The sky was bleeding out over the graveyard, streaks of dying light spilling across rows of stone. Kasuharu stood at the foot of one, his father's name etched deep into the slab. His fists curled in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening chill, though the cold in his chest had nothing to do with the wind.
"Hey, Dad… it's me again." His voice was low, raw, like every word was dragged from the back of his throat. "Mom's new boyfriend? He's useless. Won't lift a hand to help. I've been trying to step up, like you told me to, but… it's not working."
He bent closer, as if speaking into the earth itself. "It's this face you left me with. No matter what I do, people glare. Even when I smile, it doesn't come out right. Feels more like I'm scowling. Scares people off." He tried to laugh, but it came out thin. "You never had that problem. You made smiling look… cool. I still don't know how."
The cemetery gave no answer, only the soft whisper of wind between the trees. He let the silence hang, then nodded once. "I wish you were here. Things would be different."
Kasuharu lingered at the grave a moment longer, then stepped back. "Alright… I'll see you tomorrow," he murmured.
He turned and began down the narrow path, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes, each step heavy but steady. His hands slipped deeper into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched as though he could fold himself small enough to vanish from the world entirely.
On his way out, he noticed her—just a flicker of color against the gray of stone and dusk. A girl with hair like fire knelt by another grave, her posture tight, her face hidden. For an instant, their paths almost crossed, but he looked away. She was grieving too, he thought, and grief was a private thing. Best to leave her to it.
Kasuharu lowered his head and kept walking, shadows swallowing him as the last light bled out of the sky.
His father's grave sat behind him, but the man's shadow never did. Once, his old man had been a name spoken in back alleys, a gang member whose reputation cut deeper than any knife. Everything changed the day he found out he was going to have a son. For Kasuharu's sake, he tried to walk away from the blood and debt, tried to carve out something cleaner.
But men like that don't get clean breaks. No one leaves alive. His father's choices clung to Kasuharu like a second skin, even years later. Everyone in the neighborhood knew who he was—the son of a man people still cursed and feared. They looked at Kasuharu and saw the same sharp eyes, the same carved scowl. Some avoided him. Some waited for him to slip, like they expected the old gang blood to rise in him sooner or later.
And so, every time he stood at that grave, he wasn't just mourning his father. He was fighting the weight of a name that would never let him be anyone else.
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The street outside the cemetery was quiet, washed in dim orange from a row of weary streetlamps. Kasuharu shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, keeping his head down as he walked, each step echoing faint against the cracked pavement. The night had a way of listening, of pressing close with secrets too heavy to breathe.
Then a voice cut through the dark.
"Kasuharu."
He froze. The way his name carried wasn't casual—it was sharp, like the snap of a knife being drawn. From the mouth of an alley, a group of boys stepped into the light. His age, maybe a little older, but carrying themselves with the swagger of wolves testing fresh blood.
The tallest one smirked. "So it's true. The son of him still walks these streets."
Kasuharu said nothing, his jaw tightening. He'd heard this tone before—half fear, half excitement. They weren't here for him. They were here for what his father had been.
Another boy cracked his knuckles. "Imagine what people'll say when we put you on the ground. The son of the most feared bastard this city's ever seen—beaten by us." He laughed, sharp and ugly. "That's the kind of rep you don't buy."
Kasuharu's shoulders stayed slouched, but his eyes flicked over them one by one. He recognized the hunger there. They didn't just want a fight—they wanted to take a piece of his father's ghost.
"You think beating me changes anything?" His voice came out low, steady. "You think the old scars vanish because you threw a few punches?"
The tall one sneered. "Don't care about scars. We just want to see if you bleed like the rest of us. Or if you've got that monster blood, too."
A ripple of laughter went through the group, mean and eager. They circled a step closer, shadows cutting across the pavement like teeth.
Kasuharu kept his hands buried in his pockets, but his pulse hammered. He didn't want this fight. He never did. But the world wouldn't let him walk away clean—not when the name he carried was still heavier than his fists.
They moved first. One lunged, fist swinging wild. Kasuharu slipped it, shoulder driving forward, his elbow cracking against the boy's jaw. Another came in low—Kasuharu's knee caught him in the gut, folding him with a gasp. He'd done this before. Too many times. Fists, boots, rage—none of it was new.
For a moment, it looked like he might walk out of it again.
Then the big one appeared. Kasuharu didn't see him until it was too late—a shadow breaking off from the alley's mouth, massive arms wrapping around him from behind. His breath snapped short as he was wrenched backward, pinned.
"Got him!" the big one barked, straining to hold Kasuharu down.
The others swarmed in. A boot slammed into his ribs—once, twice, again. Air fled his lungs in broken gasps. Another fist cracked against his cheek, then his jaw. A knee drove into his stomach. The world blurred with blows, pain spiking white-hot through his sides, his chest, his face.
Kasuharu fought to twist free, but every time he dragged in half a breath, another kick stole it. The alley rang with their laughter, their shouts.
"We did it!" one of them crowed, his voice sharp with triumph.
"Beat his ass!" another jeered, punctuating it with a final kick to Kasuharu's ribs.
Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth as he sagged against the concrete, vision spinning. The big one finally let him drop, and his body hit the ground heavy, bruised, struggling for breath.
"That's all?" the tall boy sneered, spitting at the ground near him. "This is the son of that gangster? The one who had the whole city shaking? Pathetic."
Their laughter echoed down the alley as they walked away, bragging over each other. "We did it, boys! We put him down! Remember this night—this is the day the son of the monster fell!"
Kasuharu lay there, gasping, every breath cutting like glass in his chest. The sky above the alley was just a narrow strip of darkness, and for the first time, he couldn't tell if the weight pressing on him was from his father's shadow—or his own failure.
He tried to move, but his arms barely obeyed, trembling as he pushed against the concrete. Pain flared in his chest, white-hot, and he collapsed back down. The taste of blood coated his tongue, metallic and bitter.
Above him, the narrow strip of sky seemed impossibly far away—just a smear of black between buildings leaning in like walls of a cage. His eyelids grew heavy, the world tilting, colors bleeding into shadow.
He wanted to curse them. Wanted to drag himself up and prove them wrong. But the fight had been beaten out of him, scattered with every kick, every blow.
A shudder ran through him, sharp and fleeting, before his body finally gave in.
Kasuharu's vision clouded, his breaths shallow and uneven, until the night swallowed him whole.