His arm still throbs from the blow he caught. It was strong, too reckless. And Ryoma knows, with a sick certainty, that slap wasn't meant for him. It was aimed at his mother.
Even now, he feels the tremor in his mother's finger, not the stiffness of anger anymore, but the fragile shiver of fear.
"We… we should report this to the police," Fumiko mutters.
Ryoma exhales slowly, as if his breath alone might steady her.
"Forget it. Let's just go back to the shop. Look, your customers are waiting."
That's what he says, but inside, he's already claimed it. This isn't for the police, isn't for anyone else to touch. The matter is personal now, his alone to carry.
He guides her back toward the shop. Two men wait outside, one with a half-trimmed head, the other with arms folded, impatience etched on his face.
The moment Fumiko reaches them, she bows low. "I'm so sorry! I left you halfway. Please forgive me."
