Chapter 1 - Burned Dreams, Shivering Soul
Snow fell.
Ash fluttered.
The street outside still glowed faint orange, distant fires crackling where embers hadn't yet died. Smoke twisted up into the black Tokyo sky, framed by flickering lights and the sound of dripping water from shattered gutters. Somewhere in that ruin, Akio Hukitaske limped forward, the soles of his shoes melting where they touched the scorched earth.
His coat, once white, was charred in streaks of soot. Blisters peppered his arms. One eye refused to open fully, swollen from heat and exhaustion. But his legs moved—barely. Moved because they had to. Because he had nowhere else to go.
Behind him, the ruins of Hukitaske Pharmacy groaned under their own weight.
The place he'd rebuilt with blood, laughter, and hope—flattened.
Gone.
Akio stumbled into a side alley between two shuttered restaurants. Trash bins, slick with frost, towered like silent judges. The snow that fell didn't feel clean. It mixed with smoke. With guilt. With failure. Ash settled in his hair.
He collapsed beside a vending machine, its blue glow buzzing faintly.
And for a time, he did not move.
Tokyo's chaos pressed on around him—horns, lights, sirens far off—but Akio heard none of it. The scream of fire echoed louder. The heat on his skin felt permanent.
He had failed. Again. Not just the pharmacy. Not just the building. He had failed everyone.
Memories swam behind his eyelids. Raka's laughter. Yamataro's clumsy strength. Misaki's sharp wit. Akazuchi's warm silence. Rumane's smirk. Yasahute and Hikata's teasing. A whole world they had made together, against all odds, from the scraps of broken pasts and stranger futures.
All gone.
Because he couldn't protect it.
A whisper of footsteps stirred him.
Then a voice: "Found him!"
More footsteps. Crunching snow. Panting breath.
Misaki. Yamataro. Raka. Rumane. Hikata. Yasahute. Akazuchi.
All of them.
They didn't scold him. Didn't demand answers.
They sat around him. Their clothes were torn, hands scraped, cheeks streaked with soot—but they were here.
Misaki crouched closest. "You did everything for us. Now let us do something for you."
Akio shook his head, voice barely a rasp. "I can't... It's gone. Everything's gone. I failed again. I—I was just a test subject. Trash. I wasn't meant to live..."
They blinked. Confused. But none interrupted.
Until Rumane said flatly: "You didn't fail. You got bombed."
Akio's voice cracked. "I was never supposed to survive. They said I was a failed subject. They used me. All of this—it was never meant to happen."
Still silence.
Then Raka grabbed his collar and shook him.
"Then shake the ash off and stand up, idiot."
Yamataro nodded. "You taught us dreams aren't inherited. They're built. One screw, one brick at a time."
Akazuchi, voice like a shadow in the snow: "You're allowed to break. But not to disappear."
Yasahute crossed his arms. "You don't get to give up on us. Not after dragging us all this far."
Akio looked around.
Soot and cold. Bruised bodies. Raw, open hearts.
But they were still here.
Still with him.
His knees trembled as he stood. The snow stuck to his burned coat. The streetlamp above buzzed gently.
The world hadn't stopped.
And maybe neither had he.
The snow fell harder.
But it didn't feel cold.
Scene 2: Rebuilding Ribbon by Ribbon
Hope wasn't born in a single breath. It arrived in fragments.
First came the paperwork—mountains of it. Claims, forms, hearings. Every official reminder of what they'd lost and what the government refused to help them recover.
Then came the hours. Late nights, early mornings. Raka lifting shattered beams like they were twigs. Yamataro hauling sacks of cement like a one-warior crate. Misaki slicing through bureaucracy with a smile so sharp it cut down three managers.
Hikata made a fundraising video so absurd it went viral: a mix of tears, pyrotechnics, and a raccoon in a pharmacist's hat. Rumane somehow roped in neighborhood volunteers. Akazuchi scouted deals on equipment and supplies like a silent ninja.
And Akio?
He showed up.
One plank at a time. One list rebuilt. One medicine label rewritten by hand. No miracle. Just movement.
The first time the scent of rubbing alcohol and cinnamon returned to the air, he nearly cried.
But he didn't.
He sanded a shelf instead.
When the new front sign was installed—same calligraphy, slightly off-center—he didn't speak. Just nodded.
Finally, Opening Day arrived.
The glass doors gleamed. The new counter caught sunlight just right. Ribbons draped the entrance like threads of memory.
Akio stood in his coat.
White again.
Freshly laundered.
A customer entered. Elderly. Coughing. Familiar.
He greeted her with a gentle smile.
Behind him, the others waited.
No grand speech. No ceremony.
Just presence.
"Why're you all grinning like that?" he asked, tilting his head.
No one answered.
They just laughed.
And the pharmacy lived again.
[Next: Chapter 2 — The Anonymous Arrival]