I promise I'm going back this year! Just a bit busy!
A sibling-centered and platonic blog, from casual daily, lighthearted interactions to complex and dark psychological stories.
╰---•❥ A map for wandering my garden.
➤ Writing Status(for requests): CLOSED
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Last Updated: 07/14/25
Latest Posted Work: 07/12/25
From now on, I might post more here, so I made this :D Thank you guys so much for following and liking! I have a lot of plans for the future, so I hope you stick around❤︎
── .✦ oh, you can drop thoughts & questions in my askbox ✧ just no writing reqs right now, college is making me lose my sanity. Don't worry, I'm still working on my stories, it's just slow :'D. Thank you!
Oneshots
➤ Haitani Brothers
The Fallen Apple: Stained Memories
After a playful night that brought back simpler times, Ran and Rindou realize just how much their sister means to them, even if she might never know it again.
The Taste of Rue
He prided himself on how the people feared their names. But now, standing in front of his battered sister, he realized how much she feared it the most.
Untitled Work [In Progress...]
➤ Madarame Shion
Lion's tail
She was always there behind him, like a lion’s tail that followed and steadied his every step. No matter how many times Shion pushed her away, she remained the part of him that followed wherever he went.
➤ Terano Minami
Too Tall Beside the Fallen — An Elegy of You, My Paper Flower
In progress...
Fanfics
➤ Haitani Brothers
Forget-Me-Not
She was the sister they could never forget, no matter how far they ran from the past. Between the Haitani brothers and the streets they ruled, her memory lingered like a scar that refused to fade.
The Lily of the Valley
Years after losing each other in childhood, she reaches out to Ran and Rindou, hoping to rebuild what was lost. But time has changed everything, and reconnecting isn’t as simple as it once seemed.
Headcanons
No Headcanons posted yet.
Drabbles
No drabbles added yet.
Scenarios
No scenarios available yet.
➤ Disclaimer:
All works are fictional and for entertainment purposes only. Tokyo Revengers and its characters belong to Ken Wakui. Please do not repost my writings elsewhere.
NGL, I have a Google Docs of relationships I find interesting in TR when I watched the anime. I can’t put them all here cuz it’s a lot of thinking, but my fave? Hmmmm, this is hard, but my top isss-
Naoto and Takemichi
They’re the first few people in TR I saw, and really, their interactions and relationship throughout the anime and manga are my fave.
At first, I didn't really care about them or like them. Not in a hateful way, but just in a not interested kind, and just brushed them off.
But when I watched it again, I really loved and appreciated their relationship.
And without them, we definitely wouldn’t have seen other characters in TR. And they helped uncover and find out the truth about parts in the history of the gangs and stuff, you know?
Their relationship is so good, too. And the scene where they were killed? That seriously made me tear up the second time I watched it.
There is just so much trust between them, it's insane. At first, Naoto is skeptical. Takemichi is, after all, a bumbling, underconfident guy who gets beaten up constantly. Naoto doubts whether he can survive, whether he can change the future, and whether he’s capable of making a difference, and he thought about why his sister liked this guy.
Over time, Naoto’s trust grows. He begins to see Takemichi’s resilience anfd not just his “will to fight,” but his moral consistency. Takemichi refuses to abandon people, to compromise on basic decency, even in timelines where everyone else loses hope.
So, the mutual trust becomes like their emotional scaffolding, where Naoto trusts Takemichi with his own emotions (he confides, fears, hopes) and Takemichi trusts Naoto with his actions and decisions in life-and-death scenarios.
So, their relationship really matters in TR because without them, the story doesn't progress, and I see their relationship as the heart of the story(or is it just me?-).
It kinda represents that they embody that change is possible if you persist, even when the system is stacked against you. And it's a perfect microcosm of TR’s central message.
Another thing is, I just find their interactions in the past really hilarious, like that one time Takemichi was reaching to hold Hina’s hand while watching the fireworks, but it turns out, he was holding Naoto’s hand lmao. I remember being so happy I got that card in the game ehehe.
Takemichi, Hinata, and Emma would actually the best one and only characters to make friends because they wouldn’t try to get you involved in gang bullshit and would make a fun little posse.
Plus, takemitchi’s suggestible. He feigns surprise at everyone else’s bat shit insane behavior, goes along with it. He’s chill. He could be like, you and the girls pet guy.
Like the derry girls.
I haven't watched Derry Girls(ngl i wanna watch it) yet, but I searched it up, and that sounds so truee. They're the normal-ish people in TR.
I wanna call this trio The Snackables or The HET(Hinata, Emma, Take) Squad or something. Takemitchy is that guy who just nods along and goes "Whoa, really?" and just secretly thinking, wishing not to drag him into whatever insanity they're planning. He's just a chill guy.
I think Hina is the girl who has this playful, warm vibe and plans little adventures, cute food runs, hangouts, and sudden "let's do this," "let's do that" moments. asdhaskjhfd(Hina is so cutee). She makes me feel like she'll remind you that life can still be good even when everything else is messy
And for Emma, she sees all the dumb stuff happening and she'd be the one who'd roll her eyes at Take's moments but she is helpful and caring in their lil group and makes sure that they're okay or no ones hurt during their dumb adventures.
Thinking about this trio makes me wanna make something about them. ehehehe ty for telling me this 𓁹‿𓁹
Why wouldn't you want South as a brother!? 😱 A get that he's a little high strung but don't you think he'd take care of the last living family member his has?
Oh yeah, South would absolutely protect his last living fam member.
But the way he would protect someone is not the way a normal person does.
This is what I thought about him during the bad timeline.
We know how he grew up in a brutal, impoverished place, where violence was how he survived and lived. His mother got murdered, he got shot, and he beat Dino to death because that was the only “power” he was ever taught, and then he moved to Japan.
After those things happened, I doubt a kid who experienced that would grow up thinking of protection as normal people do; it would be twisted by trauma.
I feel like, emotionally, he is stunted as hell. Not because he doesn’t care, but because nobody ever taught him what to do with feelings that aren’t rage or survival. He feels things too strongly, but expresses them in the wrong way. He's already a bad pair for me because of that, and I feel like none of us can bring us out of the dark if we were siblings. It could be tiring and frustrating.
So, if he were my brother, his protectiveness would be intense and sometimes terrifying.
Yeah, he'd care about me being his last family member, although it might feel suffocating, especially after the events that happened.
But it could still work in some ways. At one point, we'd realize that no matter what, we have each other and we'd support each other to survive, and we'd be able to bring the best out of both of us, even if it's through something intense.
In a good timeline? I honestly think it's gonna turn out into a good/healthy relationship between us. I feel like we both balance each other out.
I'm literally over the moon that you're back! ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆ You write such a niche genre, it's hard to find anyone who does it right.
Not to make you feel pressured or anything, but I can't wait for the South Terano story! And Ik you don't wanna spoil, but I just wanna know if it's gonna be angsty?
Hellow~ ♡ I’m really excited to be back with you all!! It honestly means so much to see your messages and be here again.
And thank you so much for your kind words ♡ . It really means a lot to me. I never expected anyone to connect with my weird little stories, so hearing that you do genuinely makes my day. I’m super grateful for all the support and excitement, truly. ♡
And yes… it is angsty. I mean, all my works are angsty, you know ¬‿¬
(I’m not really good with fluff, but I try-)
This one might end up longer than the Shion story, since it’s a bit more detailed. I’m still adjusting some parts because I wasn’t satisfied with how I started it, so it kinda grew on me and… yeah, it’s definitely getting longer. And definitely angsty. (but beautiful!)
I’m really not good at anything except angst and heavy stuff so… (* ¯³¯)
But dw, I made sure the angst fits the story and the request just right. But it's just gonna be long.
I wanna at least tell you or take a screenshot of a part of the story, but this is all I'm gonna drop from my drafts.
Out of the rest of the characters who would you NOT pick as your brother?
I wouldn't pick hanma. I already know that being his sibling means you gotta watch your back everywhere everyday cuz he's always making enemies
OH. I can see that, and honestly, Kisaki in first and Hanma in second are the most obvious given ones for this question for me here, so I'll go with Taiju first.
This is gonna be kinda long- I put in what I remembered from their characters and now that I'm writing this, I'm honestly in love with their character and roles in the manga and anime. Too bad we don't get much information of them before and after the good timeline :<
If I were a Shiba, I’d definitely receive the same treatment as Yuzuha and Hakkai, even if I were older than him by a year.
Taiju obviously didn’t grow up right and had no proper adults to guide him or be proper role models. That’s why beating his siblings became his version of discipline and punishment.
Honestly, he was just a sixteen-year-old boy with no guidance. His dad was the only breadwinner of the house, and his mom had died when they were very young. Their father was often absent and busy, which left Taiju as the only responsible one out of all of them, forced into that role. The only thing he was good at was physically dominating those around him. By his logic, hitting his siblings would make them stronger, which sounds absurd, but I can’t expect emotional maturity from a teenager who was also the only one available to be with his siblings.
But I don’t see him as unintelligent, as his impulsiveness might suggest. He is clearly smart and values his studies. He has a sharp eye for people’s abilities and usefulness, and he can read someone almost instantly. He has dreams and goals, but approaches them differently, almost destroying his relationship with those around him.
Having him as a brother would mean living under constant surveillance, expected to obey, absorb lectures, and endure punishments. The threat is long-term and suffocating. His control comes through physical dominance and rigid discipline, and his version of care is abuse disguised as “teaching strength.” Even the smallest mistakes could earn a punishment, and knowing me, I’d probably rack up plenty of those. I’d be trembling with fear before he even raised a hand.
He’s devout but hypocritical annd he quotes scripture and then delivers punishment with brutal force. He commands loyalty through fear, not respect. He sees fear/violence as respect and love, and that's really messed up for a teen :( Idk where he learned that, but he def misunderstood some things.
Being his sibling would mean constantly walking on eggshells, feeling the weight of his presence, and trying to anticipate what he considers a mistake before it happens. It’s exhausting, suffocating, and terrifying.
NOW life with him in the good timeline would have many improvements. He won't be repeating his mistakes before and have a better relationship with his us, and be able to talk things out without violence anymore, even if it takes some time and adjustment. By this point, he has a stronger sense of family and loyalty after working his way to build trust and is more available for our needs :)
Hanma Shuji
Hanma comes second after Kisaki. And unlike Kisaki, he has no real motive beyond being bored and chasing a thrill. He’s such a bad influence, LIKE SERIOUSLY.
He’s the type of brother who would offer me something even after I said, “No thanks” or “not interested.” And somehow, he’d probably cheer me on if I decided to dive headfirst into my bad habits. Saying “no” wouldn’t really stop him; he’d just grin like my resistance was part of the fun and dare me to do it anyway.
From what I remember about him, he doesn’t have personal goals or dreams like other characters. All he seems to want is to fight, seek excitement, chase thrills, and follow whatever scheme Kisaki sets up next.
Having him as family would mean… chaos, mostly, yeah. He’d rarely or never guide me, support me, or even think about my well-being in any traditional sense. Instead, he’d drag me into trouble, laugh at the mess we made, and then disappear when things got too serious, leaving me to figure it out. And he’d definitely come home with blood on his hands, grinning like it’s the funniest thing in the world. He’d tease me to my breaking point just to see my reaction, and if I yelled back, he’d absolutely love it like the tension would amuse him endlessly.
I’d never really know if he was being sincere or sarcastic. Because one minute, he’s my ride-or-die, the next he’s probably filming me having a mini meltdown for laughs or to tease me later.
And YES, I really have to watch my back because we don't know what kind of guys he's making enemies with. You'll never know when a crazy guy will come to you because of him.
He’s also the sibling who’d say something like, “If we’re not suffering, are we even bonding?” while casually setting something on fire. And honestly? That’s Hanma in a nutshell, the embodiment of fun at my expense.
But, I can’t lie… part of me thinks life with him would never be boring. Sure, I’d constantly have to watch my back and resist getting dragged into chaos, but he’d make the world feel wild, unpredictable, and alive in a way no one else could. I feel like he knows how to have fun(even if sometimes or it is mostly dangerous.) I’d probably get frustrated, a little scared, but secretly, I’d also kind of enjoy the ride. He's just a bad influence, especially having Kisaki around. He'd definitely even be more rotten by just following him around.
His background/childhood must be really bad to have him turn this way.
Anyway, if it's in the good timeline, having him as a brother is different. I think he'd be pretty chill to be around, especially if he is no longer following Kisaki or chasing the thrill in fights and danger. And instead of him being reckless, he'd definitely be more like a brother who notices little things about me and points things out.
He might make fun of my habits or joke about my bad decisions, but it would be affectionate, not the dangerous kind. Life with him would feel light, easy, and fun now, which I’d actually trust him not to let me get hurt, and I feel like I'd be comfortable around him, and we'd hang out more.
Kisaki Tetta
And for Kisaki, it is pretty obvious why. I'd be so scared to be around him, especially after knowing how he is, even if I am his sibling.
He is the type to be manipulative, and that can be damaging, you know?
His canon background is that Kisaki grew up as an intelligent but isolated kid, obsessed with control and validation. His unreciprocated love for Hinata turned pathological, and he decided that if he couldn’t earn affection naturally, he’d force everything to bend around him. He used brains over brawn, orchestrating gang wars, manipulating entire organizations like Toman, Valhalla, and Tenjiku, and pulling strings from behind the scenes. Kisaki’s sense of superiority came from being powerless once, and he swore he’d never feel that way again. He has a goal, a reason to do what he does, and he does it so terrifyingly.
Now, having him as a brother knowing these things, I feel like he’d just treat me like a project. Either I’m a pawn or I’m nothing. If he decided I was a pawn, I’d be the unwitting participant in his “perfect life simulation.” He’d test how much he could control my actions through guilt-tripping, gaslighting, and planting doubts in my head, which could get to me easily.
He’d talk softly, kindly even, but I’d feel the invisible strings every time he smiled. I would start second-guessing my own thoughts and other people, and that’s exactly what he’d want. He’d say, “I only push you because I want you to reach your potential,” and it would really mean, “I own your will.”
Bruh would definitely make me destroy myself to be "better."
But if I had the good version of him as a brother, he’d probably still be sharp and strategic, a part of him that doesn’t vanish, but the energy would turn protective instead of possessive.
His obsession would be stripped away, and he’d use his cleverness to protect instead of control. He’d make sure I don’t fall into traps rather than setting them.
There would be genuine care in his eyes, and boundaries would be set and understood. And this was to happen, he'd be normal.
I seriously love his character so much as an antagonist. When I first saw him appear in Tokyo Revengers, he gave me this mix of fascination and unease. He’s not the kind to rely on physical violence; instead, he uses his brain in conflicts rather than fists, unlike many of the other characters. He represents a psychological and strategic threat rather than brute force, which makes him one of the most insidious antagonists in the series. Honestly, I found him far scarier than the other characters, and I could really understand why Takemichi and the others behaved the way they did around him.
I wanted to add Minami Terano, but for me, these three are enough and are like the top 3 in my list. I was planning on adding more characters, but it might get too long if I do.
I'm planning on watching and reading the anime and manga again to refresh my memory of them and maybe start writing about them too. ( ⓛ ω ⓛ )
AHH I missed you guys so much!! I'm so happy to see you too!
Thank you for the warm welcome!
It honestly means a lot. It’s been months since I last posted or worked on the requested oneshots, so being here again makes me so happy.
I’ve been wanting to be active again and interact with everyone more. How have you all been? I haven’t been writing much lately since I’ve been busy (and still working on older requests slowly and trying to make them better). But my inbox is open for chats, ideas, random stuff and other things though, just not writing reqs for now hehe sorri
(ᵕ—ᴗ—)
But I really, really want to write again even small things like drabbles or hcs and I have so many ideas lately, but not enough time irl to squeeze them in, and I don’t want to push myself too hard.
But I'm doing my best not to spoil what I’m working on, but ugh… it’s so hard not to share. I just really wanna post again soon. Maybe I’ll drop some little things here and there. Still TR-related, of course ♡
If you had to pick one of the S62 to be your brother who would you pick?
Hellu! It's funny cuz I just checked my Tumblr to pass the time, and right on time, a message in my inbox popped up, and I was surprised lol.
Not gonna lie, I love them all, so it's hard to pick. I had to think about this for a while, but if I consider the compatibility, chemistry, personality, and values? I think Kakucho and I would get along.
Shion, Mucho, and Mocchi were the first three that popped into my head, but it ended with this-
🥇 Kakucho ★★★★★
Over everyone here, Kakucho just feels like the right pick for me. I trust him immediately, and there’s this sense of calm and safety around him that I don’t get with anyone else. Out of everyone, he just seems the most stable, like no matter what’s going on, I know he’s not going to lose his cool or make me feel uncomfortable.
I can definitely see myself enjoying his company and just being around him. I feel like we’d get along so easily, supporting each other without it ever feeling forced or overbearing. He wouldn’t push me to do things I’m not ready for, but he’d also nudge me gently when I need it.
I imagine lots of playful banter between us, little teasing moments that make us both laugh, and even quiet times where we don’t have to say anything at all but still feel connected. Because of all this, I’d feel safe and supported, and naturally, I’d follow his lead in a way that doesn’t feel like I’m giving up control, more like I just trust him.
Since he is very physically active, I'd actually enjoy going out with him or just exercising/gym, talking, going to places, and just having some fun some days, like me pulling him into other stuff. And you know how this guy loves to cook? I'M A BIG EATER, ALRIGHT? I'd be on that food before he can get a whiff of his masterpiece.
Also, he’d definitely be the first to defend me in a fight, or the first to drag me out of bed to lift my mood up, and for us to bond.
Our relationship would be the kind where I could be myself completely, flaws and all, and he’d still have my back. He’d be the kind of brother who makes life feel steady but also warm and fun, without any unnecessary pressure, like someone I know I can rely on through thick and thin.
🥈 Rindou Haitani ★★★★☆
I didn’t expect him to be here, and honestly, the second I realized he would be here, I was stuck between putting him beside Kakucho or giving him second place.
Rindou, as my brother, just sounds exciting. He’d definitely pull me out of my quiet little bubble and drag me into fun stuff I wouldn’t do on my own. He’s the kind of person who’d bring a bit of chaos into my routine, but in a good way, like taking me to a new club, making me try weird food, or just sitting around joking about random things while music plays in the background.
He’d be fun to hang around with, I think. We could bond over music, shopping, and just vibing. He’d help me loosen up and step out of my comfort zone, but still know when to give me space when I go quiet. There’s a natural balance between us, and I’m not the type to compete for attention, so I think we’d coexist pretty easily most days.
The bad side, though… his lifestyle might be overwhelming sometimes. He’s reckless and unpredictable, which could drag me into situations I’m not ready for. And he can be playfully manipulative like the kind who knows exactly how to charm or distract when he’s in trouble. If he messes up, he’ll joke or charm his way out of it instead of owning up right away. He’s also the type to forget small things like plans or promises, but not out of malice, but because he’s easily distracted.
Additionally, I think he's easily offended during playful sarcasm/banter. Nothing wrong, but it's just difficult to be playful sometimes... I think. Additionally, the fact that he can be competitive over things and sometimes struggles to accept loss, especially in areas he enjoys, can also be challenging when it comes to bonding and having fun, which could get in the way.
We’d definitely have moments of miscommunication too, like him getting weirdly quiet or sarcastic over things instead of saying what’s actually wrong. I think we’d go through small fights, or those awkward “we’re fine but not really fine” silences. But after that, he’d probably show up again like nothing happened, acting like, “yo, you still mad?” and somehow, I’d forgive him, and no matter what happens, we have each other in the end of the day.
Now that I read it a second time, it reminds me of a relationship I have with someone. Wow, this is making me think- no wonder he's in second place.
🥈 Mochizuki Kanji ★★★★☆
I LOVE THIS GUY. WHY DO I SEE SO LITTLE OF HIM, SHION, AND MUCHO IN FICS?-
Anyways, he is in third place(YAY!). He's like a good balance between Rindou and Kakucho for me.
Mocchi honestly feels like that big brother who’s half fun, half headache, but in a way that grows on me. He’s the type who’s always laughing, talking with his mouth full, or telling some ridiculous story that somehow ends with him in a fight or food challenge. He’s loud, goofy, and eats like every meal is his last, but there’s this grounded, big-hearted side under it all that makes him really easy to be around. You can tell he’s rough around the edges, but there’s a warmth in him that slips out in quiet moments.
Our interactions are a lot of casual hangouts like food trips, arcade nights, random dares, and laughing over the dumbest things. He’d probably pick on me just to see me roll my eyes. I can imagine us hanging out at food stalls late at night, talking about nonsense that turns into something real halfway through. I think he is simple in a comforting way, like no games, no judgment, but just him being loud and genuine. I feel like we'd argue playfully but get along well.
I'd actually feel safe with him, like even if the world’s falling apart, Mocchi would still have my back with that “you’ll be fine, trust me” grin. I feel like we'd get along really well and have fun in our time.
But yeah, I think the downside is that sometimes he’d be too much. He’s stubborn and has this “it’ll be fine” attitude that could drive me insane when I just want quiet or time alone. He’s also the type to push me into dumb challenges “for fun,” like, “Come on, it’ll be funny!” and somehow I’d end up in trouble because of it.
Still, I think the bond would be really strong. He’d never let me walk home alone, always make sure I eat, and if I’m ever down, he’d drag me somewhere to cheer me up (even if his idea of cheering me up is a 2 a.m. ramen run). He’d get on my nerves sometimes, sure, but he’s the kind of brother I’d always forgive because deep down, I know he really cares, just not always in words, more in action.
Yasuhiro Muto ★★★★☆
Honestly, Mucho gives me “quiet protector” energy. He's probably the kind of brother who doesn’t say much but always notices everything. He’s disciplined, organized, and calm most of the time, and there’s this weird comfort in his silence. Like, even if he’s intimidating at first, once I get used to him, his presence feels alright. I think he is dependable and mature.
For me, He's more nagging about rules or safety and other stuff that comes from care rather than control. He’s the type who’d check on me in subtle ways, like leaving food on my desk, asking indirect questions like “You’ve been sleeping?” instead of actually saying “Are you okay?”. And he’d probably give advice that actually works. I feel like I could go to him when I’ve messed up, and even if he scolds me a bit, he’d still help me fix things quietly. I like the thought of that, it's just chill.
And I imagine our day-to-day would be chill with coffee in the morning, small conversations about random stuff, and he wouldn’t push me to talk when I don’t feel like it, which I’d really appreciate. And he’d probably teach me things, too, like strategy, how to read people, maybe even play shogi with me (and win every time, annoyingly). I’d respect him naturally because of how composed he is, which matches how I am on most days.
Maybe the bad side is that his strictness might make me feel frustrated, small, or pressured sometimes, and might make me withdraw. And I imagine that his cold, disappointed silence could REALLY HURT more than anything.
Still, I think it's kinda balanced. I would remind him it’s okay to loosen up sometimes, while he’d help me build more structure and confidence. We’d have a calm sibling bond built on mutual respect and quiet understanding. I think we'd enjoy each other's company and talk about stuff and ground each other.
This one also made me think if he and Mochhi should swap places or tie.
Ran Haitani ★★★☆☆
First reaction? Pull his braids out. I’m sorry(not really).
Can he really be my brother?
Ran gives me that stylish, confident-ass energy that’s infuriating but also kind of impressive. I think part of me respects it, even if it pisses me off. It’s a love-hate thing, and something is thrilling about his presence, unpredictable and exciting, but also exhausting. I'll never really know what he’ll do next, and that’s part of the problem.
He’s annoying in the best and worst ways. Endless teasing, unsolicited fashion advice, dragging me to or inviting me to places without any explanation, and I would hate that, but somehow I let it slide.
Our dynamic would be a constant mix of playful banter, mock competitions, arguing over style choices, and teasing. But there’d also be rare chill moments like salons, shopping, window shopping, grabbing food, just talking whatever, and little times where it feels almost normal.
He’d constantly pull me out of my comfort zone, which can be exciting but also overwhelming. He has this intensity that could make me feel small sometimes, especially when he’s in a bad mood. I feel like he can be cold, scary, and intimidating, and I think home life with him could get heavy. I can imagine retreating to my room a lot just to escape his energy.
Despite all that, he’d recognize that I don’t compete for attention and that I’m okay doing my own thing. And I think he’d respect that, even if he doesn’t show it outright. There’d be disagreements, fights, arguments, and intense banter most days, but it wouldn’t be mean-spirited. Just playful, the kind that leaves me exhausted but laughing.
The good side of us being siblings is that there would be constant teasing and playful sarcasm, and it would rarely be boring. He’d expose me to new experiences and adventures I wouldn’t try on my own, while also being subtly protective underneath all thet drama. Life with him would feel exciting, unpredictable, and full of energy, which would keep me from getting too stuck in my quiet little bubble.
The bad side is that his energy could be overwhelming and intense, and he might make me feel smaller or insecure than I already feel. He can be cold, scary, or intimidating during bad moods, and sometimes, home life might feel heavy just because of his presence. Constant disagreements, fights, and arguments could get exhausting, and I’d probably spend a lot of time retreating to my room just to get some space. He probably won't like me.
Shion Madarame ★★★☆☆
Shion gives off that cocky confidence, like the kind of guy who talks big, laughs loud, and always acts like he’s got everything under control. He’s funny in this sloppy, oblivious way where sometimes I can’t even tell if he’s serious or just messing around, which makes him both entertaining and mildly frustrating.
He’d probably tease me nonstop, calling me out for being too quiet or too serious, but I know he’d look out for me in his own roundabout way. Definitely the type to say, “Come on, don’t be so uptight,” while dragging me into something dumb but weirdly fun.
I'd imagine our relationship would be full of playful bickering, small pranks, and inside jokes where we annoy each other just to get a reaction. There’d be arguments, laughter, and moments where I’m just staring at him like, “How are you even alive after doing that?” I’d also find him funny and exhausting all at once. I’d roll my eyes a lot, but secretly? I’d love whatever he brings in life. Even if he gets on my nerves, I’d probably miss him when he’s not around.
The good side of having Shion as my brother is that he’d constantly challenge me, push me out of my comfort zone, and make life way more exciting. He’s loyal in his own way, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. His carefree, reckless attitude would help me loosen up, and I think I’d learn to be a little more daring and spontaneous because of him.
The bad side is that he can be unpredictable and oblivious, which gets frustrating fast. He might not always notice when I need space or when his teasing actually stings. His cockiness could make me feel underestimated sometimes, and I’d probably get tired of cleaning up after his messes. There’d be days when his energy just drains me, and I’d end up hiding in my room or distancing myself from him until he finally shuts up.
Izana Kurokawa ★★☆☆☆
If Izana were my brother, he’d definitely be bossy and controlling, but not in a mean way, but more like he’s scared of losing people he cares about.
He’d definitely call me out on everything, correct me constantly, and probably tease me for being soft or too careful. I’d get a lot of lectures, which could get annoying, and yeah, we’d probably fight sometimes. I’d have to learn to read his moods because one minute he’s fine, the next… not so much.
He’s also the type to ruffle my hair when I do something right and then roast my haircut two seconds later. like, thanks?
Being with him would make me nervous sometimes, but I’d also feel safe. He’s reliable because if something goes wrong, he’s there. We’d have this weird understanding: comfortable in silence, okay with moods, no need to explain ourselves all the time. Just his presence would be enough. I’d be loyal to him for sure.
The bad side is: he can be emotionally unpredictable. His bossy, “do it my way” attitude might feel suffocating, and sometimes, instead of sorting things out, stuff would simmer until he snaps, leaving me quiet instead of saying anything back. I might end up going along with his rhythm, too much like hiding my frustration just to avoid conflict. It wouldn’t really be manipulation, but just two guarded people trying to figure out how to care for each other.
If we were together, I feel like nothing will change much, especially in a bad timeline. We might get worse together instead of helping each other out. It's like we're pushing ourselves deeper down.
I feel like I might become like him or just turn bad if it ended in a bad timeline.
These aren't ranked based on my favorites but more on relationship and compatibility, so I had to think about it for a bit. This was a fun one to think about. :D
“I wonder if she feels lonely at the top. But I know I feel lonely here, beneath her”
╰---•❥ Written by: Lucielitta
Request Prompt: Could you please do a one-shot of the twin sister of Shion? The reader is everything he isn't. Good at fighting, smart, and much more feared, and worst of all, caught Izana's interest. Romantic or not, this all makes Shion resent her, and she doesn't understand why. If you don't mind, maybe toss in a Mucho and Mochi appearance? I just think they deserve a little more love in the fandom. :)
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CW: Graphic violence, physical abuse/themes of domestic violence, blood, attempted murder, sibling rivalry, jealousy & resentment, delinquency/gang themes, profanity, lack of communication.
Genre: Angst, drama, bittersweet, tragedy, psychological
Characters: Madarame Shion, Madarame Sister, Kurokawa Izana, Mochizuki Kanji, Yasuhiro Mutou
WC: 21, 741
Request Portal
He was always beside her. His twin was equal in blood, unequal in his eyes. Close, but never truly close. Together, not by choice, but because they were born that way, two halves bound by the same cord.
Together, they're just two halves, born together on a humid spring night, the nurse saying it was like pulling two screaming little kittens out of the same sack. Shion first, wailing, fists swinging in the air, a tiny wrinkled face already scrunched into a snarl. Then her cry, quieter, her cry smaller, softer, swallowed under his.
Growing up, he was always beside her. Or rather, she was always behind him. He’d charge forward without looking back, kicking rocks at kids who insulted his hair, yelling curses at older boys who tried to push them around. She’d trail after him, her steps light, small hand clutching the edge of his shirt so she wouldn’t lose him in the unforgiving crowded streets.
The half was brash and loud, fists hitting before he could speak. When he was three, he broke a neighbor boy’s soft tooth with a toy for looking at him wrong. When he was five, he bruised his forehead so badly for trying to headbutt an older kid twice his size. Then, when he was seven, he kicked a man in the shin hard enough to make him limp for days, just because he said, “Good girls should hide.” Weirdo.
The other half was often quiet, unnoticed, polite to adults, invisible to kids. Her words echoing before her fists can.
She sat behind him in class, knees pressed together, scribbling notes with her small pencil while he snored into his folded arms, drooling onto the workbook they shared. Teachers rarely called on her, their eyes always drawn to Shion, either to scold him or sigh in exasperation. He liked that. He liked being noticed, even if it was for the wrong reasons.
They were twins, yes, but not equals.
Equal in blood and bone, but the world only saw the lion’s head, never its tail.
“Oi, don’t just stand there,”
He’d bark, yanking her wrist roughly as they walked to school, their shoes slapping cracked concrete.
“Stay behind me.”
She always did. Always behind him.
Not because she was weak, but because that was the shape of their lives. He was the lion’s head, the mane, the roar. She was the tail, flicking silently, unseen.
When they fought against rival kids, against older delinquents, he swung first, laughing with eyes burning wild gold in black. She didn’t like fighting, but she learned to anyway.
He never asked her if she was scared. He never noticed the bruises blooming on her skin from fists meant for him. He’d just ruffle her hair roughly after, brass knuckles clinking against her scalp, and say, “You’re tougher than you look,” before limping away, pride swelling in his chest like a wound.
But she was there.
Even when he broke a boy’s nose in fifth grade, she stood silent in the back, eyes half-lidded, watching with something like boredom or perhaps unspoken calculation.
When he got suspended for smashing a chair over another delinquent’s back, she sat outside the teacher’s office, on the floor, knees pulled to her chest in sleep, waiting.
And when they were nine, he shaved off half his hair with kitchen scissors and a razor because a boy from the next block said his hair made him look like a girl. He sat there on the rusted balcony railing, tufts of pale blonde falling onto peeling paint, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if performing surgery. She stood by the door, silent, holding the mirror he demanded. The wind lifted strands away like golden feathers.
“You look stupid,” she said quietly.
He sneered, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Shut up. I look strong.”
She chuckled and didn’t argue. He always looked strong to her, no matter how ridiculous he appeared. Because strength wasn’t his fists or how he was perceived by others. It was him, standing in front of her, unafraid.
She remembered once, in winter, when he punched a boy for calling him “a mad dog with fleas,” laughing at him like a joke, his knuckles split open on the ice-bitten curb. She ripped the hem off her uniform skirt to wrap his hand, tying it tightly despite his complaints.
“Doesn’t even hurt,” he hissed between his teeth, glaring at nothing.
“I know,” she said, knotting the fabric harder.
He flinched but didn’t pull away.
When the cold nights came and they slept on thin futons under one blanket, he’d roll onto his back, mouth hanging open in sleep, snoring loud enough to rattle the thin plywood walls. She’d lie curled beside him, watching the dark ceiling, listening to the distant hum of traffic and his chest rising and falling like he owned the air itself.
In those moments, he looked peaceful. Innocent. Almost like a boy instead of a creature born with violent hands.
Sometimes, he’d shift in his sleep, face turning towards her, and his hand would find hers under the blanket, gripping it tight with unconscious need.
And in the morning, he’d wake before her, he roughly flicked her forehead, and say, “Don’t cling to me in your sleep. Gross.”
She never replied. Just rubbed the red mark he left and made breakfast silently while he complained about miso paste clumps and missing pickled plums.
Because that was them.
Together, not by choice, but by birth. Bound by blood.
Two halves, one loud and burning, the other quiet and watching, never quite fitting, but never apart.
And neither of them thought to question it. They never spoke about feelings. He never asked if she was okay. She never asked why he bled every week.
Because what was there to ask?
Because questions were for people who needed answers, and they didn’t need answers. They just needed to keep moving, keep walking down cracked concrete pavement, and keep fighting kids who looked at them wrong. Because if she asked, he might answer. And if he replied, the world they knew might crack open like a bone under brass knuckles.
And even now.
They’re older now. Teenagers with dreams and scabbed knuckles, outfits that smell like sweat and metal, always half-washed because they forget to hang them out to dry before dawn.
Shion walks ahead of her on the cracked streets, brass knuckles swinging from his belt loop. His hair is long and pale blonde, strands swept messily to the right, catching the dim street lamps like tarnished gold. The left side of his head is shaved clean, revealing the black ink of his signature tattoo curling down behind his ear, disappearing into his collar like dark roots under pale soil. Two silver piercings glint against his ears with every swaggering step, and when he turns to glance back at her, the small scar at the leftmost edge of his mouth deepens into a crooked smirk, splitting his face with feral confidence.
She trails after him, hands shoved in her skirt pockets, half her fringe hiding one eye a little bit as she watches his back.
“Oi, hurry up,” he barks, not even looking back.
She doesn’t quicken her pace, just yawns into her fist. The street lamps flicker above, moths suiciding against the hot glass, burning up without protest.
He’s grown taller than her, broader at the shoulders. The lion’s mane is blooming, she thinks absently, flicking a pebble across the gutter with her shoe.
At the corner, two boys are smoking under a rusted traffic mirror, their laughter curling into the humid night. One whistles low when he sees her and says something about skirts and knees, and soft little sisters.
Shion stops mid-step. Turns. His eyes glint beneath the dark glow like a stray dog’s, wild, dangerous, unthinking. She barely exhales before he’s there, fist slamming into the boy’s face so hard his cigarette flicked into the darkness like a dying firefly. The other boy shouts and tries to grab Shion, but she’s already moved, twisting his wrist back sharply until he yelps and drops his lighter onto the wet asphalt.
“Don’t touch him,” she says softly, almost kindly. Her voice is thin smoke in the neon dark.
“Fucking bastards,” Shion snarls, rolling his shoulders as he steps back. Blood flicks off his brass knuckles like raindrops. He glances at her and smirks. “What’re you looking at, huh?”
She shrugs, flicking stray ash off her sleeve. “Nothing. Your hair’s a mess.”
“Shut up,” he snorts, wiping sweat off his forehead with his wrist. His eyes linger on her for a heartbeat longer than usual. Checking for fear or hurt, maybe. Seeing none, he turns away with a scoff. “Let’s go.”
They walk on. The city exhales cigarette smoke and cheap ramen steam into the night sky above them. Stray cats hiss and slink between vending machines. He kicks an empty can down the street and watches it clatter away, echoing through the quiet.
“Oi.”
“Mm?”
“Buy me yakisoba tomorrow,” he says, voice casually like he didn’t just beat a boy half to death.
She chuckles softly. “You have money?”
He clicks his tongue. “You’re buying it, dumbass.”
“Mm.”
He walks on ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, back straight, hair swinging gently against his neck. She watches the blood drying on his brass knuckles tangled on his belt loop, watches his shoulders tense and relax as he stretches his arms behind his head, yawning loud enough to scare a pigeon off a power line.
And at home, he showers first, water dripping down his chest in clean rivulets as he comes out in his loose shorts, towel slung around his neck. He sniffs the air and scowls. “You cooking that bitter melon shit again?”
“It’s healthy, I like it, and I bought the ingredients,” she murmurs, stirring the pot with her chopsticks. “Eat it or starve.”
He glares at her, and it's on the tatami with a loud groan, stretching his legs out until his heel bumps her knee. She doesn’t move away.
“Your face looks stupid today,” he mutters, picking at the lint on his shorts.
“So does yours. Oh, wait, we look the same,” she replies, flicking his forehead with the chopstick tip. He yelps, smacks her hand away, and she giggles under her breath, the sound slipping out before she can swallow it down.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, cheeks pink as he rubs the reddening spot. “Fucking annoying.”
She ladles rice into his bowl and sets it down in front of him with a quiet clink. He scoffs but starts eating immediately, stuffing his mouth with too-hot rice until his eyes water.
“Idiot,” she murmurs, setting her bowl down beside him. Their shoulders brush, but neither moves away.
In the quiet of their small home, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, she eats silently while he slurps noisily beside her, elbowing her once when she reaches for the soy sauce.
They didn’t talk about the fight earlier. Don’t talk about the blood or the trembling boy or the way her wrist still hurts from twisting too hard. They don’t talk about tomorrow or next year, or what will happen when they grow up.
They’re just two halves sharing the same bitter melon soup, steam curling around their tired faces, eyelids heavy with unspoken words. A lion’s head and a flicking tail, bound by blood, sitting cross-legged on cracked tatami in the belly of a city that never sleeps.
Even now, Shion treats her like she’s just part of the world around him. Always there, always following, without him even thinking about it.
He doesn’t think about treating her any particular way. She’s just there. His twin, yes, but never someone he regards with focused awareness. She exists in his peripheral vision, part of his world, like telephone poles he leans against to chill or vending machines he kicks when they swallow his coins.
And when they walk together, he strides ahead with loud scuffing footsteps, never turning to check if she’s still behind him. He simply assumes she is. If he hears her shoes lag too far, he’ll bark, “Oi, hurry up!” over his shoulder, not out of care but because his world feels unbalanced without her presence orbiting him.
He yanks her wrist when crossing busy streets, his grip bruising, uncaring if her bones grind under his fingers. “Watch where you’re going, dumbass,” he mutters after, eyes glaring at honking cars as if ready to tear them apart. But he never says, “Are you okay?”
When they eat meals together, he steals food off her plate without asking, grumbles about bitter melon, and demands she give him the last fried shrimp. If she flicks his forehead in retaliation, he snarls dramatically like a kicked dog, rubbing the spot with theatrical offense before flicking her back twice as hard, satisfied only when she winces.
He insults her casually and calls her dumbass, idiot, shrimp, and half-pint. Tells her she looks stupid when she ties her hair up, and sneers when she fusses with her uniform hem. But if someone else insults her, he turns feral, fists already rising with bloodlust. Because no one calls his sister an idiot except him.
When he’s angry after losing a fight or getting picked on by someone so small, he vents it on her in small, biting ways. Knocks her chopsticks out of her hands at dinner, shoves her shoulder hard enough to make her stumble when they pass each other in narrow hallways, and snarls curses under his breath with his eyes turned away. If she looks hurt, it pisses him off more, he’ll spit out harsher words just to bury that uncomfortable twist in his chest. Regret is not a language Shion understands, only irritation at feeling anything other than pride or rage.
When he’s happy, he becomes impossibly loud, boasting about how he beat up three punks in a row, pantomiming punches in the air like a deranged lion cub practicing roars. He’ll ruffle her hair roughly in his excitement, palm smacking her skull, brass knuckles cold against her scalp. “You shoulda seen me!” he yells, grinning so wide the small scar at the corner of his mouth cracks open faintly, threatening to bleed. “Fucking awesome, yeah?”
She never answers enthusiastically. Just nods with that half-lidded gaze, murmuring, “Yeah, strong as always.” He never notices the fatigue in her voice, only hears the words feeding his ego. Then he stomps away, chest puffed, not realizing her compliment was only half-true.
He never asks if she’s eaten. Never notices when she’s limping from an old bruise, or when her knuckles split open in a fight meant for his glory. But if she coughs too hard on cold mornings, he’ll shove half his scarf into her face with a growled, “Don’t die before I beat your ass again, idiot.” Then walks ahead, cheeks pink from the chill.
When they sleep under the same thin blanket in winter, he rolls onto his back, mouth open, snoring like a drowning bear. But sometimes, in the dark, his hand finds hers under the blanket, gripping tight with unconscious need. He never remembers it in the morning. Only wakes with drool on his cheek, flicks her forehead hard, and says, “Don’t cling to me in your sleep, idiot.”
When she fights beside him, he ignores her entirely, throwing punches with wild laughter, trusting her to guard his blind spots without question. He never watches her technique. Never praises her hits. Never realizes she fights smarter than he. But if she falls, he sees red instantly, swinging until his knuckles crack and blood spatters across the concrete like red rain. Afterward, he’ll kick her lightly with his boot tip. “Get up. Don’t lie around like that,” he mutters, glaring at her as if daring her to argue. His chest heaves with unspoken relief until she stands, brushing dirt off her scraped knees.
In moments of his rare softness, he treats her like a silent extension of his soul. Throws his jacket over her head when the rain falls too suddenly. Tosses her a can of warm coffee from a vending machine without looking at her. Slaps the back of her head when she zones out, only to grumble quietly, “Stay awake. Don’t let punks sneak up on you.”
But mostly, Shion treats her the way he knows how.
Because to Shion, she is his twin. His tail. Always there. Never needing to be seen to be known. Never needing to be heard to be real.
And he loves her, in the only way he knows how:
With bruises for blessings, insults for affection, and fists for protection.
And in his mind, that is enough.
Meanwhile, she treats him like he’s always been there because he has. Because there’s never been a version of her life without him in it.
She doesn’t look up to him the way others do. She doesn’t fear him, either. To her, he’s just Shion – her brother, her twin, the boy who used to chew on her hidden snacks in elementary school and fell asleep snoring on her homework.
When he yells at her to hurry up, she doesn’t flinch. She just keeps walking at her own pace, knowing he’ll slow down eventually, grumbling under his breath about how annoying she is.
When he calls her names like idiot, dumbass, shrimp- she doesn’t take it to heart. She rolls her eyes, sighs, and flicks his forehead lightly if he’s close enough. Sometimes, she’ll mutter back, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” in a bored voice. It annoys him more than if she yelled back.
She cooks for him because she knows he’ll just eat convenience store bread otherwise. She packs his extra rice balls when they have early fights, slipping them into his pockets without telling him. He finds them later, scoffs, and eats them anyway.
When he gets into fights and comes home bleeding, she cleans his cuts without a word. He complains about the sting and curses at her for being rough, but she ignores it, tying the bandages tighter than necessary so he remembers to be careful next time.
She never asks him why he fights so much. Never tells him to stop. She knows he wouldn’t listen. Instead, she stands nearby when he picks fights with older boys, watching silently. If he loses, she pulls him up by the arm and helps him limp home. If he wins, she watches him grin with bloody teeth and doesn’t say anything, just picks up his brass knuckles if he drops them.
When he’s sulking after a loss, she doesn’t comfort him. She just sits nearby, eating quietly, letting him rant about how unfair everything is. Sometimes, she’ll nod along with his curses, even if she doesn’t agree. Sometimes, she’ll say, “You’re being stupid,” and he’ll throw a crumpled candy wrapper at her face. But he always calms down faster with her there.
She knows his moods before he says a word. Knows when he’s about to snap, when he’s about to laugh, when he’s hiding that deep bruise under his shirt. She never calls him out on it. Never makes him talk. She just moves around his moods like water around a rock, unbothered but always aware.
When he’s soft with her in his rough way, she doesn’t acknowledge it. When he throws his scarf at her face in the cold, calling her an idiot for shivering, she just wraps it around her neck and keeps walking. When he buys her canned coffee with his leftover change, she drinks it without comment, placing the half-full can quietly beside his when he’s not looking.
She doesn’t treat him like a hero. She doesn’t treat him like a villain. She treats him like he’s hers, hers to tolerate, to take care of, to fight beside.
Because to her, he’s just Shion. He’s her brother. Her twin. The boy who’s always walked a little too far ahead, the boy she’s spent her life following without complaint.
And that’s enough for her, even in days when they don’t see each other eye to eye, they still fight together often. Against rival gangs, against older boys in cheap cologne and knock-off leather, against men who call them children with condescension before spitting blood and teeth onto cracked asphalt.
Although the fights are never equal.
He fights to prove himself. She fights to survive.
“Oi, stay back,” he would snap, spitting a glob of blood onto the ground, brass knuckles slick with someone else’s blood and tears.
She doesn’t reply, only adjusts her grip on the broken stick she wields like a staff. Her palm aches where the wood splintered, but she says nothing, eyes tracking the boy limping away, clutching his stomach.
They walk home in silence, shoes scuffing wet pavement, city lights reflecting in oily puddles. He breathes heavily beside her, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, eyes unfocused with adrenaline and fading rage.
“Fucking annoying punks,” he mutters, his voice thick with blood. “Think they’re so tough.”
She hums softly, neither agreeing nor denying. He doesn’t pay attention or listen much anyway. Her shoulder brushes his as they turn down the alley behind the closed udon shop, where stray cats yowl under dented dumpsters. The sour stink of rotting broth clings to the humid air.
She can’t help but notice, their silences have been sharper. No longer the comfortable quiet of two people used to each other’s presence. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand him. If only he’d talk to her more instead of snapping, maybe she’ll know…
He just snaps at her more. Calls her useless when she hesitates. Shoves her hard enough to bruise when she blocks his path to a fight he’s spoiling for.
She doesn’t push back. Just steadies herself, flicks stray hair from her eyes, and continues walking.
But even he sees the small twitches in her jaw now. Sees the way her fingers curl into fists at her sides before relaxing. Sees, but does not understand.
At dinner, he snarls when she serves bitter melon stir fry again.
“Fucking gross,” he spits, pushing the plate away so hard the chopsticks clatter to the tatami.
“Don’t eat, then,” she murmurs, turning back to the sink to wash the pans. Her voice is as calm as always, but her shoulders are tight, blades sharp under her thin shirt.
He glares at her back, teeth grinding. Something twists in his gut, not guilt, never guilt, but a prickling irritation that she sounds so unaffected. Like, his anger is inconsequential. Like, he is inconsequential.
Later that night, as they lie on their futons under the thin summer blanket, he stares at the water-stained ceiling, sweat cooling on his chest.
“Hey,” he says into the dark.
She doesn’t reply, but he hears the small shift of her blanket as she turns towards him, waiting.
He swallows thickly, words clogging his throat like phlegm. His fingers twitch against the tatami, itching to reach out, to flick her forehead, to grab her wrist, to do anything except speak.
“…Nothing,” he mutters finally, rolling onto his side and facing the peeling wall. “Go to sleep.”
He hears her sigh, soft and disappointed, but she says nothing else.
Japan, 2005.
Things were changing fast in this city.
Shion could feel it in his bones, buzzing under his skin like a fever he didn’t want to break. Izana was gathering them, Mochizuki, Mucho, the Haitani brothers, rounding up the core S-62 generation members. They were making something bigger than any of them could’ve built alone. Tenjiku.
A goal they’ve been reaching for years, to control Japan’s underworld.
He felt closer to something real for once. Like the punches he threw meant something even more now.
He sat on the cracked rooftop of their apartment building, brass knuckles dangling from his fingers like always, head tilted back to watch a smoke of a nearby fire curl into the washed-out dawn sky. The city felt somewhat quiet this early, just the hum of vending machines below and the distant grind of a truck somewhere in the next block.
“Oi,” he grunted, without looking back.
She stood near the rusted metal door, hair tied up messily, a small backpack slung over her shoulder. The same skirt, the same black socks with one slipping lower than the other, the same blank half-lidded gaze fixed on him.
“Don’t just stand there,” he muttered. “Come here.”
She walked over, her shoes scuffing the dirt and bird shit crusted on the rooftop.
“You know what’s happening, right?” he asked, squinting at her.
She blinked slowly. “Tenjiku.”
He smirked, his scar twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Izana’s building something huge. Bigger than Black Dragon, bigger than anything these punk-ass districts got.”
She didn’t reply, just shifted her weight slightly, waiting for his point.
He rolled his eyes. “Tch. Whatever. Listen, they’re forming quickly. Real ranks. Executives, Heavenly Kings, all that shit. I’m gonna be one of them.”
She raised an eyebrow minutely. “Heavenly Kings?”
“Damn right,” he snorted, pride puffing up in his chest like a feral cat fluffing its fur. “Izana gave me a spot. Mochi’s in, Kakucho’s the head. Ran too. Rindou, Mucho, Hanma, Koko – they’re all in. It’s almost done.”
She nodded slightly. His eyes narrowed at her lack of reaction.
“Oi, you get what this means for us?” he barked, leaning forward, brass knuckles clinking as his fingers curled tight. “We ain’t gonna be no bottom-feeder punks anymore. We’re gonna run Yokohama. Kawasaki. Kanto. Fuck, all of Japan if Izana wants it.”
“I know,” she murmured. Her voice was quiet, unbothered as if they were talking about grocery lists and not gang territories.
He scowled. “Don’t just ‘I know’ me, idiot. You need to understand. Things are gonna change. I’m bringing you in.”
Her eyes finally flickered up to meet his, confusion faint in her dark gaze. “Into… Tenjiku? Me? Isn’t-”
“Who the fuck else would watch your back?” he snapped, rolling his shoulders with irritation. “You’re just a shrimp with decent hits. Ain’t nobody gonna take you in if not for me.”
She didn’t argue. She rarely did. He didn’t know if that annoyed him or comforted him.
“Recruitment ain’t just recruitment,” he continued, standing up and stretching his arms over his head until his back cracked. “It means I’m sponsoring you. You’ll be under me. My division. My responsibility.”
She tilted her head. “So I’m your subordinate.”
“Yeah,” he grinned, teeth sharp and crooked. “You’ll follow my orders. Fight when I tell you to fight, stand down when I say so. Got it?”
“Mm.”
He flicked her forehead, hard enough to make her head jerk back. “Say it properly.”
“Yess, Shion,” she said quietly, rubbing the reddening spot.
He felt something hot bloom in his chest at her obedient tone, something that felt like pride but stung like irritation.
It was a first for her to be in a gang, one with her brother, too. Not even in Black Dragon was she able to be in, not like she wants to. She wondered how this would be for the two of them. Just two relatives in a gang, surely nothing will go wrong, right?
Sure, she's heard some whispers and murmurs of delinquents who are siblings; their relationship didn't strengthen like how their fists would, only melted their hearts like a candle swallowed by darkness, and it only tore them apart. It was unfair, they'd say, it felt like everyone was playing favorites while the other remained their shadow. Always.
She doesn't care much about that. Surviving is what she's thinking. How they'll get through another day.
She's a girl, she knows that. She's too aware of it, the dangers, the expectations, and the violence it brings in knowing this. It's not really common for girls to be delinquents. They're either just some girl, a punk's girlfriend, hiding behind them for protection, forced to become theirs, or a wannabe. Shion wouldn't really want that for her. That's why she's always beside him, he says, his twin, his other half, but in the eyes, not really his equal.
“Stay behind me,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth as he walked forward. They've hit a thousand steps and have arrived at the hideout. She didn’t reply, just fell into step, her shadow folding seamlessly into his.
"Yo, Izana!" He swaggered up to Izana, bowing his head slightly, eyes bright with feral pride. “Brought her like you asked.”
“Hm...” Izana’s gaze slid from Shion to her, eyes narrowing faintly with mild curiosity, assessing her. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown, just gave a small nod.
“Don’t just stand there,” Shion barked at her again, cutting her off before she could open her mouth for herself, shoving her lightly forward. “Introduce yourself properly, idiot.”
She stepped closer, her shoes scraping against the coarse gravel that littered Tenjiku’s hideout ground. The air smelled of rusted rebar and ash soaked into concrete, heavy and metallic, pressing down on her lungs like a quiet curse.
“I’m Madarame,” she said softly, her voice thin but unwavering. “Shion’s sister.”
“Twin,” Shion added quickly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face at her omission. “She’s my twin.”
Izana watched her in silence, his gaze slow and consuming, pale yet striking eyes reflecting back the dull grey of dawn clouds behind her. She didn’t look away, didn’t blink, just stood still as if waiting for a judgment she’d already accepted long ago.
Izana hummed faintly, as if in thought. “I see.”
He turned away slightly, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, the motion making his earrings glint like small cold moons against his light hair. “Is she worth the spot? Are you?” he asked, not looking at Shion, his words drifting lazily out across the rooftop like ash on stagnant water.
Shion bristled. “Course she is. She ain’t as strong as me, but she’s quick. Knows how to stay in line. Once we're complete, I'll show you.”
“That so?” Izana tilted his chin just enough to cast his eyes back at her, gaze unblinking. It's a first that a girl is in a male-dominated gang, one in which their goal is bigger than others. “Don’t fuck up,” Izana said finally, his voice quiet and empty of inflection. He turned fully now, walking away with steps so light they barely disturbed the silence. “We’re not babysitting deadweight.”
Shion let out a breath he’d been holding when Izana left, his chest deflating with a quiet wheeze. “Tch. See? Easy,” he muttered, glaring down at her as if daring her to disagree. “Don’t embarrass me. Got it?”
"Hm," She nodded, her hair falling forward to hide her eyes. “Got it.”
“Good.” He slapped her lightly on the back of the head, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make her sway forward a step.
She scoffed, slapping away his hand lightly, fixing the back of her hair. "Give me a minute. Let me explore this place for a bit before we head home. Looks nice tonight, comfy."
Shion rolled his eyes dramatically, his brass knuckles clinking against his belt loop as he stretched his arms overhead with a yawn. “Whatever. Don’t get lost and don’t fuck with anyone if they're here,” he grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual bite, worn down by exhaustion and half-hearted relief.
She walked slowly, half-lidded eyes scanning peeling posters along the walls – advertisements for cheap karaoke, sleazy hostess clubs, and calligraphy for old ramen shops long closed down, their phone numbers faded into illegibility. The air smelled of stale smoke and sweat, undercut with disinfectant from some half-hearted cleaning hours ago.
She turned a corner and paused when a broad shadow moved ahead.
A man towered over most boys his age she'd seen, broad-shouldered and thick-armed, hair styled in a rattail mohawk, shaved on the sides with a braid that reached down to his neck. His shadow swallowed the narrow corridor where she walked.
She almost walked past him without seeing him, too focused on counting how many ceiling lights were out this. Four. Always four. Or five. Maybe then the hall would finally collapse.
“Oi,” a deep voice rumbled, low and slow like stones grinding in a riverbed.
She paused mid-step, glancing up through strands of hair falling across her eyes. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one ankle propped casually against peeling paint. His brown eyes glinted with mild amusement, like a bear who’d just found a cub in its territory and wasn’t sure whether to pat it on the head or bite its throat out of curiosity.
“You’re Shion’s sister, Madarame, yeah?” he asked, voice vibrating faintly through the floor. She could almost feel it in her soles.
She blinked once, tilting her head slightly. He must've recognized her easily when she had Shion's features. “Yes.”
He studied her silently for a moment. She didn’t squirm under his gaze. Just shifted her weight to her other foot and waited, eyes half-lidded with detached patience. It was the same look she gave vending machines when they refused to give back her change. Blank, unconcerned, faintly annoyed.
“Didn’t think you’d look so… normal,” Mochi drawled finally, scratching the back of his thick neck, fingers digging into his skin.
"You are?" She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, looking at him. Silence pooled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. The humid air smelled faintly of mold, cigarette smoke, and industrial soap that never quite erased the stink of boys sweating testosterone into cracked tiles.
“Mocchi.”
“Call me Mocchi,” he replied simply, voice low and warm, rumbling from his broad chest. He didn’t offer a hand to shake; delinquents rarely did. His brown eyes studied her lazily under the flickering fluorescent light, pupils dilated just enough to make him look faintly sleepy. Or bored. Or quietly assessing.
“You fight?” he asked, voice curling slightly upward at the end, making it less of a demand and more of a genuine question. Like he was asking if she liked sweet corn or karaage.
"Tch, obviously. Why else would I be here?"
He barked out a low laugh, echoing up the hallway, cracking his fingers with a smile. “Show me.”
She blinked again. “Here?”
He rolled his shoulders, the seams of his shirt stretching over bulked muscle. “Nah. Too cramped. Come on.”
He pushed off the wall with easy force and started walking away. She followed without question, their footsteps echoing mismatched, his heavy thuds, hers quiet pads like a cat trailing a rhino. Down the stairs, out the side door, into the concrete lot behind the abandoned pachinko parlor.
The air was cooler outside. Smelled of rust, summer sweat, and cigarette butts crushed into gravel.
Mochi turned to face her, cracking his neck side to side until it sounded like thick branches snapping under ice. He grinned, wide and easy, his teeth surprisingly even for a guy who'd get punched in fights.
“Hit me,” he said casually, gesturing at himself with one thick hand.
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“'Cause I wanna see this girl.”
She sighed softly, slipping her bag off and placing it on the ground beside the rusted dumpster. Straightened, rolled her shoulders back, and shifted her stance. Her fringe fell from her eyes as she looked up at him fully for the first time.
He raised an eyebrow, grin curling further. “Oh? Got a look in your eyes now, huh? Let’s see it then.”
She moved.
Not loudly, not violently, not like Shion’s wild swings that roared their intention before impact. She stepped in, quick and silent, twisting at the hip with her full weight as her fist slammed into his solar plexus with brutal precision.
Thud.
A hollow, meaty sound, like a butcher punching into a hanging carcass.
Mocchi grunted faintly, eyes widening for half a second before his grin returned, sharper now, edged with delight. “Fuck,” he chuckled, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “You’re strong for a shrimp.”
She stepped back, breathing evenly, shaking out her hand once. “Your abs are thick.”
He laughed louder at that, the sound booming off the abandoned pachinko’s stained walls, sending stray pigeons fluttering up into the dark blue-tinged sky.
“I like you,” he declared, still chuckling as he flicked her forehead lightly with his massive finger, a gesture that should’ve snapped her neck back but somehow only made her hair flutter. “You’re way more interesting than Shion makes you sound.”
She rubbed her forehead absentmindedly. Probably used to the flicking because of Shion, reminded her of him. “Mm.”
“You’re under his division, right?” Mocchi asked, folding his arms again as he leaned back against the dumpster, casual as if chatting with an old friend.
“Yes.”
“Hah. Poor girl.”
She blinked slowly, unsure if it was an insult to Shion or pity for her. Maybe both.
Mocchi glanced at her again, the grin softening into something more thoughtful. “If he gets too annoying, come find me. I’ll knock some sense into him.”
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded, laughing softly. “Okay.”
He ruffled her hair roughly, palm engulfing her skull, laughing lightly. “Good girl.”
She frowned faintly but didn’t duck away.
“Go on, let's have a proper fight next time,” he said, jerking his chin back towards the building. “Don’t wanna make your brother think I’m recruiting his little tail behind his back.”
She picked up her bag and walked away without looking back. Behind her, Mocchi watched her small form disappear through the rusted door, his grin lingering.
And somewhere on the third floor, sitting on a cracked windowsill with brass knuckles clenched tight in his fist, Shion watched the whole exchange through half-lidded eyes, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw popped like a gun cocking back, ready to fire.
Lately, time felt sticky these days, clinging to her skin like sweat under an unwashed collar, heavy with the heat of approaching summer.
And it didn’t take long for rot to crawl its way into the cracks. Maybe three weeks, give or take a few nights of half-sleep and busted knuckles. Long enough for bruises to yellow out beneath cheap sleeves, for whispers to crawl through the cracks of Tenjiku’s filthy rooms like roaches drunk on gutter light.
Of course, she still remained under Shion’s division. By Shion’s choice, Izana’s disinterest, and fate’s quiet indifference.
At first, the subordinates barely looked at her. Just a girl, they wouldn't call her a joke- it would look bad on them, she's more of a shadow trailing behind the Mad Dog, silent and unnoticed. Tenjiku’s new recruits laughed behind their hands, mocking the girl Shion dragged in by her wrist. She didn’t react. Just kept her half-lidded gaze fixed somewhere beyond them, as if staring at their future bones ground into gravel under her shoes and fists.
But time revealed what Shion’s eyes refused to see. Little by little.
It started small. During sparring drills in the abandoned pachinko hall, where old machines lined the walls like broken teeth that felt cramped, she moved quietly between them, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. Boys twice her size swung fists at her ribs, and she twisted, slid, stepped in – thud. Her knuckles buried themselves into their guts with precise violence, folding them to the sticky floor like collapsing scaffolds.
No wild laughter. No taunts. No roaring pride.
Just movement. Quick, silent, efficient. Like a shadow flickering before the light.
Shion watched from the side, perched on a rusted bar stool, brass knuckles clinking faintly as he spun them around his index finger, jaw tense. “Fucking hurry up!” he’d bark when they winced under her blows. “Don’t go easy on her just ‘cause she’s a chick, idiots!”
They didn’t. She just made them look weak anyway.
It became a daily occurrence, involving sparring, training, drills, and fights that frequently happened more often than she was used to. Exhausted, she couldn't say much about it to him or anyone. This gang was vicious and unforgiving at most. A newbie she was, the only girl dragged into a Kingdom that could crush her if they could, was overwhelming at times.
Despite it all, she still stood up and raised her clenched fists that were meant for a girl like her, like the other, to clutch a schoolbook or pull sweaters tight against autumn winds. Fists that should’ve smelled of sweet lotion and pencil graphite, not blood and rusted iron.
But they clenched anyway.
They clenched even when the skin split open like thin fruit skin, dark juice pooling in the lines of her palms, dripping down her wrists to stain the cracked cement beneath her.
She raised them again.
Not like Shion did, with roaring laughter and swinging wild like an unchained dog, but quietly. Silent. Like a girl raising her hands in prayer, even though she knew it wouldn’t change anything.
“Hey…” one of the men mumbled, glancing over at Shion sitting slouched on a broken pachinko stool nearby, brass knuckles clinking rhythmically against the metal bar he spun them on. “Boss, she’s bleedin’. Maybe she should—”
“Shut up,” Shion snarled, not looking up, his hair hiding his eye. “Keep going.”
She watched Tetsu through the hair falling over her lashes. Her arms trembled faintly from exhaustion, bruises blooming across her forearms like rotting lotus petals floating on a stagnant pond.
“Come on,” she said softly, her voice raspy and dry as rust scraping steel. “Hit me.”
It went on again and again, like tomorrow was today.
After drills, when they sprawled in exhausted piles across the still ground with their heads moving in motions, sucking down lukewarm bottled tea, she sat cross-legged in the far corner, unbothered, sipping water quietly while Shion ranted about upcoming raids and territory disputes.
No one spoke to her. At first.
But bruises bloomed on their bodies in shapes only she could make; purple fingerprints along throats, thin cuts where her nails scraped skin, deep greenish blotches spreading under ribs. They started glancing at her when Shion spoke, eyes flicking between him and her like they weren’t sure where the real order was coming from.
And Shion noticed.
One night, during patrol along an underpass, two of his subordinates, Koji and Naru, walked behind them, whispering too loudly under the rumble of traffic above.
“—I’m telling you, she’s scary. Did you see the way she took down Takuya today? Shion didn’t even step in—”
Naru’s face smashed sideways into the concrete wall, nose cracking under Shion’s fist. Blood sprayed in a fine arc across moss-stained cement, dripping down like rusted rain.
“Oi,” Shion growled, voice low and trembling with something uglier than rage. “You got something to say, say it to my face.”
Koji froze, staring at Naru’s limp form sliding down the wall, smearing red across grey. Shion’s brass knuckles gleamed under the dim lights, casting his face in feral shadow. His eyes burned dark under his pale fringe, mouth twisted in a snarl so sharp his scar split faintly, a dark bead of blood welling at the corner of his lips.
She watched silently from where she stood a few steps away, her eyes blank, almost bored, but a faint tightness coiled around her face. Her hands curled and uncurled by her sides, but she said nothing. Intervening only made him worse anyway, she learned.
“Get up,” Shion barked at Naru’s slumped body, his tone ragged. “You wanna run your mouth like that, stand the fuck up and say it again.”
Naru whimpered faintly, blood bubbling at his nostrils as he pushed himself upright with trembling arms. His eyes flicked to her once, desperate, confused. She stared back, empty as a gutter in rain.
“Shion,” she murmured softly, “let’s go.”
His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing, face twitching with rage. “Shut up. Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
She didn’t reply. Just turned away and started walking down the underpass, her footsteps echoing softly in the humid tunnel.
Behind her, she heard Koji dragging Naru along, Shion’s labored breathing scraping the silence apart, brass knuckles clinking with every shaking step he took to catch up.
The next day, in the hideout's hall, she sparred against three at once. Shion ordered it.
“Don’t hold back,” he barked, eyes glittering with feverish aggression as he leaned against the broken pachinko machine, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Beat her down. Make her remember who the fuck she is.”
They came at her fast, adrenaline-fueled, fists swinging with the desperate ferocity of cornered dogs. She slipped between them, pivoted, elbow to chin, knee to stomach, foot sweeping out ankles.
Thud. Thud. Crack!
They fell, one by one, their groans echoing in the hollow chamber. She stood breathing lightly, hair stuck to her damp forehead, knuckles raw and tinged faintly pink. Her half-lidded gaze flicked to Shion, unreadable.
His chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths, jaw grinding so hard a faint popping echoed from his temple or his jaw. His face looked like rage. “Again,” he hissed.
But they couldn’t stand. The boys lay there, broken under her violence, eyes glazed with pain and a new sharp fear. Fear not of Shion, the roaring lion, but of his tail, flicking silently behind, hiding sharp teeth in the closed quiet of her strikes.
As days and weeks passed, she was getting stronger, that’s what everyone said. Not just tougher with her fists, but sharper in the way she moved. Her hits landed with purpose, her head stayed clear even when the fight turned messy, like she wasn’t just using muscle, but thinking three steps ahead while everyone else was still swinging blindly. Smart, too. Too smart for fights that only needed fists. Smart enough to scare them in ways brute strength never could. In this gang, where building power and influence is a goal to reach for, strength isn't the only way to get to the top; her intelligence, too, can be used for something better. She has potential, useful than they think she'd be. If only they moved her up—
"SHUT IT!"
There was no warning. She just walked up to him, words ready on her tongue, something small, something stupid, and before she could even blink, his fingers were twisted in her collar, dragging her close, so close she could see every trembling lash shadowing his eyes. Even she froze. Shock bloomed cold and silent in her chest. She hadn’t expected this. Not from him. Not like this.
“Stop that shit!” he hissed, his breath ragged, eyes wide with something unrecognizable. Shion grabbed her by the collar and slammed her back against the hideout's room wall. His fist clenched her collar tighter, fabric twisting under his trembling grip. “Stop…showing off.”
She blinked slowly, sweat dripping from her fringe into her eyes. Her voice came out soft, echoing between them like a distant radio static. Panting slightly from the rigorous sparring session she endured earlier. The sickly feeling of her sweat clinging to her skin made this even more unbearable to be in.
“I’m not... I'm not showing off.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” His brass knuckles scraped her collarbone as his grip slipped. “You think you’re better than me now, huh? That what this is? You trying to humiliate me in front of my own fucking men?!”
Her lips parted slightly, confusion flickering across her face before being swallowed by calm. “Shion… I wasn’t –”
He shoved her harder against the wall, enough for her skull to thud dully against peeling paint. The impact trembled down her spine like a cracked gong struck with a rotten hammer.
“SHUT UP!” he screamed, voice cracking at the edges. “Just… just shut the fuck up.”
His breathing heaved raggedly in the space between them. Her quiet exhale ghosted across his cheek. For a moment, neither moved. His eyes searched hers wildly, desperately, for what he didn’t know.
"What..."
And her eyes scanned over his, confusion blurring the lines of what they had left between them, then the blood smudged on her cheek. Hearts hitting against ribs louder than the rolling thunder out within these walls. So loud that they couldn't hear their hearts speaking for each other in their ways, only feeling the rage and confusion between them, like a barrier they see but only feel.
"Shion—"
Shion’s head snapped to the side so fast his neck cracked, eyes wild and glassy. One of his juniors stood there, half-hidden by the crooked sliding door, eyes flickering between the two of them with an expression that didn’t know what it was allowed to feel - fear, confusion, disgust, pity. His cheap bleach job was growing out, black roots eating away at pale straw hair. Sweat shone on his temples under flickering fluorescent light.
“The fuck do you want?!” Shion barked, spit flying. The grip on his sister’s collar tightened reflexively, twisting the fabric against her throat until it cut into her skin. She barely flinched.
The boy flinched instead, shoulders curling in like he was bracing for a blow. His voice wavered, cracking like old wood under slow fire. “I… uh… Izana-san… he’s calling for you. For… for both of you.”
Silence throbbed in the space after his words, heavy and sticky like black sap.
Shion’s chest heaved, nostrils flaring. The veins in his neck stood out like dying worms against mottled skin. For a moment, it seemed he didn’t hear, didn’t understand, eyes fixed blankly on the junior like he was looking through him at something far away, something rotting in his mind.
Then, abruptly, he released her.
Her body slid down the wall, knees folding under her like broken hinges until her shins caught her weight. The dusty floor bit cold into her skin through thin socks. She didn’t move to stand, only lifted her hand to her throat where red marks bloomed like ghost fingers. Her breathing rasped softly, calmly, as if this was nothing new, as if her lungs had grown used to tasting pain.
“Get the fuck out of my way,” Shion snarled, shouldering past the junior so hard he staggered against the doorframe, mumbling apologies to air that no longer listened.
Her body slid down the wall, knees folding under her like broken hinges until her shins caught her weight. The dusty floor bit cold into her skin through thin socks. She didn’t move to stand, only lifted her hand to her throat where red marks bloomed like ghost fingers. Her breathing rasped softly, calmly, as if this was nothing new, just surprising, as if her lungs had grown used to tasting pain.
She didn’t move for a while. Just sat there, feeling the sticky hum of her pulse under the bruising grip marks on her neck. The room smelled of rust, sweat, cheap cologne, and old paint left to peel in damp darkness.
Her mind felt blank and churning all at once. Like staring into a dirty puddle under flickering neon; reflections warping under shifting ripples, fractured and unclear. She thought about Shion’s eyes, the way they burned wild and glassy, like oil slick catching flame on black water. The way his breath hitched ragged and desperate against her cheek, smelling faintly of energy drinks and iron.
She thought about how he used to grip her wrist when they crossed streets as kids, fingers tight and unbreakable, dragging her behind him like an afterthought. She thought about his laughter when he beat up older boys twice his size, coming home with blood drying under his nails as he ruffled her hair with a grin wide enough to split his face in half.
She thought about how nothing really changed. Only grew sharper. Bloodier. Quieter.
Finally, she stood.
Her knees popped softly, muscles trembling faintly as she straightened. Her reflection in the cracked mirror near the door was warped and doubled, a ghost of herself flickering beside her real form. Blood smudged her cheek where Shion’s brass knuckles scraped her skin. She wiped it away with the back of her wrist, smearing it into a dull pink stain that streaked down her jaw.
“Whatever…” she whispered to the empty room, voice thin and shaking like steel wire pulled too taut. “Let’s just… go.”
The air was heavier than usual; Izana must've noticed it too. Unpleasant, heavy, and difficult to breathe in. Things like that... get in the way. He wouldn't want that. This means weakness. And Shion's dependency is a weakness in his eyes.
He sat by the wide window, perched like a porcelain effigy on the thin ledge. His knees were drawn up, ankles crossed loosely, hands resting limp against the cold glass. Dawn light filtered through dirt-smudged panes, catching pale strands of his hair and making them glow faintly silver against the dimness.
He didn’t turn to look at them as they entered. Didn’t even blink, eyes fixed on something far below the window, perhaps the barely moving streets, perhaps nothing at all.
Shion’s chest heaved faintly as he stepped forward, trying to steady his breathing so it wouldn’t sound as ragged as it was. His brass knuckles clicked softly against his thigh, a nervous rhythm that only grew louder in the silence.
“You called, Izana,” he grunted, voice low, trying for casual but cracking on the last syllable.
Izana spoke, his voice thin and clear, drifting out across the dusty room like drifting incense smoke:
“Move her to Mucho’s division.”
Silence.
Her eyes blinked once, twice, staring blankly at his backlit silhouette. Shion’s shoulders stiffened as if struck. His fingers curled around his brass knuckles so hard the metal squealed faintly in his grip.
“What…?” His voice was quiet, but each syllable vibrated with something dark and frantic. He couldn't catch if it was irritation towards her, the feeling of being left out, or something else entirely. “What… did you say?”
Izana’s head tilted slightly, just enough for the sharp line of his cheekbone to catch dawnlight, the pale cut of his lashes casting faint shadows down his cheek. His eyes didn’t waver from the window below.
“Mucho’s division,” he repeated softly, almost lazily. “She’ll be under him from now on.”
Shion’s breathing hitched, a small desperate sound caught in his throat before it roared out:
“WHY?!”
His shout cracked against the walls, startling the dust up into drifting clouds that shimmered in thin sunbeams. His chest heaved, shoulders hunched forward, teeth bared in a snarl so feral it almost split his scar again. The brass knuckles in his fist trembled, clinking a discordant chime.
“She-” he snarled, voice shaking with rage, he didn’t know how to swallow. “I brought her in. She’s under me. My division. My—”
“Enough.”
The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut through his rage like cold steel slicing old cloth, unraveling everything at the seams.
Izana turned his head slightly now, just enough to glance over his shoulder, pale eyes drifting to rest on Shion’s twisted face. His gaze was quiet, empty, bored. It held no hatred, no pity, no warmth. Just emptiness. The kind that didn’t care if you burned or drowned.
“She’s wasted under you,” he said simply, as if reciting the time or the weather. “Mucho needs someone with her skill. Your division will manage without her.”
“But—”
“Do you want to question me, Shion?”
His voice didn’t rise. It dropped, soft as black petals falling onto fresh snow. And Shion froze, the tremble in his shoulders turning to violent shivers, rage transmuting into silent terror. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just ragged, wet breaths.
Izana turned away, his profile now sharp against the window light. He raised one hand, palm pressed flat against the dirty glass as if feeling for warmth on the other side of the world.
“Leave,” he murmured.
She didn’t move for a moment. Her mind felt oddly blank, calm, like the hush after a scream in a dark alley. Then her feet carried her forward, slow steps across concrete until she passed Shion. Their shoulders brushed, and she felt the quivering tension vibrating through him like a live wire humming against rain-soaked metal.
Her eyes flicked up to his face. He didn’t look at her. His head was bowed, hair hiding his eye, teeth clenched so tight the muscle in his jaw fluttered with each shaking breath.
She thought of saying something. Thought of reaching out, placing her hand against his wrist like she used to when they were small, when he’d cry silent furious tears into his sleeves after older kids beat him bloody. But her fingers curled back against her palm. The bruises on her throat throbbed faintly, purpled fingerprints blooming like rotting flowers under thin skin.
She walked past him and didn’t stop.
“Shion.”
The name drifted out, light and uncaring.
“You should learn when to let go of things you think you own,” Izana murmured, his pale eyes watching the sun crawl its way across ruined rooftops far below. “Before they rot in your grip.”
Today felt different. New.
It would be her first day under Mucho’s division as she stood in the room, arms folded loosely, feeling sweat from her early sparring before seeping into the raw skin of her healed knuckles. Her bruises were fading now. Not healing, just darkening into that final stage of rot before yellowed skin returned to normal.
No Shion. No brass knuckles clinking beside her ear or atop her head. No snarled insults that bit through the air.
Instead:
Mucho.
He approached quietly for a man so large. His footsteps were deep but slow. When he entered the hall, all movement stopped. His silhouette filled the doorway, swallowing the flickering fluorescent light into his bulk.
She turned her half-lidded eyes toward him as he approached. His broad frame seemed to drag gravity in his wake, each step pressing down on the dusty floor.
“Madarame,” he said. His voice was low and steady, almost bored. His eyes moved over her quickly, taking in her thin arms, her bruises, the way she stood without shifting or fidgeting. She couldn’t read anything on his face except a flicker of curiosity, like he was wondering what exactly he was supposed to do with her. “You’re under me now.”
She nodded once, silent, waiting for orders.
He studied her for another long moment before exhaling through his nose, cracking his neck to the side.
“Fight me.”
There was no preamble. No insult. No sneer. Just a quiet command.
Her head tilted slightly. “Here?”
His lips twitched into something that might’ve been amusement if his eyes weren’t so flat and empty. “Here.”
She dropped her bag to the ground with a quiet thud and stood up straight. The damp air felt cold on her skin. Her heart was beating faster, but her breathing stayed calm. She felt a bit shaky inside, like her body was empty and too light, like she could either collapse or keep moving without feeling anything.
Mucho rolled his shoulders back, the leather of his jacket creaking like old wood. He raised one massive hand, beckoning her forward.
“Come,” he said simply.
She moved.
Her foot slid forward, pivoting off her back leg as she twisted at the waist, her fist cutting through the air toward his solar plexus. It was a clean, practiced strike, the same that had folded men twice her weight.
Thud.
Her knuckles met unmoving flesh. It was like punching a cement pillar. The force of her own strike felt like it vibrated back up her arm, rattling her elbow joint painfully. She gasped, a thin involuntary sound, stepping back with her eyes wide and lashes trembling faintly.
Mucho didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His dark gaze met hers with quiet, bovine stillness.
“Again.”
She struck.
This time aiming higher, twisting her wrist sharply to snap her knuckles against his collarbone. He shifted his stance slightly and her fist hit bone with a dull crack that numbed her fingers to the tips. Pain flared up her wrist, hot and biting. She stumbled back two steps, clutching her hand, lips parting around a silent hiss.
He watched her calmly, broad chest rising and falling in a rhythm as slow and deep as sleeping earth.
“Your hits are clean,” he said quietly. “Your form is perfect. But—”
He moved.
For a man his size, the speed was sickening. His foot swept forward, heel hooking behind her ankle as his massive hand snapped up to grip her collarbone and shove. Her balance collapsed beneath her. The world tilted sideways. She hit the ground hard, dust and old sweat puffing up around her head like disturbed ash.
He loomed over her, broad and silent. His shadow swallowed her body completely. For a moment, she felt like she was six again, small and trembling under the shadow of boys who kicked stray dogs for fun.
“Get up,” he said.
She pushed herself up on shaking elbows, breath rasping in her chest. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm in her throat, but her eyes remained calm, half-lidded, black irises reflecting the fluorescent flicker above.
Mucho watched her rise, his expression unreadable.
“Again.”
She lunged.
This time, she didn’t aim for his chest. Her fist shot out toward his temple, but at the last second, she twisted her hips and dropped low, sweeping her leg out in a sharp arc to catch the back of his knee.
His calf muscle was like tree bark. Her shin slammed into it with enough force to send a shock of pain up her knee and thigh. But he shifted back half a step, balance momentarily interrupted.
He didn’t fall. But his eyebrow twitched upward.
“Better.”
She stumbled to her feet, panting, sweat dripping down her temples into her lashes. Her hair clung to her cheeks like damp seaweed dragged from rotting harbor water. Her chest burned, her lungs dragging air in ragged streams. But her eyes never wavered from his.
Mucho rolled his wrist, the crack of his knuckles echoing like gunshots in the silent hall.
“Your brother teaches you to rely on your fists alone,” he said. His tone wasn’t mocking, just observant, calm as falling snow. “But fists are useless if your mind isn’t sharper than your enemy’s.”
She said nothing, just watched him with those silent eyes that seemed to see beyond skin, beyond meat, beyond words.
He regarded her for a long moment before speaking again.
“You’re quick. You’re small. Your bones are hollow. Don’t fight like him. Fight like you.”
She blinked once, twice, the words sinking into the quiet spaces of her mind like heavy stones dropped into still water.
Mucho stepped forward suddenly, closing the distance between them in a single stride. His hand shot out, but not to hit. His thick fingers curled around her wrist, lifting her fist up between them.
“You have good fists,” he rumbled, voice low and quiet now, vibrating through her bones where he held her. “But your eyes are better.”
She stared up at him, confusion flickering across her bruised face. “My… eyes?”
His grip tightened around her wrist, not painfully, but with an unbreakable steadiness. His dark gaze bored into hers, unblinking.
“You see people’s weaknesses before they see yours. You read them. That’s your real weapon. Not this—” he flicked her fist lightly with his free hand, the motion gentle despite its force. “This is just bone and meat. But your eyes… they’re sharper than any hit you throw."
She swallowed. Her throat felt tight, raw from panting and dehydration. She hadn’t drunk water since dawn. She hadn’t felt thirsty until now.
Mucho released her wrist, the warmth of his palm leaving her skin abruptly cold.
“Under me, you’ll use your eyes,” he said simply. “Strategy. Deception. Psychological breaks. You’ll use what Shion can’t.”
She nodded faintly, silent.
He turned away, rolling his broad shoulders until his spine cracked. “Go drink. Then find me in the second hall. We start in an hour.”
She didn’t move for a moment, just watched his broad back receding down the hallway, his shadow swallowing flickering light with each slow, heavy step.
At first, it was disorienting.
Mucho’s division was nothing like Shion’s. Wherein, Shion’s division thrived on raw aggression. Orders were simple: beat them up, destroy that place, teach them a lesson. Under Shion, she was treated like an extension of his fists.
In here, under Mucho's, she would spar in the abandoned pachinko hall with the other members. And unlike Shion, Mucho didn’t force her to spar endlessly until collapse. He corrected her stance, made her use her hips, and told her where to aim if she wanted to immobilize instead of kill.
She stood barefoot on cracked tiles littered with cigarette butts and small, shattered glass beads from the broken pachinko machines. The air always smelled like rust and stale sweat. The overhead lights flickered dimly, half of them dead, leaving strips of shadow across the sparring floor.
“Again,” Mucho said simply, his voice low and even, reverberating through the empty hall. Not a shout, not a snarl, just a command. He observed her, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes narrowed with focus rather than contempt.
She moved forward, throwing a jab at the padded target he held out with his massive hand. Her knuckles struck with a dull thud, the vibration trembling up her forearm into her elbow. She stepped back slightly to reset her stance.
“Your hips,” he rumbled, tapping her side lightly with his open palm. His touch was heavy, grounding, but not cruel. “You’re just swinging your arm. That’s weak. Put your weight behind it.”
She nodded silently, sweat dripping down her temples into her lashes, sticking thin strands of hair to her face. She shifted her feet, spreading them wider, knees slightly bent, grounding her soles flat against the gritty tile. The next strike, she twisted her hips as her fist shot forward.
Thud.
Better. She felt the force resonate deeper this time, the impact more solid. Her shoulder burned faintly from the torque.
And in her thoughts, for the first time in Tenjiku, she felt something like… usefulness.
She didn’t know if she liked that. But it felt… real. And she had long accepted that reality was the only thing worth clinging to in a place like this.
As hours passed, her skin glowed faintly with sweat under the pallid evening light as she stepped out into the empty hallway, turning to leave after the training. Her knuckles were raw, but not bleeding. Her ribs ached, but not broken. Her mind felt heavy and calm, like dark water holding the reflections of rusted steel beams overhead.
Training under Mucho left her body aching with the good kind of pain, the kind that made each muscle fibre tremble with exhausted usefulness.
Her thoughts were as quiet as the breeze as she rounded a corner.
Then, a movement.
Fast.
She didn’t hear the footfall. She only felt it, pressure behind her shoulder blade, sudden, like a phantom hand pressing a cold coin against her spine. Instinct turned her body before her mind could speak. She dropped her weight low, pivoted on her heel, forearm swinging up just in time—
Thud.
Skin met shoe sole, flesh met leather. Her forearm braced the impact an inch from her ribs, which blocked cleanly. Her wrist vibrated painfully against a solid impact. The shock rattled up to her elbow and shoulder, almost numbing her fingers. She gasped, lashes fluttering with the sting.
She looked up. The breath she’d caught in her throat stayed there, caged.
And then she saw him.
Izana.
He stood before her, leg extended, foot pressed against her forearm where she blocked his kick. His body was turned sideways, hands in his pockets, posture casual despite the force he’d used. Pale hair fell around his face in strands, catching the flickering light and glowing faintly like tarnished silver in gutter rain. His mouth curled faintly at one corner, eyes half-lidded with a quiet amusement that didn’t touch the emptiness beneath.
Her heart slammed once against her ribs, then settled into a quick, trembling rhythm. She dropped her stance immediately, pulling her arm back to her side. Her knuckles brushed against her hip bone, trembling faintly.
“Impressive,” Izana said softly. His tone was flat, almost bored, but his eyes stayed on her with a focused stillness that made her stomach tighten. The words didn’t sound like praise. They sounded like a simple observation, as if he were commenting on the weather or a stain on his shoe. "You blocked it."
Izana lowered his leg, planting his foot lightly against the concrete. His movements were fluid, unhurried, like a big cat stretching under fading sun. He tilted his head at her, pale lashes casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones.
He tilted his head slightly to the side, pale hair shifting over his forehead as he studied her. The quiet stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable, filled only by the faint buzzing of the old fluorescent light above them. She could hear the echo of her own breath in her ears, quick and shallow from the adrenaline still burning in her chest.
She didn’t answer, only watched him with dark, half-lidded eyes. The adrenaline still coiled hot under her ribs, but she forced her breathing to remain calm. Her fingers twitched once against her thigh before stilling.
“Why didn’t you counter?” he asked quietly, curiosity dripping through his tone like water leaking from rusted pipes overhead.
She swallowed. Her throat felt tight, raw from dehydration and training drills that left dust caked against her tongue.
“It’s you,” she murmured softly, her voice barely audible in the echoing hall. “I didn’t… want to.”
He blinked once, twice, as if tasting her words in the quiet between them. His lips twitched upward faintly. “Didn’t want to… or didn’t dare to?”
She blinked slowly, lashes heavy with sweat and exhaustion. “Does it matter?”
Izana smiled then. A real smile, small and delicate, sharp and disturbing. The kind of smile that cracked open the pretty porcelain of his face to reveal something flickering dark beneath.
He stepped closer. She didn’t move. His bare feet made no sound against the dust-stained concrete. The smell of him reached her – faint traces of stale cigarette smoke, cheap soap, and something cold and clean like winter wind trapped in glass jars.
His hand lifted, pale fingers reaching out. For a fleeting moment, instinct screamed through her chest, told her to move, to block, to strike. But she stayed still. His fingertips brushed against her cheek, trailing down to the smudge of blood left drying along her jawline from earlier drills. His touch was light, cold, almost reverent.
“You’re interesting,” he murmured softly, as if speaking only to himself. His thumb smeared the blood faintly, smudging it into her skin like paint across cracked canvas. “I thought you’d crumble under him… but you didn’t. You grew.”
She didn’t respond. Her lashes lowered, not in submission but in quiet acceptance. His thumb paused against her cheekbone, pressing lightly until the thin bone ached beneath her skin.
“Do you know what that means?” he asked, tilting his head so their eyes met fully. His irises were pale, almost colourless in this dim light, reflecting the flickering overhead bulbs,
She inhaled slowly. The smell of old paint and iron filled her chest. “It means I’m useful.”
A soft exhale escaped him, almost like a laugh, but too quiet, too empty. He leaned closer, his pale hair brushing against her forehead. She could see each fine strand glowing like spider silk, smell the faint iron on her tongue.
“No,” he whispered, his lips barely parting. “It means you’re dangerous.”
Her eyes flickered up to his, something shifting quietly in their depths. Not fear. Not hope. Something else. Something like understanding.
Izana’s smile faded as quickly as it came. He straightened, stepping back lightly. The loss of his shadow over her body felt abrupt, leaving her skin cold and naked under flickering fluorescent glare.
“Keep training with Mucho,” he said softly, his gaze drifting away from her face to something far off behind her, something only he could see. “You’ll need it.”
Days passed, and each time felt shorter. Training started to blur together. She woke up before dawn, ate the rice and leftover pickles she prepared the night before, and left with the thin blue light still clinging to the rusted railings outside their apartment, birds littering the sky. Fights filled her mornings, Mucho’s corrections shaped her afternoons, and evenings ended with her walking back home alongside other members who lived nearby, not with Shion anymore.
And Shion... Shion stopped talking so much.
Before, he’d sprawl across the room after fights, ranting about stupid rookies or territory scuffles while she scraped burnt bits off the pot and prepared dinner like usual. He’d click his brass knuckles against the floor, brag about the hits he landed that day, sometimes nudge her knee with his foot to make sure she was listening. Now he just dropped his jacket in a pile, stared at the ceiling, or lay on his side facing the wall.
She didn’t ask him about his day. He didn’t ask about hers either. He didn’t ask what Mucho was making her do, didn’t ask if she was holding up. He didn’t need to. He could see it in the bruises on her knuckles, the faint smears of disinfectant she still wiped on his cuts when he came home later than usual. They still shared that much.
Every day, she still would step into their cramped apartment, even when things changed, the door sliding closed with its usual tired rattle. Shion would usually be there already, sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, flipping through his phone with one hand and the other planted on the floor. The television would be on, glowing dimly, some late-night comedy show, an old fighting match playing in the background, or a DVD movie they've seen many times before, when silence was louder than the rattle of their apartment walls when trains went past.
He wouldn't greet her. Won't say anything. He barely even looked up.
She’d set her bag down quietly, wash her hands, and start preparing dinner. Simple meals like: miso soup with tofu scraps, cold rice rewarmed in the pot, stir-fried cabbage with soy sauce. Shion never complained about her cooking, never praised it either. He ate what was served, chopsticks clacking against the chipped ceramic bowls, leaving the bowl unwashed. Sometimes he finished before she even sat down, leaving his bowl beside her silently before stepping out onto the narrow balcony for space they couldn't have.
She wanted to talk to him, but… every time she opened her mouth, the words dried up, whether it was his stare or the silence she knew he wouldn't answer to.
And when she would glance over, he wouldn't even look at her.
Even if all she wanted to ask was: Did I do something wrong?
She wanted to ask: Are you angry at me?
She wanted to ask: Do you hate me?
But each time was met with a gaze that wouldn't stick too long, a roll of his eyes, a shove, or silence.
Sometimes at night, when his breath evened out beside her, she’d whisper into the dark.
“Shion… are you mad at me?”
But the only reply was the creaking pipes overhead and the faint rattle of a passing train shaking the thin walls. His sleeping breath never faltered.
And she’d close her eyes, swallow down the lump in her throat, and let the silence answer her instead.
It was difficult; her confusion went unanswered through the days. He didn’t even sigh or scoff. Just shoved her shoulder away if she was too close, hard enough that her thin frame rocked sideways on the futon. Or he’d press his palm against her face and push her back, not roughly enough to bruise, but not gently enough to feel like touch.
Sometimes, he’d flick her forehead with two fingers, sharp and fast, the way he used to when they were kids and she asked too many questions. Except now, his flicks carried a bitter heaviness behind them, like he wanted it to sting.
Other times, he’d just hit.
A quick slap to her forearm when she reached past him to grab the soy sauce on their cramped table. A smack to the back of her head if she forgot to wash his bowl after dinner. A palm landed flat and hard against her side when she was folding laundry too slowly, making her stumble against the damp clothesline strung across their apartment ceiling.
He never raised a fist like he did in fights. It wasn’t that kind of violence. It was smaller, pettier. Sharp little punishments for questions she should’ve known not to ask.
And the rest of the time, it was silence.
Silence while they ate dinner side by side, knees almost touching on the tatami floor. Silence while she patched up the scab on his knuckle that he kept peeling open. Silence as she lay down first, and he turned away to face the wall, his back a silent barrier between them.
But in truth, it wasn’t anger that kept him silent.
It was something worse.
At first, he thought it was just an annoyance. Her being moved under Mucho felt like an insult. Like he’d been told outright: you’re not good enough to teach her. You’re not good enough to make her strong. That alone was enough to sour his mood for days. But as days passed, and he watched her come home with new bruises, tighter footwork, steadier eyes, something else started to rot quietly inside his chest.
He realised it the night she blocked his slap without flinching.
He’d reached out, quick, instinctive, to smack the back of her head when she forgot to close the rice container. But her hand shot up, caught his wrist before it landed. She didn’t squeeze. Didn’t glare. Didn’t even meet his eyes. Just pushed his arm back down and continued scraping cold rice into the pot to rewarm.
That was the first time he realised she was stronger. It happened late one night after dinner when she tried again to talk to him, her voice quiet as she set his empty bowl aside, “Shion… can we talk?” and he felt that familiar sting of irritation under his skin, burning up his spine like acid; he snapped without thinking, shoving her shoulder hard enough that she almost fell over the low table, but she just steadied herself with a hand against the tatami, her eyes flickering up to meet his, not angry, not afraid, just tired.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growled, the words bitten off between clenched teeth, and when she opened her mouth again to say something, he didn’t even hear what, his hand was already swinging down, aiming to slap her cheek like he always did to shut her up, a quick flick of his wrist meant to sting and end the conversation, but before his palm could land, her arm shot up and blocked it with a sharp smack of bone meeting bone, her wrist against his, her grip clamping around his forearm so tight he felt his own pulse beat back against her fingers.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The television flickered silently in the corner, the blue light casting thin shadows across the floor where their knees pressed into the tatami, his breath harsh and uneven in his chest while hers stayed calm, quiet, steady.
“Let go,” he hissed under his breath, trying to yank his arm free, but her fingers only tightened, her dark eyes locking onto his with a flat, hollow calm that made something ugly twist in his stomach.
“Stop hitting me,” she said softly, her voice not shaking, just tired, so tired it almost sounded like pity, and that was when it hit him, sharp and sickening, rattling his ribs and scraping down his spine, she was stronger. Physically, she was stronger. And worse, her eyes didn’t hold fear anymore. There was no flinch when he raised his hand, no tension in her shoulders bracing for the strike, just… nothing.
He ripped his arm from her grip, shoved her back so hard she fell against the edge of the low table with a dull thud, and he stood up fast enough to make the dishes rattle, turning away from her as he muttered, “Don’t fucking talk to me,” because if he looked at her for even a second longer, he knew she’d see it, the raw, gnawing fear in his chest that for the first time in his life, he was looking at someone he couldn’t beat down into silence anymore.
Then, he saw it again, during the evening fight when he passed by a hall to collect his brass knuckles from the storage room. She was sparring with two other members, weaving between them with sharp, calculated steps. She didn’t fight like him, reckless, all muscle and rage. She fought smart. Her hits were fast and precise. Every movement had a purpose. She wasn’t just strong. She was good.
Better than him.
His chest felt tight, sour, heavy with a kind of shame he hadn’t felt since the first time he lost a fight as a kid. The feeling burned, crawled up his throat, and made his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached.
And worst of all, he saw Izana there too.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching her. His gaze wasn’t warm, wasn’t proud, but it lingered. Focused. Interested. Shion’s stomach twisted when he saw the way Izana’s eyes tracked her movements across the mats. They must’ve thought he didn’t notice. But he did. He saw it as clear as daylight.
She had caught Izana’s attention.
Something he had spent years fighting for, those rare, quiet nods of acknowledgment, and here she was, earning them without even trying. Earning them just by being strong. Stronger than him. Smarter. Better.
That realisation felt like a punch straight through his chest. Like his ribs cracked around it. Pride, the only thing he clung to when everything else felt pointless, cracked in half under the weight of it.
At home, he stopped talking because words felt pointless. Every flick to her forehead, every shove of her shoulder, every petty slap was just his own pathetic attempt to remind her, and himself, that she was still beneath him somehow.
But he knew the truth. He saw it every night when she lay down beside him on the futon, breathing slowly, skin still faintly smelling of sweat and disinfectant. He saw it in the way she didn’t flinch anymore when he raised a hand. In the way her eyes never met his for long. In this way, her silence no longer felt like submission, but indifference.
She didn’t need him anymore.
“Shion,” she said quietly, still sitting where she had fallen against the table, rubbing the back of her arm where he shoved her. “Shion, what’s wrong with you lately…?”
He didn’t turn around, just stood there with his back to her, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders trembling with something that wasn’t anger alone.
“Don’t fucking talk to me,” he muttered, but his voice cracked at the edges.
She swallowed down the sting in her throat and pushed herself up slowly to her knees. “I just… I don’t understand. Did I do something? Tell me if I did something.”
He let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded more like choking. “Did you do something? You really don’t get it, do you?”
She blinked at him, her dark eyes wide, soft with worry. “I… don’t. Please tell me. I’ll fix it.”
“Fix it?” he spat, finally turning around to glare at her. His eyes were wild, unfocused, flickering with a frantic frustration that made her chest twist. “You think you can just ‘fix it’? Like, this is your fucking cooking or your fucking laundry? Like I’m just another chore for you to tick off your list?!”
“No… that’s not what I meant,” she whispered, shaking her head quickly, trying to stand, but he stepped forward and kicked the low table between them hard enough that the bowls rattled and her body flinched back down to her knees.
“Shion—” she tried again, her voice trembling, but still soft, trying to soothe him, trying to reach whatever part of him she always managed to soothe before.
“Stop saying my name like that!” he shouted, his voice breaking halfway through, throat going raw and hoarse. “Stop… stop fucking looking at me like that… like you’re… like you’re pitying me…!”
“I’m not… pitying you,” she murmured, tears pricking at her eyes. It wasn't fear, it was the confusion blurring with frustration and the uncomfortable feeling of the rift between them, though her voice stayed calm, still trying to keep him calm too. “I just… I just want to understand. Can't we just talk…?”
“Understand…? Talk…?” he laughed again, but there was no humor in it. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as he took another step forward, towering over her frame on the tatami floor. “You want to understand? Then tell me this… tell me how it feels.”
She frowned up at him, confused, blinking back tears. “How what feels…?”
His hands were shaking as they clenched and unclenched at his sides. “How does it feel… to be stronger than me?”
She flinched at his words, shaking her head quickly, “I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me!” he roared, the sound bouncing off the thin walls, making the metal rails outside rattle faintly. “Don’t… fucking lie to me… I saw it. I saw it in your fight with Mucho… I saw it when you blocked me… I see it every fucking day in your eyes. You’re stronger. You’re smarter. You fight better. And worst of all…” His voice cracked again, so quiet now, his chest trembling with each breath as he whispered through clenched teeth, “…worst of all… he sees you.”
She stared up at him, eyes wide, lips parting in a silent question.
“You think you're better than me?” he spat the name like it burned his tongue.
“You think you’re above me just because he sees you? Because Mucho teaches you, because Izana fucking notices you? You think you’re something now?”
Her lips trembled. “That’s… that’s not true, Shion. I don’t think that, I don’t—”
But he didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did, and it just made something inside him snap further. His face twisted, jaw clenching so tightly his teeth creaked. He shook his head slowly, eyes glassy with something between rage and despair.
“You must’ve thought I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice shaking. “But I do. I see it. Every fucking time you come home smelling like the hall, like Mucho’s sweat and Izana’s cigarette smoke. I see it in the way you move. The way you don’t even flinch anymore when I hit you. Like… like I’m nothing to be scared of anymore.”
“Shion—”
“Shut up!” he snarled, stepping forward so fast she recoiled on instinct, her back hitting the wall behind her with a soft thud. He loomed over her, breathing hard, his shadow swallowing her frame whole. “You don’t get it… you don’t fucking get it… if you’re stronger than me, smarter than me, if even Izana sees you more than he ever saw me… then what the fuck does that make me, huh? What the fuck am I left with?”
She stared up at him, tears slipping down her cheeks silently, throat too tight to speak.
For a moment, his face crumpled, something breaking behind his eyes. His fists loosened at his sides as he sucked in a shaking breath. His mouth opened, as if to say something, to call her name softly the way he used to when they were small, but nothing came out. Just a choked, bitter sound that rattled in his chest.
Then he turned away, shoulders shaking as he shoved his hands into his hair, fingers curling tightly into pale strands.
“Get out of my sight,” he muttered, voice low and broken, almost a whisper. “Just… get out of my fucking sight before I do something I’ll regret.”
Japan. 2006.
The rain had never felt heavier than today. Thick, heavy drops that cracked against concrete with a punishing sting. The sky was a sickly grey, clouds low enough to scrape the tallest buildings, thunder rolling in long, trembling echoes that rattled glass windows and vibrated deep into bone.
It was loud, so loud that it seeped into her buzzing mind as she walked back from the abandoned pachinko hall, barefoot in the puddles, the tokkō-fuku clinging to her bruised shoulders, each step splashing grit and stagnant rainwater onto her ankles.
Disgusting. She thought. It was unpleasant, like the ground was sticking itself onto her skin.
Her hair was plastered to her cheeks, droplets trailing down her lashes into her raw, blood-salted lips. Her knuckles throbbed with a deep ache, skin split and scabbing over from repeated strikes gone wrong.
The sparring had been bad today. It was worse than usual.
She couldn’t even get her balance right, couldn't focus, couldn't see clearly, couldn’t land clean hits. Each correction from Mucho felt like a stone pressed into her chest, heavy and suffocating, tiring. When she fell for the fifth time, breath knocked out of her lungs, her vision blackened at the edges, and she felt something in her chest twist sharply, a pain with no physical origin.
It was frustrating, clinging to her where she couldn't scrub raw. So frustrating…
And when she stepped out into the rain, she almost didn’t feel it. Her body was too hot with humiliation; cold didn’t matter. It made her sick.
Biting her lower lip, she couldn't shake her thoughts away.
She turned a corner sharply, head down, watching puddles ripple around her swollen feet—
She collided into something solid, spinning her slightly on the wet gravel. Her foot slipped, splashing muddy water up her shin.
She stumbled back a step, blinking rain from her lashes that blurred her eyes, and looked up.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going—” the voice snapped suddenly, voice hoarse with frustration. Its brass knuckles were on, glinting under the streetlights when the moon wouldn't show, blood dripping down from fresh cuts split into someone else’s face minutes earlier.
Shion.
His silhouette was blurred by the heavy downpour, but she saw the sharp gleam of brass knuckles on his fist, stained dark with blood washed thin by the rain. His hair was drenched, strands sticking to his cheekbones and neck. He didn’t say anything, just stared at her with those hollow, half-lidded, furious eyes.
She clenched her jaw, turning back to face him fully. “You bumped into me,” she said quietly, but her voice cracked halfway through, drowned partly by the rain roaring between them.
Looking at him, it flooded her with an overwhelming sense of frustration and tiredness that he couldn't catch or notice for the past few days.
“What, you gonna cry about it?” Shion sneered, lips twisting into a bitter smile. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as if every inhale was scraped from the air by force.
There it was again, his tone, the look in his eyes, ears blocked with whatever is going through that skull of his. She stared at him, silent for a heartbeat, thunder cracking distantly behind her like gods fighting in another realm.
“I’m tired,” she whispered.
He snorted, eyes rolling, then back to her. “You always are.”
“No,” she said louder, voice breaking through the hammering rain that beat against the low roofs like drums, like her heart, “I’m tired… of you.”
He paused, brows knitting sharply together. Rainwater dripped from his lashes as he glared at her, searching her face for meaning.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. “I’m tired of trying to understand you when you won’t even let me in. I’m tired of wondering what I did wrong. I’m tired of… of feeling like nothing I do is ever right to you.”
Shion scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shoved past her shoulder roughly. “Don’t start your whiny shit with me right now. I’ve had enough—”
“Then fucking hit me!” she yelled suddenly, spinning around, her voice slicing through the roaring rain. He froze mid-step, his back tensing, shoulders curling inward like a wounded dog.
“Hit me,” she repeated, her voice trembling with tears and rage and something deeper, something ragged and hollow. “That’s what you do, right? When you’re pissed. When you hate me. When you’re scared. When you don’t know what else to do. So just… hit me.”
She stepped forward, her shoes slapping against puddles, rain soaking her hair flat against her skull. Her dark eyes burned up at him, trembling with exhaustion and grief. Her fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening despite the blood oozing between split skin.
“Do it,” she whispered, the frustration building up in her chest, sizzling like the sound or rai heavily pouring on tin roofs.
And then she hit him first.
Her fist cracked against his cheekbone with a sharp, wet smack, head twisting sideways under the force. Pain bit up her wrist into her elbow, but it felt real. It felt honest. It felt better than the training and sparring she did. The ache that bloomed in her bones was better than the hollow ache she carried in her chest every day.
But still, it wasn't enough.
For a moment, there was only silence between them, broken only by the thunder rattling overhead and the sound of rain striking asphalt like glass beads scattering across tile.
Then Shion turned back to face her slowly, his lip split, blood mixing with rain dripping down his chin, each droplet a smear of red dissolving into the flood pooling at his feet. His brass knuckles gleamed under the storm light, metal catching the flicker of lightning in fractured shards. His fist rose without hesitation, like it had done a thousand times before, and swung down toward her shoulder with a sickening swiftness.
The impact landed solidly against bone. A wet crack rang out under the pounding rain as her body jolted sideways. Pain flared under her collarbone, hot and electric, spreading out into her ribs like wildfire racing across dry grass. She gasped, inhaling sharply, and the breath tasted of blood and rain, cold and metallic, scraping down her throat like rusted nails.
She stumbled, foot skidding through mud slick with old cigarette butts and broken glass. Her vision blurred with rain, lashes dripping, shadows flickering through the dim alley like restless ghosts. But before he could move again, before his arm could recoil back for another strike, her body shifted. Instinct and training wove together in her bones like sinew spun taut.
His next punch swung wide, aiming straight for her ribs, but she twisted her hips sharply, feet planted in the pooling rainwater as she pivoted low. The fist sliced through empty air just above her bent back, knuckles grazing the damp fabric of her uniform jacket.
She felt his body shift behind her, felt the thrum of his pulse in the inches of air between them, felt the desperate, trembling rage vibrating off his skin.
But he didn’t hesitate.
He pivoted fast, brass knuckles cutting through the downpour, fist hooking toward her jaw in a wide arc. She saw the flicker of metal in the storm light and her arm shot up on reflex, forearm slamming into his wrist with a sharp, jarring smack. The impact rattled up her arm, bone grinding against bone, but she didn’t let go. Her fingers closed around his wrist, squeezing until his pulse fluttered weakly beneath her grip.
For a moment, they froze there, statues carved from rain and rage, bodies trembling with effort.
Shion’s chest heaved as he glared down at her, eyes wide and wild, pupils blown with something deeper than anger. Rain streamed down his face, dripping from his lashes like tears he’d never allow himself to shed. His mouth twisted into a snarl, teeth bared in the storm light, breath coming out in ragged gasps that fogged the cold air between them.
“There you are again!!” he screamed into her face, his voice cracking, splitting down the middle into something jagged and broken. His eyes burned with a frantic disbelief, wide and desperate as his brass knuckles gleamed inches from her jaw. “There you are again!! Acting like you’re stronger than me! Acting like you’re fucking better!!”
His words spat out, dripping venom and sorrow in equal measure, cutting deeper than any fist. His arm trembled under her grip, every muscle straining to break free, to finish what he started, to reclaim the only power he knew how to wield.
But she didn’t let go.
Her grip tightened, her eyes locked onto his, dark irises steady despite the trembling in her limbs.
“Why can’t you just fucking tell me what I did wrong?!” she screamed up at him, her voice ripped raw from her throat, blending with the thunder rolling above them as she pushed him back just like how she'd push him off of her when things between them went violent years ago
“Because it’s not what you did!” he roared back, his fist cracking against her jaw, knocking her sideways into a puddle. Mud and water splashed up her face, stinging her eyes. His voice screamed in his head: It's what you are, what you've become that I resent so much!
She pushed herself back up on shaking arms, hair hanging in soaked strands around her face like drowned seaweed.
“Then what is it, Shion?!” she yelled, chest heaving, rain dripping off her lashes in thick droplets. “Tell me! Tell me why you hate me so much!”
“I don’t hate you!” he spat, grabbing her by the collar and yanking her up onto her knees before him. His eyes were wild, glassy with tears that mixed seamlessly with the rain. “I hate… I hate that you’re everything I’m not!”
Her breath caught in her chest, pain and shock flickering across her face.
“You’re good at fighting. You’re smart. You’re… fuck—” his voice cracked, shoulders trembling under the weight of his own words. His grip on her collar loosened, fingers curling into the soaked fabric weakly. “You’re everything I wanted to be. And worst of all… he sees you.”
She blinked up at him, water dripping off her chin, mixing with blood smeared across her lips. “He…? Izana…?”
Shion’s laugh was broken, jagged. “Yeah. Him. The only person I ever wanted to see me. The only person I ever wanted to notice me. I was there when he.... And you… you just… he just… he sees you like you’re… like you’re something worth looking at. And I… what the fuck does that make me, huh?!”
She stared at him, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, hair plastered to her cheeks. Thunder rumbled overhead, rattling the ground beneath their feet.
“Shion…” she whispered softly, so softly he almost didn’t hear it over the storm. “I never… I never wanted to be better than you.”
All he heard was pity, or maybe it was his own cloud over his head, rumbling like the thunder right here that he couldn't hear. His shoulders shook, head bowing low, forehead knocking gently against hers as rain poured down their faces. His breath was hot and uneven, the smell of blood and rust filling the small space between them.
He screamed as the thunder rolled above them, vibrating down their spines, and the rain continued to pour, washing blood from their skin into the mud beneath them, but it couldn't wash away the bitter line between them.
Another punch cracked across her cheekbone, snapping her head sideways with a sickening jolt. White light burst behind her eyes as pain seared through her skull. The taste of iron flooded her mouth. Rain splattered against her teeth as her lips split open.
“Shut up!” he snarled through clenched teeth, voice shaking with a rage that sounded too close to grief. His fist swung again, crashing into her jaw. The impact rattled down her spine, her knees buckling under the force.
He hit her again.
And again.
Each strike was punctuated by his hoarse, broken scream –--
“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!!”
His brass knuckles gleamed under the lightning as they swung down, catching the dim, flickering stormlight with each arc. His other hand twisted into her collar, yanking her up each time her body slumped forward. The fabric bit into her throat, cutting her breath short, choking her in small, trembling gasps.
Her hand rose weakly, fingers wrapping around his wrist, trying to hold him back. But her grip was feeble, trembling, slipping against his rain-slick skin. She couldn’t reach him. Not truly. Not even when his face was this close, not even when his breath burned ragged and hot against her bloodied lips.
She looked up at him through the blur of rain and tears, vision swimming with dizziness, pain thrumming through her skull like war drums. Her eyes, dark and glazed with exhaustion, flickered over his face, the twisted snarl of his lips, the flickering madness in his eyes, the trembling of his jaw as if it took everything in him to keep his teeth from shattering.
She couldn’t reach him.
Not with words.
Not with touch.
Hitting was the only language he knew to speak what his chest could not contain. Violence was his mother tongue, his comfort, his last cradle.
So she let him.
She let his fists fall, let his knuckles split her skin open, let the blood drip down her chin to mix with the rain and sink into the muddy ground. She looked into his eyes the whole time, gaze tired, silent, filled with a quiet worry that cut sharper than any brass edge.
She watched him until his breath came in ragged sobs, until his punches slowed, until his fist hovered trembling in the air above her face and didn’t come down again.
Until his knuckles were as red as the beneath beneath them.
Until all that was left was the sound of rain hammering the cracked concrete around their bodies, and the choked, breaking sound of his breath as he realised that no matter how hard he hit her, he could never beat her into leaving.
Because all she ever wanted was to stay.
Even if it's just beside him.
And as the rain kept falling, falling, falling, drenching the broken silence between them until their breaths turned to fog in the cold night air.
She saw it before he did, shadows moving through the sheets of water, the glint of metal pipes and flick knives reflecting through the streetlights, silhouettes weaving between rusted cars and dumpsters slick with rain. Another gang. Rivals. Opportunists.
She didn’t know who they were, didn’t care. They weren’t Tenjiku. Their jackets were black with white embroidery, sleeves rolled up to their elbows, sneakers slapping against the puddled concrete as they circled around like stray dogs.
“Well, what’s this?” one of them laughed, teeth flashing under his soaked hair as he gestured to them with a chin-jut of cruel amusement. “The Mad Dog of Tenjiku… and his little bitch, all beaten up already? This is gonna be easy.”
Another one sneered, shoving his fists into his pockets as he stepped forward, water splashing up his shins. “Fuck, you guys look pathetic.”
She felt Shion stiffen beside her, his teeth bared, brass knuckles lifting as he took a staggering step forward. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, voice rough and ragged from screaming earlier, his chest heaving with uneven breaths.
The gang spread around them in a wide crescent, moving with hungry confidence. They could smell the weakness in his posture, in her bruises, in the tension stretched tight between them like frayed wire about to snap.
“Look at you,” one spat at Shion’s feet. “What happened, Mad Dog? Did your bitch finally bite back? You look like shit.”
Shion lunged at him without warning, brass knuckles swinging wide and recklessly. The punch landed with a wet crack, sending the man stumbling back into his pack with blood spraying across the rain. For a moment, silence fell. Only the rain and thunder and Shion’s ragged, wheezing breath.
Then they moved.
They lunged in together, a pack of black silhouettes surging through the storm. She dodged the first hit, elbow cracking against a man's jaw before she ducked under another’s swing, her body moving out of instinct burned into her bones by Mucho’s relentless training. Pain screamed through her bruised ribs with every breath, but she ignored it.
“Behind you!” she yelled at Shion, but he didn’t hear her.
He swung at another boy, his fists wild and unbalanced. Another came from his blind spot, crowbar swinging down, and she lunged forward, grabbing the man's arm before it connected, twisting it sharply until he screamed. The crowbar clattered to the flooded asphalt.
“FUCKING COVER ME THEN!” Shion roared back at her, spittle mixing with the rain on his lips. His brass knuckles cracked against someone’s temple, sending him sprawling limply into a puddle that rippled with blood.
“I AM!” she screamed, twisting her body to dodge another punch, her fist slamming into a boy’s gut before her knee snapped up under his chin. “Stop moving like a fucking idiot – you’re too open!”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he snarled, spinning to elbow another in the nose. His feet slipped in the rain-slicked blood pooling around them. Another boy surged in from his blind side. She tried to reach him, tried to block it, but her movement was half a second too late. The knife swung down.
The blade carved across Shion’s side with a wet, tearing sound. His body jolted violently, mouth falling open in a silent, breathless gasp as blood bloomed vivid and hot through the soaked fabric of his uniform. The rain hit the wound immediately, washing crimson in thin streams down his hip and thigh, pooling black-red in the dark water below.
“Shion—!” she screamed, her voice tearing raw against the thunder above them, her feet sliding across the slick ground as she lunged forward.
But he didn’t fall. Didn’t even look at her. His fist snapped forward with a primal snarl, brass knuckles cracking against the attacker’s mouth so hard teeth flew from the man’s lips like shattered stones into the night rain. The man collapsed backward with a choked cry, curling around his ruined jaw.
Shion’s breath rattled in his chest, sharp, uneven, bubbling with blood and rain. His body swayed as he staggered sideways, one hand clamping against his bleeding side. His brass knuckles slipped from his shaking fingers, clattering onto the concrete, drowned in red water.
“Shion— Shion, God, stay still—!” she gasped, her hands reaching for him, grabbing his wrist to keep him upright.
But another shadow lunged from the side. She twisted, blocked the punch with her forearm, her bones screaming under the impact, her other hand shooting up to slam into his throat. The man gagged, stumbling back, clutching at his windpipe with choking coughs.
She turned back to Shion. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, pupils blown wide with shock and adrenaline. His mouth worked silently, blood dripping from his split lip down his chin to mix with the crimson streaming from his side.
Around them, the remaining men hesitated, circling like wolves with bared teeth, eyes flickering from her to Shion and back again. One of them laughed low under his breath, shaking his head as he flicked rain from his knife.
“This is pathetic,” he sneered, stepping forward. “Look at you two. Fucking pathetic.”
She shoved Shion behind her, planting her feet wide, her fists raised despite how her arms trembled with exhaustion. “Stay back,” she rasped, voice low, quiet, sharp like splintered glass.
The man only smirked, flicking his knife toward her in a taunting little dance. “Or what, bitch? You gonna protect your mad dog? He can’t even stand.”
“Shut the fuck up,” she whispered, but her voice shook. Her vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in with each ragged breath.
A sudden crash of thunder split the sky above them, shaking the ground underfoot. Rain poured down harder, drowning the world in cold, relentless sheets of flood. Another boy lunged forward from her blind spot. She twisted to block him, but her arms were too slow, too heavy with fatigue and bruises. The punch slammed into her ribs, stealing her breath in a sharp, choking gasp. Her knees buckled, body collapsed into the cold flood pooling around her. Men surrounded her next, bats, knives, and pieces of metal carried by their hands, glinting under the streetlight, ready to strike next.
“Get the fuck up,” she heard Shion snarl behind her, but his voice was faint, cracking around the edges, wet with pain. “Get up… get up… get up…!”
She tried to move. Tried to push herself up on trembling arms, but another foot slammed into her stomach, forcing bile and blood up her throat as her body folded inward, gasping silently through the pain. The world spun, blurred, flickering between lightning flashes, spilling rain that felt like tears, and the churning darkness.
“Stop… STOP!!” Shion’s scream tore through the storm, a raw, broken sound swallowed by thunder as he tried to crawl towards her.
But they didn’t stop. They grabbed him by his soaked hair, yanked his head back, fists slamming into his face over and over, each impact sending bright sparks across his vision. He tried to swing back, but his arms were limp, his body sagging like dead weight under their blows. Blood splashed in the puddles below, rain rippling it outward in thin, trembling circles.
“SHION!” she screamed, her voice cracking in terror as she watched his body jolt with each strike, watched his fists claw at their arms uselessly, watched his eyes roll back, the whites glowing under the streetlights like the blind eyes of a corpse.
Something broke inside her then. Shattered. Split open and raw.
No, no, no, it couldn't end like this.
There are so many things she wants to say, so many things she wants to hear from him.
With a scream that tore from somewhere deep in her ribs, she lunged upward, fists slamming into the boy holding Shion’s hair. His nose crunched under her knuckles, blood spraying hot across her face. Another elbow cracked into the second boy’s jaw. They staggered back, cursing, spitting teeth into the dark.
She grabbed Shion’s shoulders, dragging him back against her, her frame curling around his broken one protectively. His body shuddered in her arms, blood dripping from his mouth as he tried to breathe, his chest rising in wet, rattling gasps.
“Stay with me… please… Shion…” she whispered against his ear, her tears mixing with the blood and rain dripping down his cheek. “Stay… stay awake… please…”
His eyes flickered open, unfocused and dull, pupils blown wide in the stormlight. His lips moved silently before a faint, cracked whisper spilled out, tasting of copper and rain. Their eyes darkened as shadows curled around them, closer, and closer, as she held Shion tighter, glints of metal and their grins flashing like the thunder.
Her arms tightened around Shion’s shoulders, shaking with terror and adrenaline, as if she could fold him into her bones and shield him from everything. His blood soaked into her uniform, hot and viscous, spreading warmth that felt so wrong in the freezing rain.
One of the men stepped forward, twisting his wrist to flash the blade in his grip, grinning wide enough to show broken teeth through split lips. “How sweet,” he crooned above the storm’s roar. “You gonna die with him too, little bitch?”
She swallowed hard. Her ribs ached. Her lungs burned with each ragged, trembling inhale. Her hands clenched Shion’s soaked uniform tighter, nails digging into torn seams.
“Yeah,” she rasped. “If I have to.”
The boy laughed, a harsh bark of sound swallowed by thunder. The knife, raised.
She braced herself, shifted her weight, pulled him tighter against her side, though her ribs screamed in protest. One more swing. One more hit. One more—
A massive shadow surged from behind them, impossibly fast for its size. A hand as thick as iron snapped around the boy’s wrist, stopping the knife mid-swing. His eyes widened, mouth opening in a stunned, wordless gasp.
Crack.
The wrist broke clean under the pressure, bending sideways with a wet, tearing crunch that made his scream pierce the storm. The blade clattered onto the asphalt below, bouncing once before sinking into the flood pooling around their feet.
The boy didn’t even have time to scream again before a heavy fist slammed into his temple, splitting skin against bone, sending him crumpling into the water with a hollow splash.
Through the rain, under the humming, watching streetlights, stood Mucho.
His soaked hair clung to his forehead, shadows slicing across the sharp cut of his cheekbones. His eyes were half-lidded, empty, flat, like the deep sea swallowing a corpse. Rain dripped down his leather jacket in silent rivulets. He turned his head slightly, the movement slow, deliberate, gaze sweeping across the stunned men like a blade gliding through flesh.
“What… the fuck…” one of them whispered, stepping back a half-step.
But then –
Another silhouette emerged behind Mucho, taller, broader, a shape carved out of violent earth and brick dust. A grin split his soaked, scarred lips, yellow hair plastered down to his skull, droplets sliding down the bridge of his nose.
“Oi… oi… what’s all this mess, huh?” Mocchi’s voice rumbled low and amused as he rolled his massive shoulders, joints cracking like gunshots. His eyes flicked toward Shion and her, slumped together in the water, blood mixing with rain into thin red threads weaving down the street.
His grin faltered for a moment, something ugly and cold twisting in his gaze. Without another word, he stepped forward, boots slamming into the ground so hard the puddles splashed up his shins. One of the gang boys lunged at him with a roar, brandishing a metal pipe overhead. Mocchi didn’t even duck.
His massive hand shot up, and a hard hit on the face sent the boy to the ground. The boy went limp immediately, arms splayed out, blood blooming dark and silent beneath his skull.
“Mucho,” Mocchi called out lazily over his shoulder, his voice carrying easily through the storm as he cracked his neck to the side. “You take the left.”
Mucho didn’t answer. He stepped forward silently, grabbing another boy by the collar. His fist slammed into the boy’s ribs once, twice, three times, each punch landing with a muffled, wet thud like meat tenderising under iron. The boy collapsed forward, coughing blood onto the flooded street.
And then chaos exploded around them.
She could only watch, her arms tight around Shion’s shaking shoulders as Mucho and Mocchi tore through the remaining men like wolves through dying calves. Blood sprayed across the rain, blooming dark red in cold sheets. Fists split skin from bone, knees cracked jaws sideways, the thunder above swallowed their screams. One tried to run, but Mocchi’s boot swung out like a battering ram, slamming into the side of his knee with a shattering crunch that made bile rise in her throat.
Shion’s breathing rasped harshly against her ear, his weight slumping heavier into her chest. She felt the warm flood of his blood soaking through her uniform with every weak heartbeat against her ribs. She pressed her handkerchief tighter against his torn side, making him hiss in pain and groan. She did what she could, opening his top up and stuffing his bleeding side with the clean cloth she had to at least stop the spill of blood.
Her hands trembled as they pressed the soaked handkerchief into the open wound at Shion’s side. Each time her palm pressed down, he hissed through gritted teeth, his shoulders twitching under her touch, breath ragged and bubbling with wet pain that she hushed with a plea.
“Shion…” she whispered, her voice breaking, lost in the roar of rain pounding the rusted metal around them. Her tears were indistinguishable from the droplets sliding down her cheeks. “Shion… why… why can’t you just… just fucking tell me what you’re thinking…?”
He didn’t answer. His lips were parted, eyes glazed and half-shut, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. Blood seeped between her fingers despite her efforts, warm and slick against her chilled skin.
She let out a sound between a sob and a scream, curling forward, her forehead pressing against his wet hair as her shoulders shook violently. “I don’t… I don’t get it… I don’t get you…! I’ve tried… I’ve tried so fucking hard… to understand you, to see you… but you… you just… you push me away… every time…! Please! Just talk to me...!”
Around them, bodies slammed into the ground with bone-snapping thuds. Mocchi’s fist swung out, catching a man across the jaw so hard his head snapped sideways like a ragdoll, blood spraying into the sheets of rain. Mucho moved with brutality, his fists methodical, patient, every strike a calculated dismantling of flesh and bone.
Shion’s fingers twitched weakly against her hip, the only sign he heard her at all. His eyes fluttered open halfway, unfocused, pupils wide and glassy under the dim streetlights. His mouth worked soundlessly before a thin, broken whisper slipped out between his split lips.
“…shut… up…”
She sobbed out a small laugh, watery and shaking, her tears dripping onto his cheek and mixing with the rain sliding down his jawline. “You… you asshole… all this time… all I wanted… was to know what you feel… what’s in your head… because…”
Her voice broke again, laughing so softly, so broken. She swallowed down the bile rising in her throat, tasting blood and rain and grief. Her hands curled tighter into his torn uniform as thunder roared above them.
“…because in the end… we only have each other… Shion… it’s always been… just us… you know…?”
His eyes flickered, lids fluttering with exhaustion and pain. The world around him blurred, smudged with rain and blood, with the blurry movements of Mocchi’s boot slamming into a man’s gut, Mucho’s elbow cracking down on someone’s spine with a dull, echoing crunch. His world narrowed to her face above him, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes swollen and red, mouth trembling with every breath.
But in the end, he saw her.
A memory? No, a feeling flickered through his fading mind like lightning splitting the black sky in pieces.
He saw her. Saw her standing behind him on the rooftop at sunset, hair glowing under the last bleeding light of day, small fists clenched at her sides as she glared at the city with defiance that dwarfed her body.
He saw her crouched in the rain beside him years ago, his nose broken and bleeding after a fight he lost, her hands shoving tissues into his nostrils while tears slid silently down her cheeks. She never said a word that day, just sat beside him as he shook with silent rage.
He saw her first with blood on her knees.
They were children, no, not even that, just strays scurrying under the skeletal beams of abandoned construction sites. Her little fists were bruised purple, knuckles scabbed over with dried blood as she tried to punch the rusted beams like he did.
He’d spat at her back then, annoyed, “What the fuck you doin’? You’ll never be strong like that.”
But she’d only turned her head, tears clinging to her lashes, snot dripping onto her lip, and said in a small, trembling voice, “I just… wanna be strong too…”
He remembered the way her voice cracked on ‘too’. The way it scraped against his ribs like broken glass, he couldn’t spit out.
He saw her again under the streetlight at dusk, the world glowing a dim, bruised orange. They’d gotten into a fight with older kids who’d called her names, laughed about the way she always followed Shion around like a stray shadow.
He’d gotten his ass beat. Blood dripping down his temple, vision spinning, fists clenching uselessly at his sides. He remembered the copper taste flooding his mouth as he knelt in the dirt.
But then, she’d thrown herself onto one of them, small hands clawing at his face, biting down on his ear until he screamed and shoved her away. She fell hard, her forehead splitting open on the gravel with a sickening crack.
He remembered a time in Tenjiku when he came back from a brawl with another division, his nose broken, blood streaked down his chest, brass knuckles smeared with scarlet and ash. He’d thrown himself down onto the cracked leather couch in their dorm common room, panting, triumphant, feeling the raw adrenaline coil like a king’s crown around his skull.
She’d walked in, eyes widening when she saw him sprawled there, blood smeared down his chin. For a moment, he thought she’d look at him with fear. Reverence. Like everyone else did.
But instead, she’d sighed, long and quiet, walking over to him without a word. Her small fingers tilted his face up, examining his swollen nose with clinical annoyance.
“Hold still,” she’d muttered. Before he could react, her thumb pressed against the side of his nose and snapped the broken cartilage back into place with a wet, crunching pop.
The scream that tore out of his throat was strangled and pathetic. Tears burned his eyes instantly, vision spinning white with pain.
“What the fuck— FUCK!!” he roared at her, shoving her hands away.
But she just wiped her bloody thumb on her pants and said flatly, “Stop being dramatic. It’ll heal crooked if you leave it like that.”
Then she turned away, walking off to wash her hands under the rust-stained sink.
He’d sat there, panting, tears slipping down his cheeks. Rage burned under his skin like acid.
He saw her training under Mucho’s watchful eye, her ribs bruised purple, her lips split, but her eyes burned with stubborn, violent determination as she got back up again. And again. And again.
He saw her at Izana’s side, bowing her head with respect, shoulders squared, gaze firm. Izana’s cold eyes swept over her, lips twitching with faint approval. Shion had felt something gnawing, writhing under his skin that day.
Resentment. Jealousy. Rage. Fear.
He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious like they all said. He knew exactly what it meant when Izana’s gaze lingered on her, when Izana called her name instead of his, when Izana praised her growth in combat and strategy. When Izana said,
“You’re stronger than Shion already.”
He’d laughed it off, thrown an arm around her neck, ruffled her hair until she squirmed and slapped him away. But that night, alone in their room, he punched the wall until his knuckles split open like overripe fruit, until blood dripped down the peeling paint in thin, trembling lines.
He remembered her saving him. Again. And again. And again.
In the streets when someone swung a metal pipe at his blind side.
In the back alleys when an older punk tried to stab him with a broken bottle.
In a fight against rival gang kids when he slipped on spilled oil and she darted in front of him, taking the knee to the stomach that would’ve crushed his ribs.
She always laughed it off after, even when her lip bled or her body curled around the pain, wheezing through her cracked ribs.
“Idiot,” she’d rasp, breathless, voice bubbling with laughter even as blood smeared her teeth. “Watch your damn back next time.”
And he would stand there, brass knuckles trembling on his fists, looking down at her shaking body.
He wanted to scream at her. Hit her. Crush her under his fists just to feel tall again.
Instead, he’d turn away, muttering curses under his breath, spitting on the ground so she couldn’t see his eyes blur with frustrated tears.
And he realised, he couldn’t tell if this was his life flashing before his eyes or if it was his emotions finally being seen.
For so long, all he saw was the way she made him feel small. Her strength, her speed, the way she caught Izana’s eye when he never could. He hated her for it. Hated her so deeply it made his bones ache.
But now, lying broken in her arms, her blood mixing with his, her sobs choking against his hair, he saw it clearly:
She wasn’t towering over him.
She was standing beside him.
His equal. His sister. The only one who never turned away, even when he shoved her into the dirt, even when he spat cruel words she didn’t deserve, even when his fists spoke the truths he could never say out loud.
He tried to speak, but his throat burned with copper and cold. He swallowed, wincing at the pain, before he managed to croak out between trembling lips.
“…hey…”
She lifted her head, eyes swollen, tears sliding down her chin to patter against his cheek. “What… what is it…?” she whispered, voice breaking on every syllable.
He blinked slowly, rain dripping from his lashes. His mouth twitched into something small, tired. Almost a smile.
“You’re… fuckin’ annoying…”
A laugh sputtered out of her, half-choked with sobs. She shook her head, hair whipping rain across his face as she leaned closer, her forehead resting against his.
“You always… looked strong to me, Shion…” she whispered, her breath trembling against his lips. “No matter how ridiculous you were… how stupid you acted… you always looked strong…”
Her fingers curled tighter into his collar, pulling him closer as the thunder cracked above them, illuminating the world in stark black and white.
“Because strength… wasn’t your fists… or how people feared you… it was… it was you… standing in front of me… unafraid… even if you were terrified inside…”
He exhaled shakily, his chest hitching against hers, blood bubbling warm between their bodies. His eyes flickered shut, exhaustion pulling him under like a dark tide, but he felt her words brand into his ribs, heavy and aching.
His equal.
His sister.
The one who would always be there, even when he didn’t deserve it.
Around them, the storm raged on. Mocchi and Mucho stood over the fallen bodies, the rain washing blood from their fists, thunder growling low across the bruised horizon. But for that moment, there was only them, curled together in the freezing flood, breathing each other’s air, feeling each other’s broken, beating hearts.
Mucho finished first. His last opponent fell to the ground with his nose split open, screaming through blood-choked gurgles as he clutched his ruined face. Mucho didn’t spare him a glance. He turned toward Shion and her, his expression unreadable in the flickering lightning. For a moment, he just looked at them.
His eyes flicked to Shion’s half-conscious form, to her trembling arms curled around him like a dying cat, to the blood pooling around their knees.
Then Mucho sighed quietly. The sound was lost in the storm. He walked forward, kneeling down in the water, boots sinking into the mud. His large hand closed around Shion’s shoulder, squeezing once–not gently, not cruelly, just firmly.
“Madarame,” he said, his voice low, soft, almost kind in a way that made her throat tighten, “You’re lucky she’s here, you know that?”
Shion didn’t respond. His eyes were open, glazed, rolling slightly in his skull. Blood dripped from his split lip with each trembling breath.
Mocchi came up behind them, wiping blood from his knuckles onto his soaked pants with casual indifference. “C’mon,” he rumbled, his voice strangely quiet in the downpour. “Let’s get ‘em home. Hospital? Before Izana gets pissed, we ruined the streets.”
She swallowed down the rising sob in her throat. Her arms shook as she tried to keep Shion upright, her own ribs screaming with every shallow inhale.
Mucho moved first. He slid one arm under Shion’s knees, the other bracing his back. For a brief second, Shion’s head lolled sideways against Mucho’s chest, eyes flickering open halfway. His gaze caught hers, unfocused, dazed, but for the briefest moment, his lips twitched.
A small, bitter, broken half-smile.
Then his eyes rolled back and his lashes fluttered shut as Mucho lifted him effortlessly from her arms, cradling his limp form against his chest like a broken doll.
“Get up,” Mocchi said gruffly, reaching down to grab her under her arm. His grip was rough, almost painful, but it kept her on her feet as her knees buckled. She gasped at the pain blooming under her ribs as he steadied her against his side. “You good to walk?”
She nodded once, barely. Her vision swam with blackness at the edges, but she swallowed it down, tasting blood and rain and bile in her mouth.
She was like a lion’s tail, always steady and there behind him.
Like a flower, a lion’s tail, enduring and thriving even when life is rough, she just kept growing no matter how bad things got.
Now, he saw her not as someone above him, but as someone who never left his side.
Because no matter how many times he tried to push her away, she always came back.
He kept looking ahead, never noticing how she was always there behind him.
It was fitting; his name meant lion, and she was his tail.
The part that followed, steadied, and moved with him, no matter where he went.
If you have any specific requests, click this!
This was honestly longer than I expected, but it's soo worth it. I was just so dedicated to the story and their relationship that I couldn't stop with just a short one-shot or sleep properly. Also, I used some lines and old parts and scenes from the past stuff that I wrote in a docs, so it was faster for me to write some scenes.
First time writing these characters besides the Haitani's! It was lovely writing the other S-62 Gen gang. I was so excited writing the moment it was requested, as I've been looking into their characters lately, and now I get to write them! Finally!
Though it's just such a shame that we don't get to see Mochi, Mucho, and Shion often in the official manga and games, or learn much about them. I love these guys as characters, and I'll definitely write them again. These guys deserve some attention too.
the Haitanis only sister being traumatized at a young age due to her brothers enemies and a situation in their new gang occur that triggers that past event ?
The Taste of Rue
"He prided himself on how the people feared their names. But now, standing in front of his battered sister, he realized how much she feared it the most."
╰---•❥ Written by: Lucielitta
CW: long. non-consensual implications, sexual assault (off-screen), trauma aftermath, graphic emotional breakdown, guilt, disturbing imagery, mention of violence, psychological horror, implied suicidal ideation, familial angst
Genre: dark psychological angst, hurt/no comfort
WC: 9,200+
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A Haitani Brothers x Sister Reader Oneshot.
She wasn’t known for anything except the blood that tied her to them, and that blood had a way of staining everything it touched.
That which once strengthened them crushed her— their influence, their name. It had been a crown upon their heads, something they wore with pride, but now he saw it for what it was—fragile, like a flower sown in the wrong soil. It reminded him that power had never been unbreakable; it was delicate. No matter how strong men were, even they had weaknesses. And his greatest weakness was the fear in her eyes.
It started small.
A slight hesitation before speaking. The way her fingers curled into her sleeves when they stood too close. Her breath shifted when Ran casually draped an arm over her shoulder, his usual lazy grin plastered across his face.
At first, they didn’t think much of it. Maybe she was just tired and moody, or perhaps she was still shaken by what had happened years ago. She was always strong; he had seen it himself. She had known their world since they were young, seen its horrors, yet never crumbled under its weight.
But it kept going. Days stretched into weeks, and it didn’t fade.
She stopped meeting their eyes.
Not completely, not at first. But there was that faint hesitation, a cautiousness that wasn’t like her. She avoided their gazes like a dangerous thing, something she feared would pierce her, something that could rip open the carefully built walls in her mind. As if looking into her, their eyes were like staring at a monster waiting to pounce, the realization creeping in that they weren’t untouchable. They were human. They were flawed. And the lines between her family and the monsters she had come to fear began to blur.
Rindou noticed it first, and the change gnawed at him in ways he couldn't describe. He wasn’t as carefree as Ran. He didn’t hide behind his laid-back attitude as easily. He saw it, every subtle shift, every small movement that she didn’t think he noticed. The way her hands would tremble when she picked up a glass of water, as though the simple act of holding something steady was a struggle. He saw her staring at them, watching, but not really seeing them. Her eyes would linger on them longer than they should, but it was never a look of recognition or comfort. It was different. Something darker. Something uncertain.
And when she looked at Rindou, her gaze would flicker down the moment he glanced her way as if he were something to be feared, even though he had never harmed her. He was a heavy drinker. That was no secret. But it never mattered to him that she steered clear of him when he was drunk. He thought nothing of it, knowing full well that he had never once harmed her in his haze. But to her, it was like a wall she couldn’t cross. She would back away, slowly, deliberately, whenever he took that first swig of alcohol. Even if he was just joking with her, even if he smiled, the distance was always there. It was an instinct, the kind of carefulness that came from a trauma that ran deeper than any words could express.
And Ran.
Ran didn’t understand. Not at first. She had always been close to him, always the sister he could tease, always the one who shared a quiet moment of calm in a world full of chaos. But now, there was something in her that was... broken. Something fragile that he hadn’t noticed before, something that slipped past his usually sharp senses. She was always careful with him, always watching his moods, but now, it was as if she was waiting for him to snap. Waiting for the other side of him, the one he had buried deep beneath layers of jokes and arrogance. It was more than just caution; it was fear. Fear twisted in her eyes when he raised his voice, fear when his temper flared. And it wasn’t just fear of what he might do-it was fear of what he had done.
The distance between them stretched. She wasn’t his little sister anymore. She was a stranger, walking on eggshells around him, as if afraid that the slightest misstep would cause the world to fall apart.
Then came the moment—the first trigger.
The sun had barely risen over the city as she made her way to someplace, the streets still quiet, save for a few early risers. She kept her head low, her hoodie pulled up to shield her face from the world. Her mind replayed the conversation from last night with her brothers, the weight of their words still pressing on her. Things were changing, maybe for the better, but it wasn’t going to be easy.
As she walked past a narrow alley, a sense of unease crept up her spine. Footsteps echoed behind her, quick and heavy. She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of three menacing figures closing in on her. Panic surged in her chest as she picked up her pace, but it was too late.
A rough hand grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her into the alley. She stumbled, her backpack falling to the ground with a thud.
“Well, well, look who we’ve got here,” one of the men sneered, his voice dripping with malice. He was tall, with a scar running down the side of his face, and wore the insignia of a rival gang her brothers had tangled with lately.
“You’re Ran and Rindou’s sister, right?” another one chimed in, stepping forward. He cracked his knuckles, his grin wide and threatening. “They’ve caused us enough trouble, so maybe it’s time to send them a message.”
Her heart raced, shaken, thoughts flashing behind her eyes, but she forced herself to stand her ground. “I don’t have anything to do with them,” she spat, trying to keep her voice steady. “Leave me alone.”
“Yeah, sure,” the third guy laughed, stepping closer until he was inches from her face. “You’re their blood. That’s enough.”
Before she could react, the first man swung his fist, landing a hard punch to her stomach. She doubled over, gasping for air, but they didn’t give her time to recover. Another punch hit her across the jaw, sending her crashing into the brick wall. Pain exploded in her ribs, but she bit down on her lip, refusing to scream.
The three men circled her like vultures, taking turns with their kicks and punches. Her vision blurred, the world spinning as the brutal assault continued. She wanted to fight back, to scream, but she knew it would only make things worse. These guys didn’t care who she was; they just wanted to hurt her because of her brothers.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they stepped back. One of them spat on the ground near her, sneering. “Tell Ran and Rindou we said hi.”
With that, they disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving her crumpled on the ground, bruised and bleeding. She lay there for a moment, her body aching from the beating before she slowly pulled herself to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly, but she forced herself to move, her hoodie pulled tight over her head to hide her swollen face.
She prayed, no, she wished this would pass, that this wouldn’t be seen. The last thing she needed was for them to start a war over this. She just wanted to disappear into her room and pretend it hadn’t happened.
The apartment was empty, just like she’d hoped. She let out a shaky breath, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. She ran her fingers over the bruises on her arms and ribs, wincing at the touch. They had really done a number on her. But the physical pain wasn’t the worst part. It was the anger bubbling up inside her, the anger at her brothers for dragging her into their world, at herself for not fighting back, and at the fact that, no matter what she did, she couldn’t escape the shadow they cast over her life.
She slumped down on her bed, pulling her knees to her chest. The silence of the apartment was comforting, but it was also suffocating. She didn’t want to be alone, not really, but the thought of facing Ran and Rindou like this… was unbearable.
So, for now, she’d keep quiet. She’d handle her feelings first. She’d hide the bruises, put on a brave face, and hope that they never found out. But deep down, she knew it was only a matter of time before the truth came crashing down around them.
As she lay there in the dark, her body aching and her mind racing, one thought kept repeating in her head: ‘How much longer can I keep this up?’
The answer, she feared, was not long at all.
Her thoughts stretched time into something long and heavy, but the faint rattle of her bedroom door knob made the beat of her heart stutter, the sound cutting through the stillness like a knife.
“Oi,” he muttered, voice getting louder in her head.
“You good?” he called. “I’ve been calling you for a minute, and you wouldn’t answer.”
A frown creased his brow as he pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges revealing the dimly lit room. His sister was curled up on her bed, her back to the door, her hoodie pulled up over her head like she was trying to hide from the world. Rindou felt a brief flash of annoyance. She was always shutting them out, but then again, he couldn’t blame her. They had never made it easy for her to get close to them.
She didn’t move. Rindou’s frown deepened as he moved closer, his instincts flaring. Something was definitely wrong.
That’s when he noticed the faint marks on her wrists… bruises. His heart skipped a beat, and his earlier irritation was quickly replaced with a sense of dread. His eyes darted over her form, and he noticed how tense she seemed, how she was trying to bury herself deeper into the bed as if she didn’t want to be seen.
“Hey, what the hell?” Rindou reached out, gently tugging on her shoulder to turn her over. His eyes widened when he saw her face.
The bruises. The cuts. The swollen eye. The exposed blue-black blossomed like night flowers across her cheek and jaw.
“Shit.” The word escaped his mouth before he could stop it, his chest tightening with a mixture of anger and shock. “What happened to you?”
She winced, pulling away from his touch and turning her face back toward the pillow. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.
“Nothing?!” Rindou’s voice was louder now, the shock wearing off as anger quickly took its place. “Who did this? Was it someone from that club? Some random guy?” He grabbed her arm again, more forcefully this time, his mind racing with the worst possibilities.
She flinched at his touch, her whole body stiffening in pain. “Let go, Rindou!” she snapped, yanking her arm away. “I said it’s nothing!”
“Nothing?” Rindou’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. “Don’t lie to me. Did someone jump you?” His eyes flicked over her face again, piecing together the ugly truth. “This is because of us, isn’t it? Who was it?”
She stayed silent, biting her lip to stop herself from saying something she’d regret. She didn’t want him to know. She didn’t like either of them to know. This was her mess to deal with. But the anger in Rindou’s eyes told her she wouldn’t be able to keep it from him for long.
“I don’t know who they were,” she finally mumbled, her voice strained. “Just some guys. They didn’t say much… Just that it had something to do with you and Ran.”
Rindou’s blood boiled. Rival gangs. Of course. They had come after her because they couldn’t touch him or Ran. Cowards. Absolute cowards. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, a white-hot rage building inside of him.
“I’m gonna kill them,” he growled, his voice dark and full of venom. “Whoever did this, they’re dead.”
“Rindou, no,” she protested, sitting up despite the pain. “You can’t do that! It’ll just make things worse. I don’t need you guys starting a fight over this.”
He whipped around, his eyes blazing. “They beat you! You think we’re just gonna let that slide?!” His voice cracked with emotion, the anger barely masking the fear he felt for her. “I’m not gonna let them get away with this.”
She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t want more violence, Rindou. That’s what I’m trying to get away from. You and Ran—everything you do just makes things worse. I don’t want to live in your world.”
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He stood there, stunned into silence. All the fights, all the bloodshed, the way they ruled over Roppongi. It had never occurred to him just how much it was costing her. She had been dragged into their mess, and now she was paying the price for it.
For a moment, Rindou didn’t know what to say. He had always been the one who enjoyed the thrill of the fight, taking pride in the fear and influence their name inspired. He prided himself on how the people feared their names. But now, standing in front of his battered sister, he realized how much she feared it the most.
He swallowed hard, his anger ebbing as guilt began to creep in. “I… I didn’t know,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think it would hurt you like this.”
She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. “You guys never think about me. You never think about how it feels to be the one stuck in the middle.”
Rindou stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out to touch her arm gently. “I’m sorry. I swear, we didn’t mean for any of this to happen to you.”
She looked up at him, her bruised face softened by the vulnerability in her brother’s eyes. For the first time, she saw that he wasn’t just angry, he was scared. Scared for her.
But she… she was scared of him. Of them.
Days and nights have crawled by since then, the bruises still blooming beneath her skin.
The room smelled of old wood varnish and cooling coffee; the curtains, half-drawn against the late afternoon sun, cast slanting shadows across the floor in long, broken stripes. Dust floated in the light as if the air were still, swirling only when someone moved. She sat on the couch, back hunched, sleeves pulled down over her fists, eyes fixed on the swirling steam rising from her untouched mug, before tapping away at her phone.
Ran sprawled lazily on the armchair opposite, a cigarette burning between his fingers, ash curling toward the floor. Rindou leaned against the side of the couch, arms crossed, gaze heavy and silent. There was something sharp in the quiet today, something serrated just beneath the stillness.
“So,” Ran began, voice casual but weighted with something that scraped against the walls of her chest, “you haven’t been eating properly lately.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She blinked at the screen, eyes flicking to the steam of the mug, its wisps curling up and vanishing before they reached her eyes. She didn’t respond.
Rindou let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oi. Answer him.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. The words left her lips like moth wings, brittle and hollow.
“Fine,” Ran repeated, flicking ash onto the tray, his eyes dark beneath the fringe of pale hair. “Right. That’s what you always say.”
She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t look at him either. Her gaze skated over the room, over the peeling paint along the side of the TV stand, the silent flicker of the TV screen on standby, and the tiny chipped ceramic cat on the windowsill that watched her like an omen.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he said, softer now. It wasn’t a request.
Her eyes flickered up, just for a moment, before darting away again, like a trapped sparrow beating against glass. “What do you want me to say, Ran?”
“An honest answer would be nice,” he replied, his voice laced with a smile that never touched his eyes. “But you can’t even give us that anymore, can you?”
She curled tighter into herself, tucking her chin to her chest. The anger in the room was thin, quiet, threaded with frustrated desperation neither brother could voice.
Rindou shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Bullshit,” Ran snapped the sudden bite in his voice, making her flinch before she could stop herself. “Don’t lie. You’ve been brushing us off all week, barely saying two words, acting like we’re diseased or something.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed, but no words came out. The silence felt like oil sliding down her lungs, thick and choking.
“Yesterday,” Rindou began, voice low, almost careful, “I asked you if you wanted to come with us for dinner. You said you were busy. Busy doing what? Busy out? Or sitting alone in your room like that?”
She didn’t answer.
“And the day before that,” Ran continued, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering forgotten between his fingers, “I asked you about something. You changed the subject so fast I almost thought you were gonna give yourself whiplash.”
She drew in a quiet breath through her nose, her eyes flickering with pale, watery defiance as she lifted her mug, fingers trembling just enough for the ceramic to clink softly against her teeth. The steam was almost gone now. Its warmth was only a phantom whisper on her lips.
“I was busy cleaning my room,” she said finally, her voice gentle and flat, like a pale rag wiping down a stained countertop, like it was merely a fact filed into conversation with no further meaning. “I had to reorganize my shelves. And… you know. Laundry.”
Ran scoffed, the sound thin and sharp, like a blade slicing down the belly of her lie, letting its hollow guts spill out across the floorboards. “Laundry,” he repeated, an echo that made the word rot in the air. He sat back, staring at her through the drifting ash, his cigarette burned down to the filter, but he hadn’t noticed. His gaze flickered over her with something tired and cruel. “Right. Of course. Laundry. How could I forget your… busy schedule.”
Rindou’s lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were pinned to the floor, lashes hiding the flickering darkness there. A tendon in his jaw jumped. He breathed out, slow and quiet, like each exhale was siphoning poison from the veins of his patience.
“You’re lying,” he murmured.
Her head tilted, gaze flicking up with that wide, unblinking emptiness. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Ran said simply. His voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was… disappointed. Bruised. Like something precious had been dropped and cracked, the hairline fractures growing by the hour. “But fine. If you want to lie to us, that’s your choice.”
“I’m not lying,” she repeated, her voice trembling now, shaking around the bones of the words as if they were shards cutting into her tongue. “I just… I just didn’t want to come, okay? Is that such a crime? I wanted to be alone. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Rindou echoed, finally looking up at her, his gaze slicing through her skin like rusted wire. His eyes were so still. There was no anger in them, no spark, only something aching and heavy, like wet cloth nailed to a wall, sagging with weight. “You’ve been snappy at us for days. You cut us off when we speak. You won’t even look at us when we’re talking to you. You brush us off like we’re strangers asking for change on the street.”
“I just wanted to be alone,” she said again, louder this time, but her voice cracked at the edges, fraying like an old thread pulled too tight. Her fingers tightened around the mug until her knuckles glowed white beneath the skin that seemed almost translucent in the weak sun.
Ran flicked his dead cigarette into the ashtray, the butt bouncing off the rim with a hollow clink. “Then just say that. Don’t lie. Don’t pretend you’re busy doing pointless shit like… reorganizing shelves. Do you think we’re idiots? Do you think we don’t notice?”
“Stop,” she snapped, the word tearing out of her throat like a broken glass bottle, cutting her lips on the way out. The mug rattled against the saucer as she set it down, eyes blazing with something ugly and uncontained. “Stop it, okay? Stop… interrogating me like this.”
“We just want an honest answer,” Rindou said quietly, his arms still folded, hands gripping his sleeves so tight the tendons stood out like white bones beneath the skin. “Why are you avoiding us?”
“I’m not avoiding you,” she hissed, breath coming shallow now, her ribs aching like they were splintering under her skin. “I’m just… tired. Can’t I be tired for once without you two crawling up my spine about it?”
The silence that followed tasted like rust and old pennies. Ran’s gaze stayed on her, eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable and heavy as black stones in a riverbed. Rindou let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose, then pushed off the couch, boots creaking against the floorboards as he walked toward the kitchen without another word.
Ran remained seated, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed slightly as he stared at the floor. The light slanting in from the window split his face in half – one side shadowed and sunken, the other pale and hollow, the light picking out the tired lines carved beneath his eyes.
She stood abruptly, the motion rattling the table. The mug sloshed, dark coffee sliding down the white ceramic-like blood trickling down porcelain skin. She scoffed a bitter, broken little sound that felt like it tore something inside her chest as it left.
“Whatever,” she muttered, the syllables small but sharp. “I’m done with this.”
She turned, stepping over the broken bars of shadow on the floor, her feet silent on the wood. Ran didn’t look up as she walked past him, only exhaling softly, almost inaudibly, like something in him was deflating, collapsing in slow surrender.
As she reached the hallway, Rindou’s voice drifted out from the kitchen, quiet and frayed.
“Let her go,” he said to Ran, though it was more a plea than an instruction. “She won’t talk today. She… she never does."
In the living room, Ran sat in silence, head bowed between his hands, cigarette smoke still lingering like ghost fingers against the ceiling.
In her chest, her heart beat a thin, uneven rhythm, each thud scraping bone. Her vision blurred at the edges as she walked down the narrow hallway, her hands trembling at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
There was something bubbling inside her. Something dark and boiling, tar-thick and rising, clawing at her throat with hooked fingers. Something that wanted to scream, to tear at her skin and let the seething swarm pour out. But she swallowed it down, as always, letting it churn behind her ribs, letting it gnaw at the cage of her bones.
In the bathroom mirror, she didn’t look at herself as she turned on the tap, cold water splashing against porcelain like distant rain.
She felt it, that madness that was quiet, undulating. She felt it cracking through her mind, seeping out behind her eyes in tremors of shadow and distant sound. The world felt thin here. Almost too thin to stand on. Almost too thin to breathe in.
And in the living room, the brothers sat in their silent frustration. Letting her off the hook. Letting her slip further away like a severed lifeline sinking into nothing, leaving them clutching nothing but silence.
And somewhere within her chest, something broke. Something monstrous and small and trembling. Something that wept even as it laughed.
She must’ve thought she could hold it in despite the noise, bury it just like she always does.
But today, it began quietly.
A quiet so deep it felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to break in.
They were in the warehouse, shadows pooling around crates and steel beams, dust motes drifting through grim fluorescence. The scent of engine oil, rust, and stale cigarette smoke clung heavily to the concrete, curling into her lungs until she tasted metal every time she swallowed.
She stood off to the side, half-hidden in shadows, arms wrapped around herself, fingers curled tight into the hem of her sleeves. Her brothers’ voices murmured over paperwork and profits, numbers and trades, the empire of their underworld shifting beneath their words. She didn’t hear them. Her ears buzzed with something thick and low, like the sound of blood rushing through the hollow tunnels of her veins.
“Hey,” Ran called over his shoulder without looking at her, his voice low, tired, fraying at the edges. “Go grab the paperwork from the van. Now.”
She flinched, mind turning back to the present, nodding quickly, feet moving before thought could catch up. The soles of her shoes slapped against the cold concrete, echoing in the wide empty space as she stepped out into the waning light.
The van sat in the alley, quiet and waiting, paint flaking along the rims like peeling scabs of an old wound. She tugged the passenger door open, rummaging in the glovebox with trembling fingers until her nails scraped cardboard and metal and she found the stack of papers clipped together, stamped in harsh red ink.
She turned, ready to flee back into the dim safety of the warehouse, only to freeze.
They stood there. A small group. Black jackets soaked in the alley's shadow. Cigarette tips glowing like angry eyes. Their grins split open their faces, baring teeth yellowed with nicotine and rot. Her chest constricted, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard she felt her vision stutter with every second she stared.
“Well, look who it is,” the leader drawled, his voice curling around her like thorned wire, slicing delicate skin as it pressed close. “Pretty little bitch. Didn’t think we’d see you again so soon.”
The papers slipped from her hands, scattering across damp concrete in a soft, papery sigh. She backed away a step, legs trembling so hard the ground quaked beneath her feet.
“Stay… stay away,” she whispered, the words tasting of bile and old blood. “I… I don’t want trouble.”
It’s them, the ones who messed with her weeks ago, just for having the names of her brothers.
“Oh, but you are trouble,” he laughed, stepping closer. “Your big brothers in there? Let’s see how tough they act when you're screaming.”
His voice warped in her ears, words stretching and bending like molten metal poured down her ear canals, sizzling through brain matter.
Because suddenly, she wasn’t there.
She was back there. Back then. Years ago…
Hands grabbing her hair, slamming her head against the brick until her teeth rattled and stars burst behind her eyes in tiny flickers. A voice curling into her eardrums with sick amusement:
“Don’t cry.”
Her vision split. Two visions layered atop each other in flickering reels:
One. The man before her, grinning with rot, words dripping venom.
And two. The men back then, maybe 3, 4, or 5 of them, hands pawing under her shirt, breath sour with cheap liquor and honest brutality.
“We’re doing them a favor, you know,” one slurred against her ear, tongue wet and thick. “What do you think happens when you’re part of their world?”
The world now and the world then blurred at the edges, smearing like fresh blood and rain under her trembling fingers. The leader reached out to grip her chin, forcing her gaze up. She blinked, and his face became his face, the one who had pressed a knife to her throat, smiling with rotted teeth and shadowed eyes.
Her knees buckled. The alley tilted. Her vision stuttered and strobed.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered in her memory and in her ears now, voices overlapping like two jagged blades scraping together with that unbearable sound she couldn’t turn away from, no matter how hard she clapped her hands on her ears. “Don’t cry, little thing. It’ll hurt more if you fight.”
She fell to her knees, breathing ragged, tears blurring the filth-streaked concrete beneath her. Their laughter surrounded her like crows gathering on bone branches.
She couldn’t tell if she was in the present or the past anymore. Her vision unfocusing as it relived memories.
A hand suddenly fisted in her hair and ripped her upright. Her scream was silent, caught in her chest like a trapped bird, wings shattering against bone bars.
The leader smirked, leaning in close enough that she felt the heat of his rot-stained breath on her lips. “What, cat got your tongue?” He shook her once, hard enough that her teeth clacked together. “Go on. Scream for them. Scream like you did last time.”
Scream. Don’t cry. Scream. Don’t cry.
The words danced together in her skull, cracking against each other like dry bones in a funeral pyre. She tried to focus on the papers scattered around her feet, ink bleeding into damp concrete, the smell of oil and blood mixing in her nose until it was all she could taste.
Then he slapped her.
Her head snapped sideways, pain flowering bright and hot along her cheekbone. Something inside her flickered. Dimmed. Went silent.
She fought back her mind, screaming away at her thoughts, bringing herself up to run.
But one of them lunged. She stumbled back, panic spiraling up her ribs harshly, lungs seizing as some paper fell from her hands in a flurry of sheets. She turned, bolting again for the warehouse door, but they followed, their laughter bouncing off the alley walls like echoing gunshots.
She burst inside, breath ragged, eyes wild, and the underlings froze. Ran’s gaze snapped to her, cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers, lips parting around a question he didn’t get to ask.
Because they followed her in. They stepped over the threshold with slow, confident strides, like wolves entering an abandoned chapel, the smell of blood trailing behind them in memory.
“Ran Haitani,” the leader crooned, his voice dripping with mockery as he spread his arms wide. “Long time no see. Mind if we chat about your little whore here?”
The air snapped.
Rindou moved first, grabbing one of their men by the collar and slamming him into a stack of crates, the crash echoing. Ran’s smile was slow, feral, cigarette trembling between his lips as his eyes turned black with fury.
She watched it unfold with numb horror, like her mind was submerged in water, everything muffled and distorted. The rival leader sneered down at her where she crouched to gather the scattered paperwork, his boot stepping down on her fingers. Pain flared, sharp, and immediate, but her body didn’t move. She only stared up at him, eyes glassy, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.
“Still so pathetic,” he murmured, leaning down to grip her jaw tight enough to bruise. “No wonder you—”
His words cut off as Ran’s fist collided with his temple, knocking him sideways into the shutter with a metallic screech. Chaos erupted – shouting, fists slamming into flesh, blood blooming across the concrete like a bouquet of crushed roses bleeding underfoot. The warehouse trembled with the violence, men grunting and screaming, the wet crack of knuckles against jaw echoing in her skull until it was all she could hear.
She stayed on her knees, trembling, papers soaked in spattered blood, breathing in ragged gasps as the smell of iron filled her nose. Ran grabbed the rival by the hair, dragging him upright, his eyes wild and unseeing.
“You think you can touch her?!” Ran roared, voice shredding the air. “You think you can fucking touch what’s ours?!”
The rival only laughed, blood bubbling between his teeth. “Yours? She’s everyone’s, isn’t she?”
Ran screamed as he slammed the man’s face into the steel beam, again and again, until the laughter turned to choked gurgles. Until his screams turned to silence. Until the only sound left was Ran’s ragged breathing and her quiet sobs echoing through the warehouse like a broken plea.
Outside, thunder growled, rolling across the covered sky as heavy rain began to fall, pattering against the shutter in soft, mocking applause. The storm had come.
And in her chest, beneath the terror, something cold and monstrous uncurled, lifting its head to the scent of blood and ruin, whispering in her mind with words like rot and ruin and finally.
Her mind was elsewhere, flickering to the past that fogged up her mind, overlapping with the present, the distant sounds of fighting humming in her ear till it went silent.
The rival gang was dragged out by the underlings, unconscious or bleeding, their bodies leaving smears of red across the concrete like silent accusations.
But inside, the warehouse was not silent.
It seethed. Loud and overwhelming.
“Are you fucking insane?!” Rindou’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp as a whip, his hair hanging damp against his forehead from the rain splatter at the door. “You just stood there! You let them follow you in here!”
She crouched against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, trembling so hard her teeth chattered. Her eyes flicked up to him, wide and empty, pupils blown black.
“I–I didn’t… I couldn’t—”
“Couldn’t what?!” Rindou’s voice broke, strangled with disbelief and frustration as he threw his arms out. “Couldn’t scream? Couldn’t fight back? What the fuck is wrong with you lately?!”
“Rindou.” Ran’s voice was low, shaking with unshed rage, his chest heaving as he wiped blood from his knuckles onto his slacks. His cigarette had fallen somewhere during the beating, crushed beneath his heel. “Back off.”
“No!” Rindou shoved him in the chest, hard enough to make Ran stumble back a step. The sudden movement made her flinch violently against the wall, like a roach scuttling from a looming boot. “No, Ran! She’s been fucking up for weeks. She’s out of it all the damn time, she barely talks, she doesn’t listen—”
“Shut up,” she whispered, voice thin and fraying like rotting thread.
But Rindou didn’t shut up. His voice rose, sharp and brutal, slicing into her like broken glass. “You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to act like a ghost when we’re risking our necks for you every fucking day! You almost got Ran killed today! You almost got yourself killed again! Is that what you want?!”
“I SAID SHUT UP!” Her scream tore from her throat, shredded and raw, echoing off the steel beams and rattling the glass windows. Her hands clamped over her ears, nails digging into her scalp as her vision blurred with tears. “JUST SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”
The storm outside roared in unison, wind howling through the cracks in the rusted walls, rattling metal sheets like the death rattle of a dying god. Ran stepped forward, voice trembling as he reached for her, but she flinched away, pressing tighter into the shadows.
“What happened to you?” he whispered, the words breaking around the edges, crumbling like dead leaves in winter. “What the fuck happened to you, huh? You used to tell us everything. You used to look at me.”
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, ribs fluttering beneath her sweater like frantic birds trapped in a rusted cage. The smell of blood and rain clung to the warehouse air, thickening with their ragged breaths, mixing with engine oil and stale cigarette smoke until it coated her tongue like ash.
Her eyes darted between them. Ran stood with his fists trembling at his sides, blood smeared up his wrists like black vines in the flickering fluorescent light, and Rindou pacing in restless, furious circles, his boots scraping harshly against the concrete.
She pressed herself closer into the shadows, knees drawn to her chest, fingers clawing at the fabric of her sleeves until her knuckles burned. She couldn’t stop shaking. The world felt thin, stretched tight as old leather, fraying at the edges with each ragged inhalation.
“Answer me,” Ran said finally, his voice low, scraping out of his throat like something rusted and broken. His eyes burned under the swinging light, black and gold and furious, but beneath that fury lay something deeper, something hollowed out and aching. “What happened to you?”
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her mind was a kaleidoscope of broken images, a horrible light tinted in red, fractured memories flickering too fast to catch:
Rough hands grabbed her hair, slamming her face against the brick.
“Don’t cry,” one whispered.
Then the smell of beer and sewage and rotting teeth.
“You’re just a little toy, aren’t you?”
She screamed into her own clenched fist so no one would hear.
“Why won’t you fucking speak to us?!” Rindou snapped, pulling her mind away from the silence, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. “Why do you always shut down like this?! We’re trying to HELP you!”
“Rindou—” Ran’s voice wavered with something tired and broken. But Rindou ignored him once again, gesturing wildly at her trembling form curled against the wall.
“She just STANDS THERE, Ran! She just fucking stands there and lets it happen! AGAIN and AGAIN and AGAIN—”
“Stop…” she whispered, voice cracking like a snapped wishbone. “Please stop… please…”
But Rindou kept yelling, and her mind kept flickering:
Five shadows looming over her.
“Don’t fight back. It’ll only hurt more.”
Pain blooming deep inside like a dead flower rooting through bone.
And the screams that no one heard.
Ran moved.
His footsteps echoed across the warehouse floor, deliberate, each step reverberating through her chest like distant thunder rolling across dead skies. He crouched in front of her, his expensive slacks smudged with drying blood, his hair falling over his eyes in damp strands. His hands hovered by his knees, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to reach for her or to let them curl into fists again.
His voice came out quietly. Too quiet. Like the calm before an executioner’s axe.
“You know what you are?” he whispered. The restraints in his words had fallen off, the long-awaited frustration and concern smudging his way of thought.
Her eyes widened, pupils blown black in the dim light, tears brimming like shattered stars on the verge of falling into the wrong time.
“You’re just like them,” Ran murmured, his words curling around her throat like barbed wire, pressing down until her breath caught in jagged sobs. “Letting men do whatever the fuck they want to you. Just lying there. Just… taking it.”
The world stopped breathing.
Her mind didn’t flicker this time. It shattered.
Because those were the same words. The exact same words. Spat into her ear by a man reeking of sweat and sour, disgusting beer, his fingers digging bruises into her hips as the alley pavement dug into her spine:
“Just lie there, little bitch. Just take it. That’s all you’re good for anyway.”
A sound tore from her throat, animalistic, ragged, a keening sob that curled up from the deepest pit of her stomach and split the warehouse air in two. Her vision whited out at the edges, her body convulsing as if struck by a live wire, nails tearing into her scalp as she tried to claw the words out of her ears, out of her mind, out of her soul.
She heard them laughing in her memory. Felt their hands again. The pain. The tearing. The helplessness. The shame. The disgust. The sense of her body becoming something, not hers, just a slab of flesh to be used and discarded and mocked.
“Don’t cry,” they whispered in the black hollows of her skull, their voices slithering through her veins like parasites. “Don’t cry. Just take it.”
Her scream rose, shrill and broken, echoing off metal beams, rattling the crates stacked high like tombstones around them. She pressed her forehead to the concrete, nails scraping at the floor until her fingertips burned, sobbing so hard her chest seized, breath coming in ragged, choking gasps.
Ran’s eyes widened, horror flickering through the black rage as his words replayed in his own mind, and he realized what he had said, what he had done. He reached out, voice trembling.
“No—no, hey. Hey. I didn’t mean—fuck—I didn’t—”
But she flinched back so violently she slammed her skull against the wall, pain blooming red and sharp behind her eyes. She didn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel it. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the pain tearing her mind into ribbons, curling her consciousness into something small, cold, and silent.
Rindou’s breath hitched, his anger draining into something horrified and helpless as he watched her crumble, watched her sob, and scream into the floor as if trying to vomit the memory out of her lungs.
Outside, the storm raged, wind howling through cracked windows, rattling metal sheets, and rolling thunder across the sky like the growling of some ancient, monstrous god. The rain lashed the shutter in furious, mocking applause.
And within her, something small and innocent curled up in the dark and died quietly, leaving behind only the cold echo of rotting words:
“Just take it.”
She pressed her forehead harder to the floor, her screams dissolving into silent sobs as her tears pooled beneath her face. She no longer felt the concrete against her skin, no longer heard Ran’s desperate, broken apologies or Rindou’s quiet curses. She was elsewhere – in that alley, under those hands, under those words, with no sky above her and no light left to bleed.
All that remained was darkness. And the taste of iron in her mouth, slick and bitter, as if her soul itself was bleeding out between her teeth.
What happened to me…?
At thirteen years old. Thirteen years old. Too young to be involved, yet too old to be spared in their world. She never carried a weapon, never wore blood on her hands the way her brothers did, but her name, their names, was enough to spark hatred, enough to start a war.
A rival gang that had since been gone, crushed by the Haitani brothers, stood up from the rubble, and there, a few of its loyal followers burned with the fury of hatred in their presence. They were here to set a reminder. That her name, their name, is enough to ignite the fury of those who had lost everything. It didn't matter that she was only a child; the blood that ran through her veins, the same blood that bound her to them, became a reason for violence. And in their eyes, that blood was all that mattered.
She was only a bystander. An innocent.
But in the eyes of their enemies, she was something else entirely.
"You’re that girl," a voice rasped, thick with contempt. "The only sister of the Haitani brothers, huh?"
That was when rough hands grabbed her, pulling her back into the dark alley, where the shadows swallowed her screams. The cold press of metal against her skin told her everything she needed to know: This was not an accident.
There were three of them. Or maybe four. Or more. Her memory blurred at the edges, smudged by fear and the dim light of that alley. But what she did remember, clearer than the number of their shadows, was their faces. Boys, really. Sixteen, seventeen at most. Their skin still clung to the softness of youth, but their eyes… their eyes had already rotted into something mean and hollow, something far too old for their unlined cheeks.
“What do you think happens when you’re part of their world?” his voice slurred, heavy with the effects of alcohol. His breath reeked of cheap alcohol, and his body smelled like sweat. His face was twisted with malicious amusement as his fingers gripped her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye of a man who was about to leave her with a warning.
Her stomach churned, and she tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, like iron against her fragile skin.
“Look at me. Really look at me. See what they’ve made of us.” His words were slow and deliberate, like each syllable was a cruel lesson he was forcing her to learn. “You think your brothers are different? They’ve got a name, don’t they? Something powerful.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her face. His breath, she could taste it now, bitter rot fermenting in the hollow of her throat long after he spoke.
She couldn’t breathe.
Her chest heaved shallowly, her heartbeat galloping so violently that each throb made her ribs ache like they were cracking open to reveal the screaming creature inside. “You think your brothers are different?” he repeated, voice slick with drunken certainty. “You think they don’t do this, too? You think they’re saints?” A low chuckle rasped through his throat, a bubbling tar-like sound that dripped disgust into her ears. “They’re men. All men are the same.”
“They’ll touch you just like this one day, princess,” another voice whispered, a different man behind her, she realized when rough fingers tangled into her hair and pulled her head back. “They’ll hold you down just like this… just to remind you whose world you’re in.”
Her thoughts scattered, fluttering like broken-winged moths across the pitch darkness of her mind. My brothers… my brothers wouldn’t… But the words were weak, even in her own head, and the press of his thumb against her lower lip forced the air out of her lungs in a silent sob.
She smelled him, smoke, sweat, stale liquor soaked into his jacket and skin, fermenting with rage and hopelessness. Her stomach twisted again, nausea rising like sour bile, and tears burned her eyes. Her cheeks felt cold where the tears slid down, but the rest of her burned with the heat of fear, a fever that rotted her from within.
“Don’t cry,” he mocked softly, his breath wet against her cheek.
Her hands trembled uselessly against the wall, scraping against damp concrete as she tried to find leverage, to pull away, but their bodies crowded her in, pressing her small frame into the wall until her spine ached and her chest compressed with each rattling breath.
“We’re doing them a favor, you know,” he continued, stroking her cheek with the blade’s edge, just enough to sting. A thin warmth trickled down her jaw, tasting like copper and tears when it reached her lips. “We’re teaching you what happens when you belong to boys like them.”
His laughter came again, sickeningly gentle as if he found poetry in her terror. His thumb smudged her tears into her bleeding cheek, mixing pain, salt, and humiliation into a single bruise of a painful memory.
Will Ran look like this when he’s older? With glazed eyes and slurred words?
Will Rindou’s fingers tremble from rage like these do, gripping me so tightly my bones feel like wet twigs about to snap?
She felt it, the seed of horror blooming slow and acidic in her gut, curling around her ribs and pressing into her heart, beating with a new rhythm: They’re men. All men are the same. Your brothers are men, too.
“No,” she whispered, the word breaking under her tongue like a dying moth. A flicker of defiant whisper clung to her little mind.
“No?” His grin widened. She could hear his teeth grinding together, yellow and chipped. “No? Look around, girl. This is all men are. This is all your brothers are. This is all you are.”
He pressed closer, his chest flattening hers, breath fuming with sour alcohol as his hips brushed hers, a silent threat painted in his proximity, in the casual possession of his touch. Another set of hands ghosted down her arms, a grip that wasn’t meant to hold her up but to weigh her down like chains sinking a corpse to the ocean floor.
She tried to pull her mind away from her body, up and up into the quiet, where the stars burned without consequence. She tried to imagine Rindou’s laugh, or Ran’s quiet hum when he thought no one was listening. But his words kept clawing at her, staining every memory with oily fingerprints:
“You’ll never look at them the same way again.”
She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, a thunderous roar of something wild and dying.
“You’ll flinch when they touch you,” he murmured, his voice syrupy-slow and rotten-sweet. “You’ll wonder if they’ve touched someone like this, too. If they’ve held someone down. If they’ve pressed a blade to a throat and laughed like this.”
Her tears flowed freely now, her body shivering violently as the world became a tunnel of sounds – laughter, drunken breathing, the metallic scrape of a blade, the ragged intake of her own broken sobs.
And somewhere deep inside her chest, something small curled up and died. Something that smelled like warmth, family, and safety. It shriveled, blackened, and fell into the pit of her stomach, where it dissolved into rot.
They’re men. All men are the same.
She didn’t know if she wanted to live or die at that moment as their hands moved over her like shadows crawling across a corpse at dusk; slow, invasive, cold with intent. Each lasting second bruised her ribs, her thighs, and her arms, hitting her like iron rods wrapped in velvet, leaving no marks the world would see but carving wounds she would never find the bottom of.
Her reality ripped louder than her clothes did when rough fingers slipped under the fabric and tore away innocence she hadn’t even realized she was pretending to wear. Their breaths poisoned her skin, leaving trails of heat that burned long after they pulled away. Every time she flinched, it fed their laughter, until their amusement was dripping off their tongues like saliva from starving dogs.
Fight. Please… fight back. Her mind screamed until her skull rang with it, but her limbs were locked in trembling paralysis, pinned beneath the heavy certainty of their strength, of her smallness.
One of them whispered something against her ear, words slick with mock affection, but all she heard was the wet sound of his lips, the smell of rotting alcohol curling down her throat like bile. Another pressed his hand to her chest, fingers splayed out possessively, and pushed just hard enough to collapse her lungs around her heart, to make her vision bloom white and her knees buckle.
She didn’t know if she wanted to live or die. She only knew she wanted it to stop.
Their words melted together into one monstrous thought, whispering the same truth over and over again:
This is all men are. This is all your brothers are. This is all you are.
Just hands grabbing roughly, molding you into their palms with words too mean and harsh for a little shadow.
Because at that moment, as the moon glowed dimly and indifferently above her, she could not tell where the monsters ended and her brothers began.
Will I ever be able to face them again as my brothers…?
Or will they always be criminals first?
Ran realized too late.
Too late, it was too… late.
Here with his sister on the ground, eyes shattered like glass, spilling her cries to dry.
The knowledge cracked open in his chest like a rib splitting under blunt force. It came with no warning – no gradual dawning, no creeping suspicion – only a sudden, brutal clarity that left him reeling, knees trembling beneath the weight of it.
It was the letter. From years ago.
He found it by accident lately, crumpled at the bottom of an old drawer he never bothered to clean. Yellowed, edges torn, and curling like dead leaves in autumn. It smelled faintly of old sweat and iron. His fingers moved through it as he unfolded it, the paper soft and thin, fragile like memory itself.
Years ago.
He remembered now. It had arrived in silence. No name. No signature. Just words scrawled in jagged black strokes, the letters pressed so hard into the paper they tore tiny wounds through it.
What do you think happens when she’s part of your world?
We’ll leave you a reminder, Haitani.
She’ll never look at you the same way again.
He read it once. Blinked. Tossed it aside. Another threat among thousands. Another meaningless bark from dogs with broken teeth. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he believed.
Until now.
Until his mind, so sharp and ruthless in every other regard, turned over this memory with a sudden, sickening slowness, revealing its rotten underbelly. Until he saw her face again – that day, she came home shaking, silent, her eyes two shattered mirrors that reflected too little of everything. He remembered thinking she was just tired. Just tired. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he believed.
“She’ll never look at you the same way again.”
He heard them as if whispered directly into his ear, a rasping, gleeful voice slithering through the hollow caverns of his skull.
The room spun. The ceiling folded down towards him, the floor rose to meet him, and the walls narrowed in a pulsing rhythm that matched his ragged breath. He pressed his palm against his chest and felt his heart pounding like fists against a locked door.
Why didn’t I ask her what happened? Why didn’t I force her to speak?
He remembered her silence. The way she scrunched her nose at the smell of whiskey and beer. The way she wouldn’t let him touch her hair, wouldn’t meet his eyes. The way she flinched when Rindou’s laughter echoed too loudly through the halls. The way her shoulders curled inward whenever men in uniforms passed too close in the street as if bracing for an impact only she could see coming.
All these years. All these silent screams vibrated under her skin, invisible strings pulling her mouth into small, brittle smiles that never reached her eyes. All these years, she was living with that letter burned into her flesh.
She’ll never look at you the same way again.
His breath came short, ragged, scraping his throat raw. His chest felt too small for his lungs. He pressed his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the cold tiles, knees drawn up, elbows propped against them as he buried his face in shaking hands.
“Fuck…” The word rasped out of him like blood from a slit throat. “Fuck… fuck…”
He remembered her eyes. Wide, glossy, distant. He remembered her trembling hands.
He remembered her silence.
How many times had he teased her about it? “What’s wrong with you today, princess?” he’d drawled, ruffling her hair roughly, not noticing the way she flinched. How many times had he told Rindou, “She’s just moody. Leave her alone”?
How many times did she swallow her screams in front of him, thinking – knowing – that her pain was too small, too unimportant in the vast empire of their name?
Ran’s shoulders shook as he sat there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the rain, and the ticking clock, the hush of distant traffic. The world went on indifferent. Unaware. Unchanged. But inside him, something burned down to blackened bone.
They left her a reminder. And he never saw it. They left him a warning. And he never heard it. They left her broken. And he never noticed.
What do you think happens when she’s part of your world?
He can hear them laugh, those ghosts from the past. Boys whose names he never learned, whose faces he never saw. He saw their shadows slithering over her small frame in his mind and heard their laughter spilling over her tears like sewer water over pale lilies.
His stomach churned with rage, so sudden and vast it almost drowned him. But beneath the rage was something far worse, far heavier:
Guilt.
Because this was his world. Because he thought she was safe, just because he was her brother. Because he believed love was enough to keep her untouched by the darkness, he wielded it like a weapon.
But love had no power here. Not in this place. Not in the world, he had carved with bloody hands and smiling lips.
“She’ll never look at you the same way again.”
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw sparks of blue and white explode behind his eyelids. Anything to drown out the memory of her broken smile. Anything to silence the echo of that letter’s truth.
He didn’t notice Rindou standing closely, noticing the shift in the room. It was personal, heavy, like a secret buried too long in the walls of your own home.
Their sister now sobbing quietly yet brokenly onto her knees, too deep into her mind, scrubbing her skin raw with a memory she wished she could erase, and Ran, who seemed to be suddenly hit with a heavy realization.
Rindou went silent, pale, eyes wide with dawning horror as he read the shift.
Ran didn’t see the way Rindou’s lips trembled, the way his shoulders caved inward, the way he whispered, how he shook Ran lightly, tapping at his sister for some answer:
“…Hey, what’s wrong… what happened…?”
“Tell me… Hey…”
Because Ran was somewhere else now. Somewhere deep inside himself, curled around a rot that spread through his veins like fire.
And all he heard was her silence. All he felt was her trembling. All he saw was that day – the day his little sister came home forever changed, her eyes wide and blind, her voice stolen by ghosts he never avenged.
The guilt chewed through him slowly, methodically, like worms hollowing out a dying tree. Because no matter how many men he killed, no matter how many debts he collected in blood, no matter how many empires he built or burnt to ashes…
…he could never undo that moment.
She’ll never look at you the same way again.
And the truth was: she never did.
And that... left him feeling bitter, like the taste of rue on his tongue; sharp, acrid, unpleasant, the kind of bitterness that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to be swallowed, the kind that reminds you some regrets were never meant to be forgotten.
What do you think happens when she's part of your world?
We'll leave you a reminder, Haitani.
She’ll never look at you the same way again.
If you have any specific requests, you can fill out this form! Thank you~
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hiii I'm backkk! just noticed that this request has been in my askbox for months, so I decided to write it today. sorry it's late! I might publish more this month if I can.
this was nice to work on. thanks for the request! Hopefully, I got it right
Requests are still open for hcs, oneshots, or whatever you want! :) Can be female, male, or gender neutral, whatever you guys prefer.
"We can never go back again, that much is certain."
╰---•❥ Written by: Lucielitta
This is the Introduction.
A Haitani Brothers x Younger Sister Fic.
Length: 1807 words
Another sorrowful night began in their shared apartment, a vast space that felt foreign to him now. The place felt lonely, cold, and heavy. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, stretching across the walls like an unwelcome reminder of another presence that had once filled this space.
Ran couldn't sleep, tossing and turning on the bed, each shift stirring up waves of guilt that clawed at his insides, refusing to let him find any peace. It was unusual, his mind was a relentless whirlwind, it was far from his usual composed and calm self because all he could see, all that replayed in his mind were moments that had slipped away-flashes of warmth and a sense of ease that now felt achingly distant.
Tonight was supposed to be different. It was meant to be a celebration, a day marked by laughter and the kind of warmth that only his family could bring. But now, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of loss, a gaping void where her presence had once shone. No matter how much light they turned on in this place, no matter how much music it filled-it still felt empty.
It had always been just Ran and Rindou. For as long as they could remember in this new life, they'd relied on each other, weathering every storm and sharing every silence. They were the Haitani brothers-sadistic, inseparable, sharp-edged, and bound by blood. In a world that demanded they trust no one, they had always known, without question, that they could trust each other and they'd stood back-to-back, two faces of the same ruthless coin.
Until, one day, she appeared.
The girl they'd thought was gone for years, in blurry flashes of memory they could barely remember, had suddenly returned. There she was, standing on their doorstep, her face a ghostly reflection of the family resemblance, yet softened, unfamiliar. The same colored eyes mirrored theirs yet vastly different from the story behind their eyes. She was no longer the child they remembered in their memories but had grown into a version of herself they hadn't been there to witness. She felt like a stranger, a piece of their past that had been snatched away from them so slowly yet too fast without a goodbye. Yet, there she was, real as the memories that felt like faint whispers until now.
It felt, for a brief moment, as if everything could finally be okay again as if he could bring back the closeness they'd lost through all those years of separation. He told himself he could rebuild their bond, and bring back the laughter and warmth that used to fill their lives when they were together. There was a spark of hope, fragile but real, that maybe-just maybe-they could be family again in the way they once were.
Ran tried his best to reach her. He sought out quiet moments to be with her, to create new memories that might help them both heal. He would crack jokes, nudge her playfully, and invite her to share things with him like they used to. There were moments when she let him close enough. But she wasn't the same anymore. She was... different, somehow, careful in a way that made his chest tighten. Her eyes, once so bright and open, now held a guarded look. She rarely met his gaze directly, as if she were holding back pieces of herself, keeping him at a distance.
There was a kind of hesitation in everything she did-a slight pause before she spoke, a cautiousness in her movements. It was as though she'd built invisible walls around herself that he couldn't break through, walls that held her safe but out of reach. She was polite, distant, and afraid of being truly seen. Ran could feel her slipping away even as she stood beside him, her presence more like a shadow than the little sister he remembered. It haunted him, gnawing at his thoughts every time he looked at her. The sister he had in his memories was gone, replaced by someone he couldn't quite understand. Her silence spoke louder than any words, a constant reminder of everything they had lost. And he wondered if he'd ever be able to reach her again, or if the person she once was had vanished for good.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. It felt as if time had come to a standstill, the clock ticking away the moments he could no longer cherish. It felt like it was just yesterday, he had been planning something special-a day filled with little surprises and sweet moments meant to capture the spirit of family. Even just once in their rough lifetime, they can be one again. Yet here he was, surrounded by darkness, grappling with the suffocating weight of guilt. Guilt for not being able to protect her, for not knowing where she had gone or how to bring her back. He felt guilt for not being able to reach out to her, to connect with her, and for their bond again. The warmth of those happy plans had turned into the icy grip of reality, leaving him with nothing but memories of what could have been.
Ran pulled a pillow closer, burying his face against it as he tried to stifle the overwhelming rush of emotions. The blaring world outside had now felt eerily quiet and empty, a stark contrast to the noise of the comforting quiet presence that used to fill their home.
All he could think about was their sister, her bright eyes and infectious energy now silenced. He longed for just one more moment with her, a chance to tell her everything would be okay, to wrap her in a hug and never let go.
But now, the silence in the room echoed the unspoken truths-the things he wished he could change, the promises he felt he had broken.
The quiet settled around Ran as he left his bedroom and made his way to the living room, a restless ache urging him to move, though he had no destination in mind. His bare feet padded softly against the cold floor, and the light, from their big windows filtered in, casting pale, early-morning shadows across the walls. The apartment felt strange, hollow in a way it never had before as if it held secrets he wasn't quite able to uncover. This space, where he and Rindou had spent so much of their lives together, now felt unfamiliar, almost suffocating, like a silent grave for what was once missing.
Slowly, he sank onto the leathered cushions, it hugged him uncomfortably, as he stared blankly at the dark TV screen in front of him. His reflection stared back, the lines on his face etched deep, his eyes hollow and rimmed with exhaustion, it was far from his usual self. He looked at his hands, now clenched on his knees, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his pajama pants and into the skin beneath, as if grounding himself against the urge that pulsed inside him.
Ran felt the urge to retrieve the tapes-the ones tucked away on Rindou's shelf. The urge gnawed at him, but he fought it, barely holding himself back. Watching those memories again felt like a temptation he couldn't quite face, not after the way he and Rindou had last spoken about them. The "talk" they'd had was brief and heavy, each word weighted with things left unsaid. Neither of them had been able to look at those tapes since, leaving them to collect dust on Rindou's shelf, unmoving, a painful reminder that seemed to linger in every shadowed corner of the apartment.
It was pitiful, he thought, to be reduced to watching old footage on his birthday, yet the ache in his heart drove him. Their sister had loved to film herself, her bright smile lighting up the screen as she documented the world around her. The camera had been a hand-me-down from Rindou, a gesture that had been less about affection and more about teasing-a means for Rindou to express the frustration he felt toward her constant need for connection. Their relationship had always been rocky, with Rindou avoiding her attempts to bond, often leaving her feeling isolated and unwanted.
Now, Rindou lay sprawled on his bed, lost in a drunken haze after a night of clubbing that had spiraled deeper into sorrow since her disappearance. The alcohol had become his escape, a way to dull the pain of loss that he refused to acknowledge. He pretended it didn't hurt; he called her a runaway, deflecting his guilt as if the truth could be buried beneath a mountain of excuses.
"Get rid of the tapes," his little brother had said more than once, but the words hung heavy in the air. Rindou never could bring himself to do it. He still held onto those unseen memories, clinging to the hope that one day, they might all laugh together again, watch what she had filmed through the years they were separated, that they could find her and bring her back home. But he would never say it aloud. The pain of missing her was a burden he chose to bear alone, locked away behind his stoic facade.
Ran swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He pressed play on the tape, and the familiar sound of her voice filled the room. The girl on the screen was innocent and carefree, her laughter bright and infectious as she introduced her latest project: a flower crown she'd made for him. Each frame felt like a bittersweet reminder of how much time they had lost, and as he watched her smile, the guilt washed over him in waves, drowning out the silence of the empty room.
"I'm sorry..." he whispered, the words stinging through his heart.
The tape continued to roll, showing snippets of their lives-her cooking with him, her tiny hands flour-covered as she tried to make the perfect cake, the way she would pout when things didn't go her way. Every moment brought a new pang of longing and grief, an unbearable weight pressing down on his chest.
He could hear the faint sounds of Rindou stirring in the other room, lost in his tumultuous thoughts, but Ran was far too absorbed in the memories to care. The TV flickered on, casting a soft glow in the darkness, illuminating the sorrow etched on his face.
As the memories unfolded before him, Ran felt the warmth of their past wrapping around him, a comforting embrace that both soothed and tormented him. The laughter, the joy, and the sense of family that had once filled their memories now felt like a distant dream, and he was left with the stark reality of what they had lost.
I'm having too much fun rn-
I've been wanting to upload this for a while since this is the first big story I came up with before Forget-Me-Not. And now that I posted it, I feel soooo nice.
Oh yeah, for those of you who don't know, this is part 2 of the video in my YT.
I'll be uploading the main parts into chapters of the story in writing here so don't worry cuz readers won't miss the main stuff of the story.
is there a tag-list for forget me not? i’d love to be added if so! your writing is beautiful and i’m on the edge of my seat waiting for the first chapter !
Hii! Thank you so much! I'm glad you like it! I was so excited writing it and also show it! It's new for me to write something with detailed backstories so I tried to start off with a little tease.
I don't have a tag-list yet but I'll add you once I post the second chapter :D
sorryimlate-
I've started working again on the drafted chapters so I can publish it on a scheduled date for each chap. Sorry for the wait!
A Bonten Haitani Brothers x Big Sister Reader fic.
╰---•❥ Written by: Lucielitta
This is the Introduction.
Lenght: 888 words
Notes: How's this? ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) Let me know if you have requests, ideas, or suggestions, I'd love to hear it!
"Tsk, You're useless."
A pained gasp croaked through the man's battered lips, its tall, tender frame tumbled down the mottled soil while his body tensed and was forced to entangle itself In the mossy mess.
"A single shot isn't enough for him, Aniki." Rindou narrowed and a disdained look splattered his usual sly expression.
His violet eyes rolled at the crumpled mess on the ground, hinting no remorse nor forgiveness in his gaze that fixated on the man twisting in agony.
The vivid hues of purple and blue's on his roughed skin tore a blood-way within him, how battered he is; a mark of his insignificance to the eyes of those who wield power over him.
Pursing his lips into a sardonic sneer, Ran tapped his index on the gun impatiently, making a mockery out of him as he stepped forward towards the writhing nuisance. "I don't have patience for little bastards," The eldest yawned, lightly flicking the slender roll of nicotine that dangled in between his lean fingers, lighting the burning embers off his nicotine. "It'd be better to leave him dying." A bubble of ashen air escaped his lungs with a low chuckle, his mind immersed in the torment of the pained seer by the man below.
All the while his calm mask still held onto his face with a sly smirk as he dragged on, "It sounds more thrilling, don't you think?" Ran piqued. He discarded the stick of cigar onto the man's reddened side as his smirk soon faltered, walking away from the scene with his hands in his pockets. Disappointment replaced his expression as he handed the gun back to his brother, his thoughts elsewhere.
Turning a heel away from the scene, Rindou slid his gun back into its holder, a sigh followed by on his lips as frustration formed on his face.
Heavy lines of exhaustion etched deep into the brothers' faces as an uncomfortable silence settled around them. The coldness of the winter air stung their breaths, their fatigue was palpable, but despite the weariness that weighed on them, they remained silent.
The silence was intense, almost stifling, yet neither brother felt the need to break it.
Just... Where the hell is she?
Patience was wearing thin, and they could feel the tension building up with every passing moment. He couldn't bear it any longer, restlessness wrapped around his body in coldness and each second ticking away felt like an eternity, a loop. How long would this day continue on for? They were at their wit's end, and the uncertainty and frustration were reaching a breaking point.
Tap..
Tap..
Tap...
Rindou's foot tapped in annoyance, his patience growing more and more thin as the heavy seconds ticked by.
"Damn it..." He groaned. "How long has it been? Five months now?"
Ran rolled his lips between his teeth, his fingers fiddling with the box of cigars. The eldest Haitani pulled another one from the box, his slender fingers placing it between his lips. "It's been three months."
Three long, torturous months had rolled by since they'd begun on the search for their long-lost elder sister. It was a challenge as day after day, week after week, the search went on, with no end in sight. They felt as if they were falling behind. Each day brought new challenges and frustrations, leaving them exhausted and disheartened. The thought of never seeing her again formed a coil around their necks in despair.
If only they searched for her earlier, would they have found her by now? Will she still be here by their sides?
The thought plagued his mind like a dark cloud, always present in Ran's troubled mind.
"Forget it," the other muttered irritably, a click of disapproval sounded on his tongue as he went on, sparking an inner turmoil within Ran. "She could be dead by now so what's the point of doing this search? We're just wasting time." His words pushed back the silence that settled around them, the air thick with tension that danced around his bitter words.
"15 fucking years..." He reminisced in frustration, a reminder of the years gone by without her by their side. The mere mention of her name sent an ache of regret and loneliness within his heart. "After all this time..." He glowered sullenly, "Why should we start caring if she's alive or not?" his jaw set in a hard line.
15 years, and there's no sign of her anywhere. They had searched everywhere, leaving no corner or no street unseen, there was no trace of her anywhere.
Ran's fingers halted to a still, the bitter cigarette dangled from it's precarious position on his lips as he took in his brother's bitter words. The eldest brother took a long, silent breath, the ash of the cigarette slowly crumbling down as the thin smoke curled around his face.
His muscles tensed while his eyes darkened from the harsh edges of Rindou's words, it took everything in him to hold himself back from saying something he'll regret.
He sympathized with his brother's pain. They had buried their memories of her deep within their hearts, never bringing her up in conversation for such a long time, until now when the weight of her absence was too heavy to ignore.
"Don't you think it's also time?" The eldest peered in, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips; his voice trailing off the moment he looked forward.
"Never mind," He dismissed with a soft chuckle, returning his gaze to the crimson red in his hand. "You're never sure of your answers anyway." The sound of the knife carefully peeling the skin off of the apple was quiet, steady.
"No, no," the middle mused, his smirk never leaving his face as he leaned on the wall beside his elder brother. "She's not one to decide on anything at all." His chuckle was a hint of fondness and humor as he thought about their sister. "She always has to have someone else tell her what to do."
"Yeah, that sounds about right." Ran hummed at Rindou's words with a small smile, finding it humorous. He snickered; reminiscing the time when they were younger.
When the evening scene would fall and the siblings snuck away from the harsh reality of living and escaped to the nearby playground, the empty expanse of the area served as their sanctuary. They would swing on the swings with reckless abandon, chase each other through the shadows in a game of tag, and fill the cold air with their laughter and fun, embracing the simple joy of being just kids.
"Not this time!" She ran as fast as her legs could go as she rounded a corner with fixed street lights. Her brothers followed behind as one stopped to a halt. Holding her knee, she caught her breath. "That-that was fun!" She spoke between ragged breaths, smiling wildly. However, Rindou was more worried than happy. "ARE YOU INSANE?!-" he practically yelled. Sure, he had his fun. But she surprised him with the sudden dash. His sister calmly spoke before he could say another mouth full of worry.
"Hey! Rin-nii, come on! It's okay. I mean," raising her hand, she reassuringly pats him on the shoulder. "When was the last time we've done something like this?" She expressed. It was true. It's been a long time since they have last done this. Since their involvement with a dangerous community, they haven't had much fun like this. All they did was wait, wait, and wait. Be there for each other and avoid danger at all times. But not today. This day, they're going to have fun.
No busy schedule, tiring days, or worry will stop her from having fun once in a while.
"Nii-chan-really. It's okay! Stop worrying so much. Come on. Let's have some fun," reassured her anxious brother.
Sweat was running down his furrowed brows and fogged his glasses. "Even just for a little bit." Wanting to let this slip, even just for once. As she looked at her brother, pleadingly.
"Fine... I give in." Rindou sighed heavily. Finally: giving in, cracking a slight nervous yet mischievous smile on his face. "Finally. You're so lame all the time." The girl teased, laughing lightly while he playfully rolled his eyes at her, adjusting his tilted glasses.
"Oi! You two!" An angry voice yelled behind, running after the two with urgency and worry. "Where are you going?!" The silhouette stepped into the light, casting the veins on his forehead. "You either get back here or else!" He warned.
The girl laughed in amusement as she grabbed Rindou's shaky hand, turning their backs on Ran and dashed for it. "I'M- I'M SORRY!!" The brother screamed, his coolness went away as fear took over him while he let his sister lead him away from the unavoidable trouble they faced.
He wondered, just what are they gonna do once Ran catches up to them?
The girl laughed nervously, a blurred mix of fear, adrenaline, and fun filled her senses. Her brother, Rindou, beside her, looked up at Ran with regret and fear in his eyes.
Ran snickered, laughter bursts out of his calm facade, "It's either that or she just freezes up and leaves or does everything at once." He snickered at the memory, "It was so damn hilarious."
"I can't believe she just did that!" Rindou spoke with disbelief and nervousness on his face as he pointed at their sister, "I was just trying to catch her before you came back but- She just grabbed my hand and ran away!" He explained hurriedly to their older brother who wore a frustrated expression on his face. His two-braided hair was slightly disheveled from the chase.
"You..." Ran's voice trailed to a low grumble, burying his face into the palm of his hand before looking down on her, sighing. "I know you want to have fun but you have to let me know next time." He spoke to her, looking between Rindou and the girl. Even he can't handle her wild attitude.
Sweat ran down her forehead as she looked up their older brother with nervousness. Rindou, stepped back away from the tension with a apologetic look on his face for her.
"And next time..." His voice dropping na octave lower, a hint of warning in his tone. "Don't. Cause. Trouble."
"I'm..." She gulped, "Sorry..." She smiled nervously, standing still as his worried and frustrated figure walked towards hers.
His knife made its way around it's skin, separating it's flesh, it followed by a crisp snap that broke away from the flesh of the apple; snapping both the brothers thoughts away from the memories that kept them away, away from the recent incident that occurred because of themselves.
A quarrel between the Haitani's, a rare occurrence for them began in their residence. Harsh words were hurled at between the two; each word threatening their bond and loyalty towards one another as inner turmoil fogged the mind of the eldest's calm facade.
"Nii-chan! Just what is going on? Why are you doing this?? Why leave?!" Rindou let out a yell, slowly approaching him from the door, a mix of anger and confusion in his voice as he stared at Ran who turned his back on them.
"You two... Are well off in where you are. I don't want to bring any more danger in our family."
His response bubbled up emotions within Rindou. Worry, fear, and the unsureness of this sudden decision. "Do you even hear yourself?! We've always lived this kind of life- and you- you're just gonna leave when everything's going on our way?!" He questioned, seeking an explanation from his older brother's behavior. "You're being unreasonable! Maybe you should listen to us instead of trying to control everything yourself!"
Muffled voices rang in Ran's ears as his vision fogged up.
He had always thought that as long as they have each other, they can get through anything. Being the driving force behind their rise, that influence and power would allow them survival and living. But the moment he led them into the life of delinquency, danger loomed behind them like a cloud of raining disaster and that was then he knew that it was no longer enough.
With their sister's presence, he realized how fragile their lives were more fragile that he had thought. He couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to them, and he knew that his own actions and choices had led them down a dangerous path.
However, he realized that this life was his and his alone. His siblings did not belong in this world, no matter how skilled or resilient they were. It was a dangerous and unpredictable life, and he wanted to keep them as far away from it as possible. And so, he decided to distance himself now that he knows that they are well off by themselves. Away from the danger that he's carrying.
But how could they understand that when it's engraved in their minds about their loyalty and bond with one another?
His fists were clenched to his sides and as he spun around to beat some sense into his little brother. The time suddenly slowed down yet he couldn't stop his fist from swinging once from the sudden realization.
The girl stumbled backwards, her head crashed into the sharp corner of the ground with a sickening thud and crack. A gasp escaped her lips, her vision swimming as she crumpled to the ground. It left her dazed and disoriented. And within a few seconds, she let out a pained cry, her hand instinctively flying to the back of her head where a lump was starting to form.
The sound of her pain echoed throughout the room, snapping the brothers' horror-filled gazes of their sister on the ground. Ran rushed to her side as Rindou stumbled his way on her other, unsure of what to do while worry and fear overtook his mind.
Ran reached down to carefully lift her pained head up from the ground and placed her head on his lap while reassuring her that she'll be fine.
"Rindou! What are you doing there- call an ambulance!" Ran called, his voice breaking Rindou out of his shock as his hand shakily dialed the number and called the operator.
The elder brother looked down as sweat dripped down his forehead and onto her shaking form. Her blood was so red, it mixed with his hands' as her skin turned cold and pale.
It was in his hand-The pale unsliced innards of the apple were laid upon their eyes, leaving a reminder of their sister's current state.
She laid on her bed of white, skin; pale. The monitors hooked on her body made a rhythmic intervals that broke the stillness that sounded the room. Each a quiet, reassuring soft hissed whisper reassured her waiting brothers that she still clung onto to life.
He looked down at his hand, mind still in the past, feeling the slick warmth and seeing the vivid reddened hue staining his skin.
Ran wondered if it was her blood or just the lingering heat from the apple that still clung to his palm. Perhaps it was both.
- Did I do this Tumblr thing right?
Notes:
This is my first time in years since I started writing again so I'm starting to try to get comfortable with this.
