Reckoning.....
The veil finally lifts.....
With Yuna's precise touch—her silent drawings translated into data flowcharts, emotional maps, and recovered metadata—Kaito compiles the full archive of Project Kuroinu: neural experiments sanctioned under forgotten regimes, psychological weaponization programs hidden behind agricultural subsidies, and a list of names—doctors, ministers, and corporate patrons—who funded silence with blood.
And then, they release it.
The files detonate across the world like memory mines. Governments scramble, newsfeeds overload, public outrage drowns official denials. Whistleblowers emerge, and underground forums turn Kuroinu into a viral symbol: a black dog with hollow eyes, captioned: "They tried to train us not to feel."
Most damning of all is the footage—Shiro, commanding assassins with a smile, and the neurological scans Kaito took mid-conversation. Proof of tampering. Proof of intent.
Soon after, Shiro Enma is captured at his estate, surrounded not by dogs, but by silence. As authorities cuff him, he only grins, face serene as snowfall.
"Even prison has ears," he whispers to the arresting officer.
"I'll teach them to laugh too."
In the charred ruins of his once-absurd manor, Miyuki Enma stands motionless. Her daughter Kana clutches her hand, asking why the men took dad away.
Miyuki does not answer immediately. She kneels beside her child and pulls the chalk from Kana's coat pocket. Together, they draw two dogs—one with eyes, one without.
"We're going somewhere new," Miyuki says.
"You'll write your own story, not live someone else's."
She never speaks Shiro's name again.
At headquarters, Detective Kyohei Aomine files his last report before retirement.
"Some people kill with silence," he types, fingers trembling.
"Others heal with it. I met both."
He closes the file. Then he burns the only photo of Kaito he ever had—blurry, masked, anonymous. A ghost by choice.
When the eclipse darkens the sky over the Tenketsu Crater, hundreds gather in quiet pilgrimage. The air is heavy with anticipation and soft, reverent stillness. No stage. No banners. Just people. Those Kaito saved—many of whom never knew the others existed.
Hikaru's sister, carrying the final manga volume in a lacquered case, reads a single line aloud: "Even endings deserve closure."
Renji's daughter places a broken recorder on a shrine stone and bows.
Haruna Aiba, now an activist, brings her teenage son and daughter, each holding lit paper lanterns in silence.
The estranged lovers, now remarried, place theater masks at the altar and smile through their tears.
One by one, they step forward to share fragments of the man they knew—never a full picture, never a name. A memory here. A voice. A letter. A look. He is mosaic and myth.
At the center of the shrine sits a folded paper drawing, hand-drawn in Yuna's style.
It depicts a hooded man and a girl beside him, walking away from a village toward a dark forest under the moon. Neither is looking back.
Beneath it, in red ink, a final note:
"Don't remember me. Remember what I did."
As the moon begins to pass, letting the sun bleed back through the sky, a strange wind stirs across the crater. Some claim they hear music in it—soft, like a child's lullaby played through an old music box. Others say they saw movement in the trees. No one dares follow.
They simply stand together, not mourning a man… but carrying his purpose.