man trying to erase himself.
When they were gone, Jirō looked back at Riku.
"Edge of town," he said. "Small dojo. If you come, come sober."
Riku blinked. "I don't drink."
Jirō's eyes flicked over him. "Not yet," he said, like it was an inevitability. "Try to delay it."
Riku's mouth opened, then closed.
Jirō turned to leave.
Riku felt a strange panic, sudden and embarrassing, like if this man walked away, the alley would close behind him and Riku would be stuck in the mud forever.
"Wait," Riku blurted.
Jirō paused without turning.
Riku's throat tightened. He didn't know what he was asking for. Approval. Direction. Proof that he hadn't just made a fool of himself for nothing.
He ended up saying, "Why help me."
Jirō glanced back over his shoulder.
Rain clung to his eyelashes. His face was lined, not from age alone but from expression, from years of looking at the world too directly.
He said, "Because you're loud."
Riku stared.
Jirō added, as if that explained everything, "Loud boys attract trouble. Better trouble breaks its teeth on you than on someone softer."
Riku's chest tightened, not with pride, but with something like dread.
Jirō faced forward again. "Decide what you are," he said. "A samurai without a title, or a thug with pretty words."
Then he walked away, walking stick tapping lightly, disappearing into the gray rain like a ink stroke drawn and then swallowed by water.
Riku stood alone in the alley, breathing hard.
His jaw throbbed. His ribs ached. His knuckles were split, blood mixing with rain and mud.
He looked down at the plank still in his hands.
It was soaked, splintered, ugly.
He dropped it.
It hit the ground with a wet thud.
Riku stood there until the rain soaked him through, until his skin went numb enough that the bruises felt distant.
Then he turned and walked home.
That night, on his futon, he lay awake with pain pulsing in slow waves through his body.
Below, the sake shop laughed and shouted and pretended.
Above, the ceiling beams stared back, silent.
Riku lifted a hand to his head again, fingers brushing the short hair.
He remembered the sound of the shears. The small snip. The soft wet slap of hair hitting mud.
He remembered Father's face when he said he chose life.
He remembered Hikari's words: live long enough to be useful.
He remembered Jirō's question hiding inside his insult: decide what you are.
Riku stared into the dark and let a new promise form, slow and stubborn.
Not a clean promise. Not a heroic one.
A rough one, like a plank ripped from a cart.
"I won't be small," he whispered to no one.
The words sounded childish even to him.
He swallowed, jaw aching.
"I won't let them decide what I'm worth," he tried again.
The promise still felt too big for his hands.
So he made it smaller, sharper, something he could hold.
"I'll learn," Riku whispered. "I'll learn until the next time someone puts a hand on my shoulder, they regret it."
His heart beat hard against his ribs, steady and stubborn.
Outside, rain kept falling.
In the magistrate's office down the street, someone stamped papers even in the evening, catching up on the day's new world.
Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.
Riku closed his eyes.
The boy who had knelt in the courtyard still sat somewhere inside him, wet and quiet, staring at a severed topknot on a chopping block.
But another boy, bruised and muddy and furious, had stood up in an alley and met a man who didn't flinch at loudness.
That boy wasn't a samurai.
He wasn't a soldier.
He wasn't anything yet.
He was just a fist clenched in the rain, refusing to open.
And somewhere in the dark, as the town pretended tomorrow would be normal, the world kept changing shape around him, slow as hair growing back, relentless as ink sinking into paper.