The first thing Hiroshi felt was pain.
It wasn't sharp. It wasn't loud. But it was everywhere—dull, pressing, suffocating—like his body had been wrapped in wet cement and left to harden.
He groaned.
"Hiroshi! Hey—he's waking up!"
That voice.
"…Takemi?"
His throat burned as he spoke, the word scraping its way out.
A blurry shape leaned closer, resolving into a familiar face. Short hair, perpetually furrowed brows, eyes that tried too hard to look calm.
"Yeah," Takemi said quickly. "It's me. Don't move, idiot."
Hospital lights glared overhead. The smell of antiseptic clawed at Hiroshi's nose. Something tugged at his arm—an IV.
"Oh…," Hiroshi murmured.
Memory returned like a knife.
The playground.
Aiko's scream.
His body refusing to move.
He turned his head sharply, ignoring the pain.
"Aiko—!"
"She's alive," Takemi said immediately,
gripping Hiroshi's shoulder. "She's safe."
Hiroshi's breath hitched.
"Where is she?"
Another pause.
"She's… in another ward."
Hiroshi stared at the ceiling.
"Was I—" His voice cracked. "Was I able to help her?"
He already knew the answer while he asked the question.
Takemi didn't answer right away.
Hiroshi shut his eyes.
"I was useless, huh," he whispered.
"Don't say that," Takemi interrupted, a little too forcefully. "You rushed in without thinking. Anyone would've—"
"I couldn't even stand," Hiroshi snapped. "I couldn't protect her. I couldn't do a damn thing!"
Takemi clenched his jaw.
They had grown up together—the three of them. Hiroshi, Aiko, and Takemi. The self-proclaimed guardian. The loud one. The one who always said, I've got your back.
And yet, he couldn't be there when it counted
"I should've walked her home," Takemi said quietly. "I was supposed to."
Hiroshi turned to look at him.
"What?"
"I told her I'd catch up after practice," Takemi continued. "If I hadn't been late—"
"Stop," Hiroshi said.
Takemi looked up, startled.
"This isn't your fault," Hiroshi said flatly.
But the words felt hollow. Even to himself. He learnt the truth that day.
Aiko didn't come to see him.
Hiroshi tried to plead with the hospital staff to let him see Aiko.
"She still isn't awake, dear," the nurse said gently with a concerned look. "Please understand."
Hiroshi nodded.
"Even if she were awake she wouldn't want to see me" he thought while clenching his fist.
She wouldn't want to see the guy who failed her.
Takemi visited the hospital every day.
Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he just sat there, scrolling on his phone, pretending things were normal.
"Remember when you fell off the roof trying to prove you could fly?" Takemi said one afternoon, forcing a laugh. "Aiko didn't talk to you for a week."
Hiroshi didn't respond.
He stared at the wall, at a tiny crack that ran from the corner of the window down toward the bed. He traced it with his eyes over and over again.
"Hey," Takemi said. "You listening?"
"…Yeah."
"You're lying."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Takemi exhaled. "You don't have to be strong right now."
"I was never strong to begin with."
"You're shutting down."
Hiroshi turned his head slowly.
"What's the difference?"
Takemi opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Nights were the worst.
Hiroshi dreamed of hands reaching for him—of his legs refusing to move, of laughter echoing in the dark.
He woke up gasping, nails digging into the sheets.
I should've died.
The thought came uninvited. Calm. Reasonable.
Takemi would've saved her.
That thought followed.
It settled in his chest like a parasite.
After he was discharged, Takemi insisted on walking him home.
"You're not staying alone," Takemi said. "Not yet."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
They walked past the playground.
Hiroshi stopped. Takemi noticed too late.
"Hey—maybe we should take another route."
"It's fine," Hiroshi said.
He stepped closer to the fence.
The swings were still there.
The ground had been cleaned. No blood. No sign of what happened.
Like it never mattered.
Hiroshi's hands clenched.
"They ran," he said suddenly.
"What?"
"The men," Hiroshi continued. "They ran away."
Takemi stiffened. "The police are investigating."
"They'll never find them."
"…Hiroshi."
"They laughed," he said. "Did you know that?"
Takemi grabbed his arm. "That's enough."
Hiroshi looked at him—really looked at him.
"You weren't there," he said quietly.
The words struck harder than a punch.
Takemi released him.
"I know," he said hoarsely. "And I hate myself for it."
Hiroshi turned away.
That night, he searched the news.
Local assaults. Unsolved cases. Comment sections filled with pointless sympathy, condolences, blame. There was no further info on the case.
His stomach twisted.
They're still out there.
Something cold unfurled inside him.
Takemi noticed the changes.
Hiroshi stopped sleeping.
Stopped eating properly.
Started asking strange questions.
"What would you do," Hiroshi asked one evening, "if you knew someone deserved punishment—but the law wouldn't touch them?"
Takemi frowned. "I'd… let it go. Eventually."
"That's easy to say."
"Why are you asking?"
"No reason."
But Hiroshi's eyes were different.
Too sharp. Too focused.
"Takemi," Hiroshi said suddenly, "do you think people like that ever feel guilty?"
Takemi's chest tightened.
"Hiroshi… talk to me."
Hiroshi smiled faintly.
"I am talking."
His eyes had an unsettling gaze.
For the first time since that night, fear—not for Aiko, not for himself—crept into Takemi's heart.
Fear of what his best friend was becoming.