The gym door shut behind him with a dull, final thud — not loud, but it echoed all the same. Kaito didn't pause. His body moved on instinct, legs carrying him down the familiar hallway toward the bathroom, each step slower than the last. It wasn't just exhaustion. Something deeper clung to him — heavy and unresolved.
He entered the tiled space and headed straight for the shower, ignoring the towel rack, ignoring the mirror. Especially the mirror. He didn't want to see what stared back. Not tonight.
Without hesitation, he reached for the knob and twisted it all the way to the left. The cold water exploded from the showerhead in a sharp hiss, sending a mist of icy spray across the tiled floor. Kaito stepped in without flinching, letting the freezing water slam into his skin like a punishment he had been waiting for.
The shock hit instantly — a thousand needles across his back and chest — but he didn't pull away. He leaned forward, bracing himself against the tiled wall with both arms, head bowed, breath fogging in the cold air. The water streamed down his body, tracing the curves of his muscles, washing away the grime and sweat from the workout, mixing with the faint smear of blood still crusted around his knuckles. The sting only grounded him further.
The room filled with sound: the steady rush of water pounding against stone, the light tapping of droplets bouncing off his skin, the rhythmic dripping onto the tile below. And yet none of it filled the silence inside him. None of it reached that place — that vast, empty hollow where something used to burn bright.
He clenched his jaw, his breathing shallow and even. Cold mist curled from his lips as he exhaled.
This cold — it was real, biting, merciless. But it still didn't reach the frost that lived inside his chest. If anything, the icy torrent only made the fire more obvious. It was still there. Still smoldering beneath his ribs, wrapped around his lungs like a silent scream he never let out.
His fingers curled against the slick tile, nails scraping faintly.
Why did it still burn?
Why did it still feel so damn fresh?
Slowly, as if his strength were draining from the inside out, Kaito let himself slide down the wall. The water kept hammering down, soaking his hair, tracing along his jaw, dripping from his lashes. He sat with his knees drawn close, arms resting on them, eyes closed but far from peace.
He whispered something, a name, a memory, a regret, and it vanished into the white noise of the downpour.
He had told himself he would forget. That time and distance would erode the edges of what happened. But the past didn't work like that. It didn't fade. It clung, sharp and cruel. It waited in quiet corners, in cold showers, in sleepless nights, and long silences. And when it returned, it didn't knock.
It tore through.
There were no answers, just water. No comfort, just the aching press of what he hadn't said — of what he hadn't done. The pain wasn't rage anymore. It had sunk too deep for that. This was something else. Something quieter. Sadder.
Eventually, after long minutes where only the sound of falling water marked time, Kaito stirred. He pushed himself upright, the weight of his body slow to obey. His skin was raw from the cold, his breath visible in the air, but he didn't shiver. He just moved.
He reached out and turned off the water. Silence fell instantly, broken only by the soft drip of water from his soaked hair and the rivulets sliding down his arms.
He stepped out onto the tile, grabbed a towel, and pressed it once to his face — more habit than intention. He didn't bother drying himself completely. Didn't wipe the shadows from beneath his eyes or the expression carved into his face.
When he finally looked up, his reflection waited in the mirror. This time, he met it.
And said nothing.
There was nothing to say. Nothing that would make it less real.
He was alive. He was breathing.
But that fire, it hadn't gone out.
And deep down, he knew it never would.
The air was still damp, misty with fading steam.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted the towel and began to dry himself.
He stepped out of the bathroom. On the edge of his bed, his school uniform lay there, waiting for him to wear.
But he passed it by.
Instead, he chose a black T-shirt and dark joggers. His hand brushed the edge of the uniform, a fleeting hesitation before withdrawing.
In the kitchen, the fridge hummed low as he pulled it open to see eggs, yogurt, and fresh greens.
Everything was placed down with precise intent.
He worked in silence. The knife chopped with rhythmic grace, each egg cracked like punctuation in a sentence only he understood.
Clack. Tap. Clack.
The sound of a man alive, but only barely.
The scent of warm eggs and herbs filled the still air. He plated it carefully—clean lines, perfect balance—and sat before the table.
"…Itadakimasu."
The word fell from his lips without weight and belief.
The first bite passed his lips.
It was perfect, warm, and nourishing.
Bzzzz…
His phone trembled against the table. A glowing name cut through the stillness.
Ayaka.
He slid his finger across the screen, pressed the speaker, and set the device aside.
"Morning," came her voice, bright, steady, wrapped in that effortless cheer he could never replicate.
"You always interrupt something," he replied, tone dry but not unkind.
Ayaka laughed. "Then you were definitely brooding again."
He said nothing and that was answer enough.
Her voice softened. "I just wanted to say… we closed the overseas merger. Your restructuring suggestion gave us the upper hand. The numbers came out better than I'd hoped."
"You pulled it off," He said flatly, but his words carried warmth. "I just planted a seed."
"You keep saying that," She replied, amused. "But I know better. I wouldn't be where I am without you."
Kaito froze mid-bite. Her words hung in the air like incense smoke—unshakable and strangely comforting.
"You did the work," He murmured. "I just gave it a push."
"Mmm. So you're my silent investor now?" She teased.
"Investor with too much time and not enough distractions."
Ayaka giggled. "I'll take it. Speaking of—should we move ahead with donating half the quarterly profits to the orphanage again?"
He nodded, more to himself than her. "Yeah. Make sure it's secure."
"Of course," She said quietly.
Then came a silent and hesitant pause.
"…You really don't plan to come back?"
Kaito leaned back, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. For a moment, the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.
He smirked faintly. "What, already tired of being the face of the company?"
"Maybe I'm just tired of you not being there," She whispered, her voice was low, and warm.
He chuckled and teased. "You could always come here."
Ayaka sighed. "You know that's not simple."
"Neither is staying away."
Her breath caught slightly on the other end. Then she straightened.
"I'll finalize the donations. Let me know if you need anything else."
"I will," he said.
"Oh—and don't forget the yogurt."
He chuckled. "Still bossy."
"And proud of it."
The call ended with a soft beep.