[July 25, 2005 — 5:02 A.M. | 19th Ward — Industrial Outskirts]
His legs burned. Every step was agony, but he kept running.
Hayato tore through alley after alley, past broken fences and rusting trucks, his lungs dragging fire into his chest. His shards flickered faintly behind him, uneven and weak from exhaustion.
He stumbled at last into a dead-end lot, collapsing against a crumbling wall. His mask was cracked, his breath ragged, his small hands slick with blood — his father's and his own.
He curled forward, pressing his forehead against his knees. The sob broke free before he could choke it down, muffled by the broken leather seams of the mask.
He didn't go home. He wanted to — more than anything — to see his mother's face, to hear her voice. But his father's warnings rang sharper than ever:
"If they chase you, never lead them back. Not to her. Not to us. Never."
So he stayed in the dark, alone.
[Flashback — Two Years Earlier | 2003]
The rooftop was cold, wind biting at their coats. Hayato's father crouched beside him, red eyes steady, voice quiet.
"You want to know why they call me Bastion?"
Hayato, only eight, had nodded.
His father looked out at the city, the broken rooftops stretching far. "Because a wall doesn't move. Doesn't break. It takes the blows so what's behind it survives." He'd rested a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "But a wall doesn't last forever. Stone crumbles. Iron rusts. The only thing that survives is what escapes while the wall still stands."
He had looked Hayato in the eye. "One day, you'll have to run. Not because you're weak. But because the wall chose to fall so you could live."
[Back to Present — 2005]
Hayato pressed his fists against his chest, the memory burning deeper than the pain in his lungs.
"I'll live," he whispered hoarsely into the dark. "I'll live… even if it kills me inside."
[CCG 2nd Ward Office | July 25, 2005 — 8:41 A.M.]
The report room stank of blood and coffee. Photographs were spread across the long table: shattered armor, broken rifles, crimson shards embedded in walls.
Investigator Hoshino sat stiff, his coat torn, side bandaged. His blade rested against the wall, streaked crimson. Across from him, Senior Investigator Takahashi flipped through pages with careful fingers.
"The Bastion," Takahashi muttered, voice low. "Engaged and wounded. Status unconfirmed — presumed alive." He tapped one photo: a massive claw mark carved into concrete. "Kakuja confirmed. Potential S rank."
He set the photo aside and picked up another. This one showed something smaller: jagged shards scattered across the ground, thinner, sharper, but dense.
"And this one…" His gaze sharpened. "The second ghoul."
Shimizu, pale, her head still bandaged, spoke quietly. "A child. Ten, maybe eleven. Fast. Aggressive. Kōkaku density in his shards, but Ukaku wing projection. Hybrid manifestation."
The room murmured faintly. Hybrids were rare. Dangerous. Unpredictable.
Takahashi's pen scratched across the report. "Alias assignment?"
Shimizu's eyes lingered on the photographs. Shards scattered like broken scales. A jagged wing burned crimson in the floodlight. She shivered. "They looked like… the wings of a dragon."
Takahashi's lips pressed thin. "Then it's settled. Alias: Black Dragon."
His pen struck again, red ink biting into the page. Rank: B (Potential A).
The folder closed with a heavy snap, stamped in scarlet: ACTIVE CASE.
[July 25, 2005 — 11:27 A.M. | 19th Ward — Abandoned Storage Room]
The world came back to him in fragments.
Hayato's eyes cracked open to dim gray light filtering through broken shutters. The floor beneath him was concrete, damp, and his body ached from every angle. His shards twitched faintly at his back, retreating with a slow, painful pulse.
His stomach roared, a hollow ache that clawed up into his chest. His mouth was dry, his tongue heavy, his throat burning with that sickening, gnawing need.
Hunger.
He curled tighter against the wall, forcing his arms across his chest. His father's voice rang in his head:
"Control it. Choose it. Don't let the hunger hunt for you."
He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. His small frame trembled, every instinct screaming to move, to find flesh, to eat. But he stayed still, pressed against the wall like he could bury himself in it.
Outside, faint voices drifted through the cracked shutter.
"…They're still sweeping. Command says Bastion's unconfirmed, but the smaller one — he's out there."
Hayato froze, breath sharp. He pressed himself flatter against the wall, heart hammering.
"Black Dragon," another voice muttered. "That's what they're calling him already."
A humorless laugh followed. "Black Dragon? He's just a kid. Don't make him sound like Yamori or the Owl."
The first voice was quieter, strained. "You didn't see him. The shards. The eyes. If he lives long enough to grow into it… he'll be worse than Bastion."
Their boots scraped past. The sound grew fainter, swallowed by the ward.
Hayato finally let out a slow, shaky breath. His hands pressed against his stomach, the ache clawing deeper.
He whispered under his breath, voice raw: "Not yet… I won't break yet."
His eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, stayed fixed on the door.
The Doves were everywhere. And now they had his name.
Black Dragon.
[July 25, 2005 — 11:27 A.M. | 19th Ward — Abandoned Storage Room]
The world came back to him in fragments.
Hayato's eyes cracked open to dim gray light filtering through broken shutters. The floor beneath him was concrete, damp, and his body ached from every angle. His shards twitched faintly at his back, retreating with a slow, painful pulse.
His stomach roared, a hollow ache that clawed up into his chest. His mouth was dry, his tongue heavy, his throat burning with that sickening, gnawing need.
Hunger.
He curled tighter against the wall, forcing his arms across his chest. His father's voice rang in his head:
"Control it. Choose it. Don't let the hunger hunt for you."
He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. His small frame trembled, every instinct screaming to move, to find flesh, to eat. But he stayed still, pressed against the wall like he could bury himself in it.
Outside, faint voices drifted through the cracked shutter.
"…They're still sweeping. Command says Bastion's unconfirmed, but the smaller one — he's out there."
Hayato froze, breath sharp. He pressed himself flatter against the wall, heart hammering.
"Black Dragon," another voice muttered. "That's what they're calling him already."
A humorless laugh followed. "Black Dragon? He's just a kid. Don't make him sound like Yamori or the Owl."
The first voice was quieter, strained. "You didn't see him. The shards. The eyes. If he lives long enough to grow into it… he'll be worse than Bastion."
Their boots scraped past. The sound grew fainter, swallowed by the ward.
Hayato finally let out a slow, shaky breath. His hands pressed against his stomach, the ache clawing deeper.
He whispered under his breath, voice raw: "Not yet… I won't break yet."
His eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, stayed fixed on the door.
The Doves were everywhere. And now they had his name.
Black Dragon.
[July 25, 2005 — 12:42 P.M. | 19th Ward, Backstreets]
The patrol's voices faded. Silence returned, but it wasn't comforting — it pressed heavy, suffocating. Hayato's body trembled as he pulled himself upright, the hunger clawing through his ribs like knives. His legs felt like lead, every step a battle.
Not here, he told himself. Not now.
He pulled the cracked mask tighter over his face, not for hiding anymore, but because the thought of his mother seeing him like this — pale, trembling, blood-stained — made something inside him hurt.
The alleys stretched long and broken, every shadow a threat. Twice he had to duck behind dumpsters as more investigators swept through, rifles scanning every corner. His heart hammered, but his father's lessons guided him:
"Walls don't draw fire. They blend into the stone. They stay unseen until it's too late."
So he stayed small, silent, fast.
By the time the sagging roofline of their apartment block came into view, his chest tightened, tears threatening. His steps slowed.
The door was still there. The chipped paint. The faint smell of boiled rice that always clung to the hall.
He gripped the frame, hand shaking, before pushing it open.
Inside, the light was dim, curtains drawn tight. His mother stood by the table, folding and refolding the same shirt again and again, her hands trembling with every pass.
Her head snapped up. Her eyes widened.
"Hayato…"
His mask cracked fully as he collapsed into her arms. The sobs tore out of him, raw and ugly, his small body shaking against hers. Her hands gripped him tight, her own voice breaking as she whispered his name again and again.
But even through her embrace, through the faint comfort of home, the sound of his father's voice echoed louder in his head than anything else:
"You're weak. You're making this worse. Go."
The words cut deeper than the quinque ever had.