The pavement thudded beneath my feet in a steady rhythm, the kind of rhythm that quiets the mind without you realizing it. The morning air slid against my skin — crisp, cool, almost sharp — like it wanted to wake every nerve in my body. Each breath I drew in carried a faint sweetness, the kind I hadn't tasted in a while. The trees, the grass… they smelled the way they did when I was a kid, as if someone had just mown the lawns or plucked the trees with careful hands.
I passed by small clusters of people — an old couple walking their dog, a pair of teenagers sharing whispers. Now and then, I caught those subtle glances. Quick, assessing, curious. I couldn't blame them. At six foot six, I'm not exactly invisible. Add the blonde hair and blue eyes, and I might as well be walking around with a neon sign that says check me out.
Not that it's a mystery. My mother's American. My father's Japanese. A mix that turned me into someone who tends to draw attention wherever I went.
Still, the run was mine. The air, the smells, the quiet stares — all of it folded into the steady beat of my footsteps, carrying me forward.
Though, with a little more thought, maybe the staring wasn't so strange after all. I mean, in this neighborhood, you don't often see someone my age going for a casual run this early in the morning. Most of the people here are older—retired men and women who've worked hard all their lives and are now enjoying the peace they've earned.
And, well… there's also the fact that I happen to be the twenty-four-year-old who made millions in the stock market and built a company from it. I suppose that might make me a little hard to miss. Still, I like to think they're not just looking at the money or the title. Maybe they see someone who's genuinely happy to be here—someone who's grateful for the life he's built. Call it luck, call it talent, call it a creator out there who is constantly watching over me and helping me achieve all my ideals. Still feels good either way.
By the time I rounded the last corner, my breathing was steady, my legs light, and my mind… peaceful. The kind of peace that only comes from knowing that when you reach your front door, you're stepping into a life most people only get to dream about.
My mansion came into view, and no matter how many mornings I ran this route, the sight still made me pause. It stood like a statement carved into the earth — broad, elegant, and unapologetically luxurious. Marble pillars framed the entrance, polished so smooth they caught the morning sun and scattered it across the driveway like shards of gold. The glass windows were tinted just enough to give privacy while still reflecting the sky, making the house feel alive with light. The manicured gardens on either side were a personal pride of mine — every hedge perfectly trimmed, every flowerbed bursting with color.
I stepped inside, greeted by the cool air drifting from the high ceilings, carrying the faint scent of fresh lilies from the vase my wife always kept in the foyer. The grand chandelier hung above me like a frozen cascade of diamonds, and the polished hardwood floors gleamed under my sneakers.
And there they were — the three people who made all of this worth something. My wife, her warm smile brighter than anything in the room, and our two kids, a perfect mirror of one another — twins, a boy and a girl, full of that boundless morning energy that made the walls seem to hum with life.
We'd married young — I was twenty-two, she was twenty. She was already pregnant then, and people had their opinions, but none of that mattered to me. Even at that age, my life had been gliding along perfectly, and having a family felt like the natural next step.
I kissed her gently, her hand lingering against my cheek for a moment, then I bent down to scoop up our son. He squealed with laughter as I lifted him high, his tiny hands grabbing at my hair. Our daughter crossed her arms, her little pout barely hiding her grin.
"Me too, Daddy!"
I laughed and shifted my son into one arm before pulling her up with the other. She giggled as I spun them both, their voices echoing through the hall, while my wife watched with that look — the one that made me feel like the luckiest man alive.
"Alright, you two," she said, still smiling, "time to let Daddy be. You've got school."
Reluctantly, they slid down from my arms and scurried toward the door, their backpacks bouncing. Twins. A boy and a girl. My perfect pair. My perfect family. My perfect world.
Like clockwork, by 8:00 a.m., I was in the shower. By 8:30, I was dressed in a tailored suit, breakfast finished, and standing in the garage where my cars sat in polished perfection. Either one of them could've bought up half a street of houses in Japan, but to me, they were just another part of the life I'd built.
By 9:00 a.m. sharp, I was pulling into the company headquarters. The building itself was a reflection of the empire I'd created — sleek lines, towering glass walls, and a lobby so immaculate it could've been mistaken for an art gallery.
I took the elevator to the 42nd floor, greeted by the quiet hum of my office — a space designed for clarity and control. My coffee machine hissed as it poured out a fresh cup, the rich aroma filling the air. Cup in hand, I walked to the window behind my desk, though calling it a "window" felt wrong. It was a wall of glass, opening up to a panoramic view of the city, sunlight spilling in like liquid gold.
I took a slow sip, the warmth seeping into me, and thought about how uneventful my life had become — and how I loved it that way. No surprises, no storms. Just perfection. And tomorrow, it would get even better. Tomorrow, I turned twenty-five.
Smiling, I settled into my chair and began working. Meetings came and went, paperwork passed across my desk, decisions were made — nothing taxing, nothing unpredictable.
When the clock struck 5:00 p.m., I stood, gathered my things, and left. The drive home was smooth, the city lights blinking awake as evening settled.
At home, my wife and kids were already there, waiting. We spent the evening together, talking, laughing, just… being happy. And when the clock hit 10:00 p.m., I went to bed, knowing tomorrow would be another perfect day.
It was, after all, quite the uneventful perfect world I had- Exactly how I preferred it.
The alarm clock rang, its bright red digits blinking 7:00 AM beside the date: Monday. I stirred awake, the soft morning light spilling across the bedroom. Beside me, my wife stretched lazily before turning to me with a teasing smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Renji Tsukikage… and a happy birthday to you," she said warmly, leaning in to give me a gentle kiss.
I smiled back, but before we could share more than that, the door burst open. Our perfect pair rushed in—laughing, shouting, and scrambling onto the bed.
"Happy birthday, Daddy!" they cried in unison, bouncing excitedly.
My wife laughed at the chaos and slipped away for a moment, returning with a small cake topped with six bright candles. We gathered close as they sang. I opened the gift she'd placed on the bedside table—a tie covered in colorful drawings made by the twins.
I chuckled, genuinely touched, and looped it around my neck immediately. "I love it. Best tie I've ever owned."
When it came time to blow out the candles, I leaned forward and exhaled in one smooth breath, watching the tiny flames flicker out—except for one.
The stubborn candle kept burning. I tried again, a playful frown forming, but the flame danced stubbornly in place.
"This candle's standing on business," I joked, earning a laugh from my wife.
"I didn't even know they sold cakes with trick candles," she said, still laughing while shaking her head.
I eventually pinched the wick between my fingers until the flame faded, then set the cake aside. My wife soon rounded up the kids for school, leaving me to start my day.
I skipped my usual morning run, knowing I had to get to work early. After a quick shower, I dressed sharply, ate breakfast, and headed out.
By 9:00 AM sharp, I was stepping into my company building. The lobby still gleaming with polished marble floors and tall glass walls that caught the morning light just right. I took the elevator up to the 42nd floor, a fresh cup of coffee waiting for me as always.
This time, though, there were a few birthday cards on his desk—small, thoughtful messages from employees.
I smiled faintly, walked to the wide glass wall behind his desk, and looked out over the city.
My life was still the same perfect, uneventful world I loved.
The knock on my office door came right on schedule.
The meeting.
Three men in dark suits stepped in, all sharp smiles and firm handshakes. I'd been here before — four times before, in fact — and every single time, I'd walked away with the deal. This one felt no different. We sat down, talked numbers, talked projections, talked opportunities. The rhythm was quick, questions and answers trading like tennis volleys. Coffee cooled untouched beside me. Two hours passed in what felt like thirty minutes.
By the end, we hadn't closed, but it didn't matter — they'd be back tomorrow with their lawyer to review documents. Everything pointed to yes. I saw it in their eyes when they left.
I walked back to my office, the weight of the conversation settling into my mind. The pace slowed. I sat down, took a sip of the coffee — cold now — and let my fingers find the familiar keys of my keyboard.
The phone rang.
It was a manager from one of the chemical companies we partnered with. His voice was tense — their plant had caught fire. Burned down in hours. Just like that.
For a second, I leaned back, letting the news hang in the air. It was strange, yes. But panic? No. Not even close.
"I'll look into it," I told him, voice steady. "We'll rebuild the damaged sections. I'll make sure of it."
I ended the call. No lingering thoughts, no shadows creeping in. Just another task on a list I'd already mastered.
By 5 p.m., I was locking my office, heading for the car.
Home,
Dinner with my wife and kids — their laughter filling the air like music.
Ten o'clock came, and I closed my eyes to the quiet hum of my perfect life.
A factory fire? Nothing I couldn't fix by tomorrow.
The alarm clock blares. Tuesday, 7 a.m. sharp.
My wife's already out—probably on her morning run. That means I'm in charge of dropping the kids. She's dressed them before leaving, so she must have been up even earlier.
I shower, eat, drive the kids to school. Office by 9am. Elevator to the 42nd floor. Fresh coffee from the machine. A glance out the window—same beautiful cityscape I've loved every single day.
The fire? Still on my list. Not a big deal. I make a few calls, schedule renovations for next week. Problem solved.
A knock. The men from yesterday are here. More talks, more progress, still no deal. A few details still need to be ironed out. Handshakes, they leave. I'm back at my desk.
3 p.m. I get a call. It's an Accident. It was my wife and she was with the kids.
I'm supposed to get to the Hospital by four. At the moment I hear the news, I'm in shock but somehow not worried. I immediately reached for my keys, left the office and headed Stratford the hospital.
The doctor tells me that both children are gone, and my wife—unresponsive, in a coma.
"Dead?"
The word doesn't fit. Doesn't make sense, but somehow I don't feel pain, I don't feel angry, I don't feel sad. It's feels almost like I knew this was going to happen so I decided to ignore however I would feel when I heard the news. I could see it in the doctors face, I bet he thought the same thing too. My mouth eventually moves and says to the doctor in a calm tone,
"I'm sure you tried your best." My hands shake his, my face calm. No tears, no sign of grief.
I refuse to see the bodies. Not until my wife wakes. "We'll see them together." I tell the doctor.
I sit beside her until 6pm. Home by 7. Still no breakdown. Still no grief.
At 10 PM, I'm in bed. Lights out.
My world isn't quite perfect anymore. I lost my kids. But it didn't feel like I did.
But like clockwork, I fall asleep.
Wednesday. 7 a.m. the Alarm blares.
No wife beside me. No kids running around. The house is hollow—silent, empty—but I ignore it.
Shower. Change. Breakfast. Car. The drive is smooth, as always.
9 a.m. I'm at the office.
A couple of employees meet me to express their condolences. They must've heard the news from someone. I shut them down with a smile. It's fine. I'm fine. My voice sounds convincing enough so they let me be.
Up to the 42nd floor. Coffee. View. No meeting today—the men have things to sort. So I work.
12 p.m. The hospital calls. My wife's awake. She's devastated. They've calmed her, but she wants me there.
I leave immediately. At her bedside, she looks lost. She says it's her fault but I hold her hand. Tell her it's not.
3 p.m. The doctors give her something to rest. She's calmer now. Peaceful, almost like me for some reason.
I leave at 4pm.
The mansion is quiet when I get back. I finish the work I missed earlier.
And like clockwork 10 p.m. Lights out. I go to Sleep.
My world isn't quite perfect anymore. But it's fine.
I still have my wife. My company. My mind intact.
It's all going to be fine.
Not uneventful. Not perfect anymore. Just fine, and I can live with that.
It's Thursday. 7 a.m. my alarm blares like usual.
I wake up hoping it was all a dream. But no — still no wife, still no kids. Just me, in this empty house.
I go through the motions. Shower. Clothes. Breakfast. Out the door.
By 9 a.m., I'm at work. No one hounds me this time. They keep their distance — maybe their way of giving me space, maybe just pity.
Elevator to the 42nd floor. Coffee in hand, I stare out through the glass. The world outside looks the same, like it always does, but I'm not the same. My life is shifting in ways I don't understand. Things had always gone my way — exactly as I wanted — but now…
I sit at my desk. Minutes later, the men arrive. Time to close the deal.
Three hours. Back and forth. No progress. This isn't negotiation — it's a hostile takeover. They claim to have inside information and threaten with blackmail if things don't go how they want.
I push back, test their resolve. They eventually leave.
For the first time in almost a decade in business, I've failed to close a deal.
It's noon. I'm about to gather my thoughts when my phone rings — a neighbour calls about my house.
It's a Fire.
My second car, everything — gone.
In that instant, my head spins.
What's happening? Why? Has the Creator, who had given me a bed of roses all these years, finally turned His eyes away?
I call the fire department. They confirm it: nothing left. Just rubble and ash.
Deep breath.
Fine. I'll get a hotel for now. I'm still a multimillionaire. Another good month or two and my company will hit a billion-dollar valuation. I can't be stressing over a house.
At 3 p.m., I visit my wife in the hospital. She's asleep. I don't wake her. Even if she were awake, I wouldn't tell her.
I stay by her side until 6pm, then check into a hotel near the hospital. Decent place. Enough for now.
I watch a movie, trying to keep the voices in my head quiet.
What's happening to me?
What did I do to deserve this?
What's coming next?
Somewhere in the middle of those questions, I drift into sleep.
It was now Friday.
The alarm blared at 7:00 a.m.
Even in a hotel room, the sound was enough to jolt me awake instantly. No matter where I was, alarms never let me linger in bed.
I dragged myself up and got ready for another day. This week had been a messy one—everything around me seemed to be falling apart, all of it beyond my control. I still didn't understand what was going on, or why it was happening to me, but I had to keep moving forward.
By 9:00 a.m. I was at work, right on time. The atmosphere in the office felt… colder than usual. No one met my eyes. I could guess why—they must've heard about my house, my car. I ignored them and went straight to my office.
I poured myself a coffee and looked out the window. Normally I admired the view, but this time I just questioned it. Why did everything look so perfect out there while my life was crumbling? I stared as if expecting an answer.
With no reply coming, I sat back down and got to work.
By noon, I decided to take a break. Just a short walk to clear my head. Nothing special.
That changed the moment I stepped back into the building.
Red. Everywhere. Every single screen on the floor was flashing red. The stock market had taken a sudden, violent dip—and it hit us hard.
People stood frozen in place, their eyes locked on the numbers falling faster than anyone could process. Our stocks had plummeted. Everything we had built… gone in minutes.
I stood by the door, unable to move. The silence was heavy—no one knew what to say. I heard someone whisper, "What just happened?" They weren't wrong. This had never happened before.
In a matter of minutes, our company's valuation had dropped to zero.
I walked across the room, past their stunned faces, up to the forty-second floor. Inside my office, I gathered my things. Back down in the lobby, my assistant rushed toward me. Before she could speak, I stopped her. I placed my hands on her shoulders and, with a soft smile, told her:
"It's okay. Make sure everyone gets paid with whatever's left in the company account—the part that wasn't tied up in stocks."
She looked at me with a mix of confusion and disbelief. Everyone did. But I was the boss—the twenty-five-year-old "perfect wonder kid." I couldn't let them see me fall apart.
I got into my car and left the company grounds. My mind raced in circles. What was going on. The the men who came earlier during the week to try to close a deal have anything to do with this? The road seemed narrower than usual. The doors of the car felt like they were closing in.
My breathing quickened. My chest tightened.
For the first time in my life, I was having a panic attack.
Then—impact.
When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed. The doctor stood over me, his expression somewhere between concern and relief, like I was lucky to be alive.
"Mr. Renji Tsukikage" he began, explaining the accident. His words blurred together, my head still spinning—until one detail cut through the haze.
They had tried, but they couldn't save my left arm. It was gone. Permanently.
I looked down. The space where it should have been was empty. My eyes widened, my heart pounded, the monitor beside me started beeping wildly. I let out a loud scream. One that echoes of fear, of confusion. The doctor called for a nurse, but before I could process it further, the drugs took hold and everything went black.
In less than a week, I had lost my home, my family, my company, my so-called perfect life—and now my arm.
Why? Who had I offended? What had I done wrong? And what did any of this mean for my future?
Little did I know, what felt like the end of my life was only just the beginning.