Morioh, Kawajiri residence.
A few days ago.
Only Hayato Kawajiri was left in the empty house. On the table lay a thick stack of banknotes Kira Yoshikage had left before he departed, along with a cold instruction, "Take care of yourself."
Hayato sat at the table, a bowl of instant noodles he had prepared himself, now somewhat cold, in front of him.
Although Kira Yoshikage had left a lot of money, a large sum that had come from who knows where, enough for him to eat and drink freely outside for several months and pay rent, he still just holed up at home.
He had matured much earlier than his peers, even becoming overly sensitive and observant. He had already concluded that his father was fake.
The man who had replaced his father, despite his best efforts to play the role of "father," had long since aroused his suspicion with that cold sense of detachment and the occasional chilling aura he exuded.
His father wasn't like that, nor was he so wealthy.
His mother's departure felt more like some kind of... liberation? Could it be that his mother had already...? He dared not think deeper.
He tried to appear normal, tidied up the dishes, and even attempted to do his homework as usual, but his pen scratched on the paper for a long time without writing a single word.
The house was too quiet, so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat and the sound of blood flowing, a huge, abandoned sense of loneliness enveloped him.
He felt as if he had been abandoned by the world; his father, he didn't know if he was real, and his mother had also left. He seemed like a piece of trash, despised by others, like excrement that even a stray dog wouldn't want to eat.
"Am I really not a normal child? Do they hate me that much? Have I been abandoned?"
Just as his sanity was about to be crushed by the silence, the doorbell rang sharply.
Hayato jolted, a flicker of hope inexplicably rising in his heart. Had his mother returned? Or... had that man regretted it?
"I'll go see..."
He ran to the door, looked through the peephole, and instantly, his blood almost froze.
Outside the door were several serious-faced police officers in uniform. 'Could it be... something happened to Mom?'
He tremblingly opened the door. After all, he was just an elementary school student; no matter how clever or god-like he was, he was still immature.
"Are you Hayato Kawajiri?"
The leading officer's voice was cold, devoid of any emotion. He was a large, burly man, looking down at the child, holding a document in his hand.
"Yes... it's me..."
Hayato answered softly, clutching his shorts with both hands, staring at the ground, not daring to meet the police's gaze. His heart pounded, a bad premonition vaguely stirring within him.
"According to our investigation, your parents are suspected of being involved in a major case and have now disappeared.
As an underage direct relative, you need to come back with us to assist with the investigation and receive protective custody."
The stout officer waved a document in front of him. The seals and clauses on it looked extremely formal, yet conveyed an undeniable coerciveness.
Hayato finally looked up, his face filled with terror. The stout officer, however, gave him a comforting smile, but this smile utterly terrified him—his parents really were in trouble!
"My... my mom and dad..."
Hayato tried to say something, but the sorrow and fear in his heart prevented him from forming a complete sentence.
"You can say whatever you want when we get back."
Without further ado, the stout policeman waved his hand, and two officers, one on each side, took his arms, lifted the child directly out of the house, and put him into a police car.
He was taken to the local detention center, and then quickly transferred to a more remote, more heavily guarded juvenile detention center.
There was no interrogation, no questioning, not even a single extra word spoken to him. He was confined alone in a small cell with only a hard plank bed and a stainless steel toilet.
Days passed, seemingly without end.
Only when food was delivered would the small window open for a moment, followed by endless, deathly silence.
No one communicated with him, no outdoor time, no books, nothing to distract him, just cold walls and a glaring white light that stayed on 24 hours a day.
It made him lose track of time, not knowing what time it was. He didn't need to go to school anymore, just needed to stay here every day, quietly staying.
His mind gradually blurred. Although the food delivered had been adjusted to be delicious, he still couldn't eat.
And when he tried to sleep, faint noises would come from all around, but when he opened his eyes to find the sound, he couldn't find anything.
He started talking to the wall, recalling things from school, recalling his mother's terrible cooking, recalling the fake father's perfectly manicured nails, a terrifying robotic regularity... but his memories quickly ran out.
Then came the hallucinations.
He heard his mother crying, heard the man's cold laughter, heard the police's footsteps pacing outside the door, but when he rushed to the door, there was only dead silence outside.
He seemed to see the scene of his mother being killed by that fake father, seemed to see the tragic future of his parents dying and him becoming a street orphan.
Solitude and silence are the cruelest punishments in the world.
They were like files, slowly grinding away his sanity, pushing him to the brink of madness, even making him lose these logical hallucinations.
He curled up in the corner, unconsciously picking at the wall with his nails, leaving faint bloodstains. He began to doubt everything, doubt whether he truly existed, doubt whether his past life was a dream.
Just as he felt he was about to completely break down and become a walking corpse.
The cell door suddenly opened.
He instinctively narrowed his eyes.
It was a young man in an expensive white suit, his hair meticulously combed, a half-smile playing on his lips, holding a notebook and a pen.
Beside him were the bowing warden and several black-suited guards. Surrounded by them, the man walked in.
This man was completely out of place in the dark, cold cell. He exuded a strange aura, a mix of artistic temperament and authoritative presence.
But Hayato no longer reacted much; the mental torment of the past few days had made him somewhat numb.
"Get out."
Looking at the little boy who had almost become a puppet, the man smiled, appearing gentle and refined, then gently waved his hand. His voice was not loud, but it carried an absolute sense of command.
The warden and guards immediately bowed and retreated, gently closing the door, as if afraid to disturb him.
But Hayato didn't care; he buried his head in his body again, unwilling to engage with anything outside.
The man paced in front of Hayato, looking down at the disheveled Hayato curled in the corner with vacant eyes. There was no pity in his eyes, only a kind of interest, as if observing a rare specimen.
Seeing the little boy motionless, showing no reaction to him at all, he didn't care. Instead, he picked up a pen and paper and sketched, documenting this scene of despair.
"Hayato Kawajiri-kun," he spoke, his voice gentle, yet it pierced Hayato's ears like a venomous snake, "Are you comfortable staying here? This is the safest place."
Hayato then looked up blankly, his pupils taking a while to focus on this unwelcome guest. 'This person looks somewhat familiar...'
He recognized the face, often seen on TV... it was that famous manga artist... seemed to be called... Kishibe Rohan? Why would he be here?
He had seen this person on the news before he came in, apparently as the interim Prime Minister? He was the most important person in the country.
"Judging by your appearance, you don't seem to be doing too well."
Kishibe Rohan squatted down, and with a gloved finger, gently lifted Hayato's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "How does it feel to be abandoned by that fake father, thrown here like trash to die?"
Hayato's body trembled violently!
The phrase "fake father" was like a sharp knife, piercing through his dazed state!
That guy wasn't important, but he thought of his mother! Although the bond in their family of extraordinary people might not be that deep, in the despairing silence of these past days, he could do nothing.
He could only keep thinking, and the more he thought, the deeper his worry for his mother became.
"You... what did you say..."
"I said, the man who sleeps with your mother every day, living under your father's identity—yes, your mother isn't dead yet."
Kishibe Rohan's face showed a cruel and pleased smile, as if he were manipulating a toy puppet. He wanted to thoroughly train this child, to make him completely obedient.
"And that man—he's not Kosaku Kawajiri at all. He's a Stand User who kills without batting an eye and uses cruel methods. His name is 'Kira Yoshikage'.
Your biological father, Kosaku Kawajiri, was probably killed by him long ago and buried in some unknown wilderness."
Boom!
These words were like a thunderclap, exploding in Hayato's almost blank mind! His long-standing suspicions, fears, and anxieties were confirmed in the cruelest way at this moment!
"No... impossible..."
He weakly retorted, but his voice was filled with despair, though he himself didn't know what he was refuting.
"Impossible?" Kishibe Rohan scoffed. Behind him, a tall, golden humanoid Stand emerged. Although Hayato couldn't see it, for some unknown reason, his heart tightened, and he felt fear.
"Let me show you some... 'truth'."
Heaven's Door's hand gently brushed Hayato's forehead... Should Kira Yoshikage prepare a half-robot army next, or a Stand User army? Or a combined modified humanoid Stand User army?
For half-robots, comment 1
For Stand Users, comment 2
For combined modified humans, comment 3
(Half-robots use German technology, Stand Users use arrows provided by the foundation)
Seeking Stand submissions (・∀・)