The alley was narrow, lit only by a broken streetlamp buzzing with a faint hum. Rainwater dripped from the rooftops, forming shallow puddles that reflected the faint glow of neon signs.
Four men stood in front of him, their faces twisted into mocking grins.
They thought he was just a child.
They thought wrong.
He was fourteen, barely taller than the shortest of them, his hood pulled low over his eyes. His hands were in his pockets, his steps calm, too calm for someone surrounded. The air around him carried a quiet weight, the kind of stillness that made the hairs on the back of their necks rise.
"Oi, brat," the one with the iron pipe sneered. "This street isn't for kids. You lost?"
The boy's gaze lifted, cold and steady, as if measuring them one by one. He spoke softly, almost lazily.
"You should turn around. Leave now."
The men burst into laughter, the kind that cracked loud and ugly against the walls of the alley.
"You hear that? Kid's trying to act tough!"
"Maybe he's got some pocket changeblet's check!"
The pipe swung down with a sharp whoosh.
But the boy was already gone.
One step to the left, light as a shadow. His elbow snapped forward. Thud. The strike landed square against the man's throat. His eyes bulged as he collapsed, gagging, the pipe clattering uselessly to the ground.
The alley grew silent.
The others froze. For the first time, they saw it the way he moved, smooth and precise, like someone who had done this countless times before.
"Wh-what the hell…?" one stammered.
The boy took a slow step forward, his eyes narrowing. His heartbeat was steady. His breathing calm. In his mind, he was already calculating their stance, their weapons, the distance between each of them.
Another rushed in with a knife, slashing wildly.
Too slow.
The boy's hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist mid-swing. A sharp twist. Crack. The man screamed, dropping the blade. In the same motion, the boy snatched it mid-air and pressed it against his attacker's throat.
"Two down," he whispered.
The remaining two hesitated. Sweat beaded on their foreheads.
He pushed the man aside and stepped lightly across the wet pavement. A kick to the knee sent the third thug crashing down. A follow-up strike to the jaw silenced him instantly.
The last one turned pale. His hands shook as he took a step back.
"You… you're not human…"
The boy tilted his head slightly, his eyes colder than the rain around them.
"Three seconds," he said flatly. "Run."
"One."
The man bolted before he could count further, disappearing into the street without a single glance back.
Silence returned to the alley. The boy exhaled softly, dropping the knife into the gutter, its metallic clink echoing faintly.
He pulled his hood tighter, his small frame swallowed by the shadows once again. To anyone passing by, he was just a kid walking home in the rain.
But in the silence he left behind, three men lay unconscious, and one struggled to breathe.
This was the life of Tarou Satoru, a fourteen-year-old hitman.
---
[The Files]
Later that night, Tarou sat alone in his room, the faint light of a desk lamp casting shadows across scattered papers. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned page after page, his sharp eyes narrowing. These were no ordinary documents classified files he had risked everything to steal.
But what he found there stopped his breath.
His parents… were alive.
For years, the Organization had told him otherwise. That they were dead. That he was nothing but an orphan, raised only to kill, trained to be a weapon. He believed it. He accepted it. He became what they wanted.
But the truth lay in front of him now. His family still existed. His name, Tarou Satoru, wasn't just a codename it was real.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. A rare flicker of emotion crossed his face.
"…Then it's decided."
---
[Flashback: The Mission]
The memory burned in his mind. The mission where he died.
It had been a stormy night. His target was a well-guarded mercenary commander. The firefight was brutal explosions tearing through the city block, bullets screaming through the air.
He fought like a ghost, slipping through shadows, blades flashing, explosives planted in silence. But even he couldn't stand against endless waves of mercenaries.
And then—his chance appeared.
A grenade went off nearby, the blast swallowing the rooftop. Flames roared, smoke rising into the sky.
"He's dead! The brat's finally dead!" the mercenaries shouted, cheering in triumph.
No one noticed the small figure crawling beneath the rubble, blood smeared across his sleeve from a self-inflicted wound. No one saw him slip into a sewage shaft, vanishing beneath the city.
That was the night Tarou Satoru "died."
That was the night he killed his old self.
---
[Present: The House]
Now, years of silence later, he stood at the edge of a quiet neighborhood.
The house was small, humble, yet warm. Golden light spilled from the windows. Outside, a woman and a child laughed together, the boy darting around as she tried to catch him.
Tarou's throat tightened. His steps slowed. For the first time in years, his hands hands that had taken countless lives felt weak.
Should I even be here? he thought. If I walk forward, there's no turning back.
But he forced himself to speak.
"…My name is Tarou Satoru."
The woman froze. Her laughter died. Slowly, she turned toward him. Her eyes widened, shimmering beneath the porch light. Her lips trembled as if she'd seen a ghost.
Tarou lowered his head slightly. "…I think… I'm your son."
For a heartbeat, silence swallowed the world.
Then her tears fell.
"…Satoru?"
Her voice cracked. The next instant, she rushed forward, arms wrapping around him tightly.
He stiffened, his body screaming to resist. But the sound of her sobs shattered his walls.
"I thought I lost you… my son… my little boy…"
The child tilted his head, confused. "Mama? Who is he?"
The woman smiled through her tears. "He's your big brother."
The boy's eyes widened. "…Big brother?" He broke into a grin, running over and grabbing Tarou's hand without hesitation.
Tarou blinked, frozen. The word brother echoed in his chest like something foreign, yet warm.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel like a weapon.
He felt… human.
The woman held his hand and pulled him gently toward the house. "Come inside, Satoru. Come home."
And so, Tarou stepped into the warmth of a home he thought he had lost forever.
---
[Four Years Later]
Four years passed.
The boy who had once been a ghost of the underworld was now eighteen. His body had grown taller, stronger, but the weapons were gone from his hands.
Instead, they carried groceries. They washed dishes. They rested gently on the head of his younger sibling, who now followed him everywhere.
He was no longer a hitman. He had abandoned that world, severed it from himself the moment he chose his family.
A son.
A brother.
Just Tarou Satoru.
Sometimes, when the nights were quiet, he still dreamed of the blood, the screams, the weight of a blade. But each morning he woke to the smell of breakfast, the sound of his sibling's laughter, and his mother's warm voice calling his name.
And in those moments, he knew
He wasn't a weapon anymore.
He was home.