🌘 Chapter 3 — The Weight of the White Wolf's Name
Two days later, Ken finally stepped through the hospital doors.
The sunlight hit him like a wave.
After the sterile whiteness of the hospital rooms, the world outside seemed too bright, too alive.
He squinted, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. The crisp autumn wind brushed against his face, carrying the smell of wet asphalt, exhaust fumes, and freshly baked bread from a nearby shop.
It smelled like life — imperfect, restless, real.
Freedom had a bitter taste. A taste mixed with fear.
"Easy there," Yuri said, walking beside him, his tone half-casual, half-warning. "The outside world isn't kind to a weakened White Wolf."
Ken gave a short nod, saying nothing. His body felt heavier than it should — strong enough to move, yet filled with a strange foreign weight. Each step was an act of will, as though his muscles still resisted belonging to him.
Around them, people passed without a glance. Ordinary faces. Normal lives.
No one could have guessed the truth — that the man walking in silence was wearing another man's skin.
He had to become Ayato.
To smile like him. Speak like him. Move like him.
To breathe and lie as if he had always been the White Wolf.
Yuri's voice broke the hum of traffic.
"We're moving you to a safe house for a few days," he said. "You'll need time to recover… and to remember who you are."
Ken's lips tightened.
Who I am.
The question lingered in his mind like smoke.
Was he still Ken — the man who had died?
Or Ayato — the man whose body he now inhabited?
He inhaled deeply.
His heart beat with the weight of two souls — one dead, one reborn in another's flesh.
The real mission began now.
"Train me," he said quietly. His voice held no hesitation.
"Train me hard."
Yuri looked at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, then smiled faintly.
"I figured you'd say that. The White Wolf never did know how to rest."
---
The safe apartment provided by the OIMEN was nothing more than a hollow shell.
The walls were bare, pale concrete. A single table, two chairs, and a bed that looked barely used.
It was the perfect place for ghosts.
Within hours, the room transformed into a battlefield.
Targets pinned on the walls. Weapons laid out in neat lines. Ammunition boxes stacked in corners.
Yuri moved like a soldier born for war — calm, precise, silent.
Training began before sunrise and ended long after midnight.
Long-range shooting.
Hand-to-hand combat.
Tactical positioning.
Endurance drills until Ken's breath tore from his lungs.
Every failure stung.
Every misstep reminded him that the body he wore wasn't truly his.
"Not fast enough!" Yuri barked one morning, knocking him off balance with a sharp kick. "You move like a rookie!"
Ken gritted his teeth and pushed back to his feet. Sweat dripped down his neck, stinging his eyes.
He didn't argue. He didn't speak. He simply moved again.
Again.
And again.
Each repetition stripped away weakness.
Each strike drew him closer to the man whose name he now carried.
The sound of bullets slamming into targets echoed through the air — sharp, rhythmic, relentless.
Every impact was a vow.
Survive, no matter what.
That voice — Ayato's voice — lived inside his skull, echoing through every heartbeat.
And Ken obeyed it. He survived. Through the pain. Through the exhaustion. Through the fear of forgetting himself.
Yuri watched him silently from the doorway one evening, arms crossed.
The man who had once followed the real Ayato seemed to recognize something in Ken — not the same man, perhaps, but the same hunger.
When the gunfire stopped, only the rain remained, tapping softly against the windows.
Ken set down his weapon, breathing hard.
Yuri spoke without looking at him.
"The men who attacked you… they might not be from OIMEN," he said, his tone low, deliberate. "Word is, the Fox Gang was involved."
Ken looked up sharply.
"The Fox Gang?"
Yuri nodded.
"And… there's something else. Your friend Ken's body — it still hasn't been found."
The world froze.
My body…
His hands trembled. His pulse thundered in his ears.
A flash of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating the room for a split second — and in that light, the rage in Ken's eyes burned red.
When I find them… when I find what's left of my body… none of them will breathe again.
His voice was low, cold, almost inhuman.
Yuri said nothing. He didn't need to. He simply handed Ken another clip of ammunition and left the room.
---
Weeks passed.
The wounds on his head healed, but the scars beneath his skin did not.
He had learned to fight like Ayato, to move like him, even to mimic the way he smirked when danger came close.
But deep down, Ken remained at war with himself.
When they returned to the city, it looked unchanged — same neon lights, same noise, same restless heartbeat.
But for Ken, everything was different.
The body he wore still felt foreign.
Every reflection in a window, every glance from a stranger, made his heart stutter.
He walked through the crowds unseen, yet every step carried a whisper:
This isn't you.
The White Wolf had returned.
And the world would soon tremble again.
But only Ken knew the truth — that beneath the legend's skin lived a man haunted by another's death.
Vengeance, silent and patient, had begun to take form.
---
That evening, as the sun sank behind the rooftops, the city glowed in shades of orange and ash.
Ken and Yuri crossed the plaza near the train station. The air smelled faintly of diesel and coffee.
Then, a voice cut through the crowd.
"Ayato!"
Ken froze.
Two figures stood by the entrance to the station, silhouetted against the dying light.
The first — Hansi — stepped forward, her hair dark and tousled, her smile trembling. Her eyes shimmered with a fragile mix of relief and fear.
The second — Eloïse — elegant and composed, though the faint quiver in her voice betrayed her worry.
Ken's breath caught in his throat.
Hansi — the woman he had once loved.
Eloïse — Ayato's fiancée.
The past and present collided before his eyes.
He felt his pulse quicken. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to disappear — but he couldn't.
He had to stay.
He had to play the part.
Yuri's presence behind him was silent but grounding, like a shadow reminding him to breathe.
Ken took a slow step forward, forcing his expression into Ayato's calm, confident mask.
Inside, panic clawed at his chest.
Every movement, every word would be a test.
One wrong tone — one misplaced look — and everything could unravel.
He met their eyes. Smiled faintly.
Felt the weight of their trust pressing against the lie he carried.
The game has changed, he thought.
And somewhere deep within him, the White Wolf — the one who had died — stirred once more.
The man named Ken was gone.
The man named Ayato had returned.
And between them, in the fragile space of borrowed breath, something darker began to awaken.