What i have become:
By the time I turned twenty-six, my life had already settled into something solid.
I was no longer drifting, no longer reacting. I had a direction and more importantly, a reason to keep walking forward.
Professionally, I had built two companies from the ground up.
The first was Kurogane Automotive, a high-end car manufacturing company focused on supercars. But they weren't just fast machines built to impress investors or collectors. Every vehicle we designed integrated adaptive AI, advanced safety protocols, and precision engineering meant to respond to the driver's intent. I wanted machines that thought before acting because I had learned, the hard way, what happens when power moves without control.
The second company was quieter. Less public.
Kurogane Intelligence Solutions.
On paper, it was a technology and investigative firm. In practice, we worked closely with the government developing surveillance drones, micro spy-cams, reconnaissance systems, and advanced analytical tools to solve cases that traditional methods couldn't touch. I didn't chase criminals myself. I built systems that cornered the truth until it had nowhere left to hide.
That was my work.
But my life didn't revolve around work anymore.
I was married to Amane Kurogane.
She was calm, grounded, and unshaken by my past. Where I tended to overthink, she anchored me. Where I grew quiet, she listened without forcing words out of me. Our relationship wasn't dramatic or loud. It was steady, built on trust and shared silence.
Together, we had a daughter.
She was two years old at the time small, stubborn, and endlessly curious. Watching her sleep used to remind me how far I'd come. There were nights when I held her and thought about the version of myself that once believed he didn't deserve peace.
Somehow, I had proven him wrong.
Looking Back.....
Our wedding had been simple.
No excessive spectacle. Just close friends, family, and honesty.
That day was also the first time in years that I stood in the same space as Miyuki and Souta without pain sitting between us like a third presence.
They had both attended.
Miyuki looked different then composed, quieter, but stronger. Souta stood a little stiff in his suit, pretending not to be emotional while failing terribly at it.
There was no tension.
No bitterness.
Only acknowledgment of a shared past we had all survived.
After the ceremony, Miyuki congratulated Amane first, smiling genuinely. Then she turned to me and said she was glad I was happy truly happy. Souta laughed, clapped my shoulder, and said I looked like someone who had finally won against himself.
They weren't wrong.
About Miyuki:
After leaving our hometown, Miyuki disappeared from everyone's lives for a long time.
She moved in with her grandparents, far away from familiar streets and familiar mistakes. The house was old and quiet too quiet for someone carrying that much regret. She rarely spoke. She didn't explain herself. Instead, she played her violin.
At first, her playing wasn't beautiful.
It was loud. Unrestrained. Heavy with grief.
She played late into the night, pouring every regret, every unspoken apology, into the strings. Neighbors complained. Her grandparents worried. But she didn't stop.
Then, one evening, someone listened.
A woman stood outside the house, unmoving, as Miyuki played until her hands trembled. When the music finally stopped and Miyuki opened the door, the woman didn't criticize her volume or technique.
She said only one thing:
"You're playing like you're trying to survive."
That woman turned out to be the headmistress of a prestigious music academy.
She saw potential in Miyuki not polished talent, but raw emotion that could be shaped. She encouraged Miyuki to apply, personally oversaw her training, and taught her discipline not to erase her sorrow, but to control it.
Under her guidance, Miyuki learned how to turn pain into precision.
She entered college as a music major, chose the violin without hesitation, and devoted herself completely. Her mentor continued to train her privately, correcting her posture, her breathing, her restraint—teaching her how to make silence as powerful as sound.
Years later, Miyuki became a professional violinist.
Her performances were known for their emotional depth. People said her music felt like a confession beautiful, aching, and honest.
When she told me about it once, she said quietly:
"If I hadn't broken back then, I wouldn't have learned how to play like this."
About souta :
Souta went to Tokyo with nothing but anger and determination.
He trained alone at night, playing soccer under dim lights, running until his body gave out. He wasn't chasing success. He was trying to outrun regret.
One evening, a group of older players noticed him. They saw how aggressively he played, how sharp his instincts were. They invited him to join them.
Their coach watched silently.
Eventually, he approached Souta and told him the truth his talent was being wasted. Transfers followed. Formal training began. Discipline replaced recklessness.
Souta learned how to channel his intensity instead of being consumed by it.
Years later, he stood on the sidelines not as a player, but as a coach for Japan's national youth soccer teams, training young athletes with the same fire he once carried.
He didn't chase glory anymore.
He created it for others.
Looking back, I realized something simple.
None of us escaped the past unscathed.
But all of us chose to move forward.
And that choice that quiet, stubborn decision was what truly saved us.