(1 year later in Kyoto)
It has been a year since the massacre. It has been one year since blood slicked the floor beneath my feet and since walls crumbled and fire painted the night sky. One year since I stopped being my father's son and became… something else.
People called it terrorism on the news. They blamed some nameless organization, spun their neat little story for the public, and fed it to the masses with smiling anchors. I sat in a cheap inn room watching the broadcast, a half-eaten convenience store bento on my lap, and I actually cried with relief. Tears streamed down my face not because I mourned, but because the world had chosen to look the other way. They gave me the one thing I didn't deserve—an alibi.
For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like a hunted animal. For the first time, I didn't need to constantly check my shadow or wait for sirens. The blame was gone, and so were the eyes that might have searched for me.
That night, after seeing the report, I laughed. I laughed so hard that the old man in the room next to mine banged on the wall and told me to shut up. And when my laughter finally died down, I made a choice. If fate was stupid enough to give me this second chance, I'd use it. I'd find a place to settle, not to rot in luxury, but to start again.
The money I stole from my father's safe was enough to live twenty years in quiet comfort. But I couldn't bring myself to be that kind of ghost—one who hid behind curtains, sipping expensive whiskey while pretending his hands weren't stained red. I killed eighty-seven people. I didn't know all their faces. Didn't even want to. I should have nightmares, right? But I didn't. Not a single one. The silence in my dreams was worse than the screaming.
That emptiness pushed me to keep moving. If I couldn't feel guilt, then maybe I could at least act like I deserved to breathe.
So I traveled.
The last year became a blur of train stations, nameless hostels, neon-soaked nights, and back-alley fights. When I was under my father's shadow, Japan opened up to me in ways I'd never seen. I ate ramen at midnight under paper lanterns that swayed in the wind. I visited shrines older than the country itself, their bells heavy with history. I got drunk once in Osaka and woke up wearing someone else's jacket.
And then there was the scar.
Two months after the massacre, a small gang of punks thought I was easy prey and jumped me. They weren't my father's killers. They weren't even professionals. Just street trash; looking for a wallet. I killed one. I didn't mean to kill him; however, the knife slipped too deep. Another slashed me across the face before I broke his jaw. The blade cut from the right side of my forehead, past my eyebrow, down to my cheekbone. A mark carved into me, a reminder that no matter how far I ran, blood always followed.
Funny thing? I didn't hate the scar. People stared, of course. Kids pointed, adults whispered. But me? I liked it. It made me look honest. No more pretending to be some harmless boy. The scar said exactly what I was: dangerous and not afraid to be.
After that, I trained. I wasn't as skilled at closing wounds as my father had been, so I learned to prevent them instead. Fistfights in alleys, self-defense lessons bought with cash, endless practice until my knuckles bled. I became good enough to drop most men twice my size. It felt right.
I picked up other skills too—fake paperwork, basic hacking, and little tricks to bend society around me. If my father had taught me how to kill, the streets taught me how to survive without needing a gun pressed to my ribs.
And finally, after circling the country, I returned to Kyoto. The city I'd always liked the most. Kyoto was a contradiction—quiet temples older than memory sitting side by side with loud pachinko parlors and glowing signs that never slept. It felt right. A place where ghosts could blend in.
I dyed my hair white. Not bleached blonde—pure white, like snow. My eyes, once as black as my father's, were now ocean blue, courtesy of contacts. Combined with the scar, I barely recognized myself in the mirror. The boy from a year ago was gone. All that remained was Shiro Adachi, a fabricated name with enough forged documents to back him up.
And for once, I felt like I was alive.
(1 Week Later)
The morning sun spilled over Kyoto like molten gold, catching on tiled rooftops and cherry blossoms that had bloomed too early. I woke up earlier than I had to, not out of nerves but out of habit. Sleep had become optional for me over the last year. My body didn't crave rest—it craved control.
Today was supposed to be my return to school. A strange thought, really. After everything I'd done and everything I'd learned, sitting in a classroom felt like playing dress-up in a dead man's clothes. But I had promised myself I'd try. Blend in. Live. Or at least pretend.
Walking through the narrow streets to the school, I noticed the looks. People didn't even try to hide them. Some gasped, others whispered, and a few outright stared at the scar. I ignored them. It only took me twenty minutes of weaving through alleys to arrive at the school gates.
The building was modern, bland, and utterly unremarkable. Exactly what I needed.
I found the teachers' office easily enough and knocked.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her late twenties with black hair, sharp eyes, and the kind of smile that made men stupid. White shirt, black jacket, red skirt. She glanced at me, blinked once, and then closed the door in my face.
"…Alright," I muttered.
From behind the door, her voice carried loud and clear: "HAS ANYONE PISSED OFF A GUY WITH WHITE HAIR, BLUE EYES, AND A HUGE SCAR ON HIS FACE?!"
The office exploded into murmurs.
I waited five minutes before the door opened again. Same woman. Same sharp smile.
"Sorry about that. You must be Adachi-san. I'm Suzuki Yua, your homeroom teacher." She bowed slightly.
I bowed back, polite enough. "Please take care of me, sensei. You can also call me Shiro."
Her lips curved into a grin. "Charming. You should smile more often. In fact, call me Yua when we're alone." She winked.
"You know I'm sixteen." I tilted my head.
"I like them younger," she teased, walking past me with the confidence of someone who'd already won the argument.
Shaking my head, I followed.
The first day blurred by. Introductions, stares, whispers. Nothing I hadn't expected. Most of the class looked at me like I was a wolf dressed in a school uniform. They weren't wrong.
But the strangest part wasn't the students. It was Yua.
She had the energy of a storm bottled into a human body—wild, erratic, and always two seconds away from saying something inappropriate. Where I maintained a deadpan expression, she radiated fiery energy. Where I was silent, she filled the air with noise.
The real shock came the next morning.
I opened my apartment door in running clothes, only to see my neighbor step out at the same time. Same black hair, same sharp grin. Yua-sensei.
She froze. "Shiro!? You're my new neighbor?!"
"Morning, sensei," I said flatly. "What are you doing up so early?"
"I could ask you the same," she shot back, slinging a sports bag over her shoulder.
"Going for a run."
"Same. Want to join me? Or are you scared of being outrun by your teacher?"
I sighed. "I'm more scared you'll try to flirt mid-sprint and get hit by a car."
She grinned. "Worth it."
And just like that, I found myself running through Kyoto streets at dawn, side by side with a woman who seemed determined to break every rule of professionalism.
Half an hour later, we were jogging back past a stray dog. Yua's eyes lit up like fireworks.
"Oh my god, look how fluffy he is!" She squealed, crouching down.
The dog growled, teeth bared.
"Yeah, that's rabies waiting to happen," I said.
"Nonsense, he's adorable." She inched closer.
The dog lunged. She yelped, stumbling back, and I laughed.
"You looked like you were about to kidnap him," I teased.
"I wanted to!" she snapped, brushing dirt off her knees. "He was cute!"
"He smelled like garbage and ticks. That's your definition of cute?"
"You men wouldn't know real cuteness if it bit you in the ass!" she shouted, standing on her toes to glare at me.
I chuckled, walking ahead. "Well, he almost did."
"Ugh, shut up."
By the time we reached the school, she was still sulking.
And then it happened.
As I walked down the hallway, half-listening to Yua's complaints about the misunderstood stray dog, my vision turned white. Not the gentle fade of tired eyes, but a sharp, searing flash like lightning behind my skull.
I blinked—and the school was gone.
The fluorescent lights, the chatter, and the tiled floors—all vanished. I was back in that room. The one with Stacy.
Her hand was still pressed to my head, her skin clammy, her breath uneven. She looked pale, almost sick, as though digging through my memories had drained her dry.
I frowned, reaching to steady her, when movement flickered at the edge of my vision.
Dizzy. Standing behind her. A dagger in his grip, poised to slit her throat.
Everything snapped into focus. My muscles tensed, my pulse steady, calm. I'd been here before. A hundred times before.
And without hesitation, I moved.
"No!"