Hayato Amari knew what it felt like to be different.
His white-blond hair, his piercing blue eyes, and his dark brown skin set him apart in Okinawa, where most of his classmates shared similar features. But it wasn't just his appearance. His Japanese carried a slight American accent, a side effect of speaking both English and Japanese at home. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make him a target.
And kids could be ruthless.
"Your face is weird. It's like Japan and America had an argument... and you lost!"
They didn't care that Hayato's father was a U.S. Air Force colonel working on classified military projects with the Space Force. They didn't care that his mother had passed away when he was too young to understand what it meant to lose someone forever.
All they saw was someone who didn't belong.
At first, Hayato tried to ignore the teasing.
It began as whispers behind his back—soft snickers in the hallways, sideways glances paired with smirks, and the occasional mocking mimics of his voice when he answered a question in class.
He told himself it didn't matter. They're just words. Words can't hurt me.
But the whispers didn't stop.
The insults grew bolder, slipping into everyday conversation.
One afternoon, as Hayato walked across the sunlit schoolyard, the taunts began again.
"White-haired freak!"
Hayato ignored it, gripping the straps of his backpack tighter, his steps steady and unshaken.
"Hey Konketsuji! Make up your mind—are you a rice ball or a cheeseburger?" another voice chimed in, sharper this time, dripping with cruelty. "Too busy playing soldier to talk to us?"
I first heard the word "konketsuji" when I was growing up in Japan. It means "mixed-blood child," but it was never just a simple description—it carried weight, a sting, something that made me feel different in a way that wasn't always kind.
Back then, being mixed in Japan wasn't as common as it is now. Kids like me, with one Japanese parent and one foreign parent, stood out. Sometimes, it was just curiosity—people touching my hair, asking why my eyes weren't "Japanese enough." But other times, it was harsher. "Konketsuji" wasn't a neutral word; it was a label that made me feel like I didn't belong.
I learned that after World War II, kids like me had it even worse. Those born to Japanese mothers and foreign soldiers, especially Black and American G.I. fathers were often seen as outsiders, impure, different in a way that wasn't accepted. Many faced bullying, job discrimination, and a lifetime of being treated like they weren't fully Japanese.
Even though times have changed and more mixed-race people live in Japan today, the word "konketsuji" is still offensive.
But I'll never forget how that word made me feel—like I had to prove I belonged. Like I wasn't enough, just as I was.
Something small struck his shoulder—a pebble.
It barely stung, but the message was clear. We can do worse.
Hayato inhaled deeply through his nose but didn't break stride.
"Maybe he doesn't understand us." Another sneered, stretching the words out mockingly slow, causing the other kids to chime in with their own creative cruelties . "Hey, does your daddy only teach you English, half-breed?" "Go back to wherever your other half came from!"
Laughter erupted from the group.
Hayato kept walking.
But his fingers dug into the fabric of his backpack, his nails pressing so hard into the material that they left imprints.
"Look at him." A voice scoffed. "Thinks he's better than us."
"Nah," another boy snickered. "He's just scared. Probably gonna run home to his grandma. Maybe she'll braid his pretty little white hair and tell him he's special."
More laughter, cruelty and ringing in his ears.
Hayato could feel their eyes boring into his back, waiting—begging—for him to react.
But he didn't.
His heart pounded inside his chest, but he remembered his grandmother's words:
"Sometimes, the best thing you can do is walk away."
So he did.
For a while, it worked.
The bullies grew frustrated with his silence, their jeers becoming louder, their insults sharper, their laughter more forced.
They hated that he didn't react.
It took the fun out of it.
But their patience didn't last forever.
And soon, they stopped using words.
One humid afternoon behind the school, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass. The playground was alive with the echoing shouts of children playing soccer, the rhythmic thud of a ball being kicked, and the occasional chirping of cicadas. It was the sound of a normal school day—but not for Hayato.
He sat alone on a worn wooden bench near the edge of the field, his fingers lazily dragging a stick through the dirt. He traced absent-minded shapes, half-listening to the distant game. It was easier to be alone.
Then, a shadow loomed over him.
"Oi, look who it is."
Hayato knew that voice. Tetsuya.
He didn't need to look up. He could hear the smirk in his tone.
Tetsuya, the self-proclaimed leader of his little group, stood over him with his usual air of arrogance. He was taller than Hayato by at least a head, his wiry frame hidden beneath a slightly oversized school uniform. His narrow, fox-like eyes gleamed with amusement. Behind him stood his usual group of lackeys, already chuckling under their breath.
Hayato tightened his grip on the stick, but he didn't react.
Tetsuya's smirk widened.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!" he snapped, kicking the stick out of Hayato's hand.
The small piece of wood skidded across the ground, disappearing into the grass.
Hayato clenched his fists, but still, he said nothing. He wasn't going to give them what they wanted.
Tetsuya clicked his tongue in annoyance before crouching down beside him, lowering his voice just enough for the mockery to turn sharp.
"What's wrong? Too scared to say anything?"
The other boys snickered, their voices blending into a mocking chorus.
Hayato still didn't react.
Tetsuya's smirk faltered slightly. He had expected anger, a reaction—anything. But this silent defiance was starting to grate on his nerves.
His expression darkened.
"Fine." His tone turned icy. "If you won't talk, I guess I'll just have to take your bag."
Before Hayato could stop him, Tetsuya yanked his backpack away, the sudden motion spilling its contents onto the dirt.
Books, pencils, and—
A small, worn-out photograph fluttered to the ground.
Hayato's breath hitched.
Tetsuya was already reaching for it.
"Oi, what's this?"
Hayato's stomach twisted as Tetsuya snatched the photo, holding it up between two fingers. The small snapshot, slightly creased from being carried around too much, captured a frozen moment of happiness—Hayato, Hikari, and their father standing beneath a cherry blossom tree.
For a brief second, Hayato was back in that moment. He could hear Hikari's laughter, and see their father's rare but warm smile. The scent of sakura petals filled his memory, replacing the bitterness of the present.
Then, reality came crashing back.
Tetsuya's sneer deepened as he examined the photo.
"What's this on his shirt?" he muttered, pointing to their father's military uniform. "Oh, I get it. Looks like your dad's too busy playing soldier to care about you."
The laughter that followed was deafening.
Something inside Hayato snapped.
"Give it back!" he shouted, his voice breaking through the jeers.
He lunged at Tetsuya, his body moving before his mind could catch up.
The impact sent both boys tumbling to the ground. Dirt kicked up around them as Hayato grabbed at the photo, his fingers barely grazing the edge before Tetsuya shoved him off.
Hayato lunged forward, fury blazing in his eyes, his fist slicing through the air like a blade. It slammed into Tetsuya's ribs with a sickening crack, forcing a guttural grunt from his throat. For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze—then chaos erupted.
The gang surged like a pack of wolves. Two of them pounced, seizing Hayato's arms with brutal force and yanking him backward. He roared in defiance, thrashing violently, his boots lashing out in desperate arcs. But they were mountains—unyielding, immovable. His resistance only fueled their aggression.
Tetsuya staggered, clutching his side, his breath ragged. Then he straightened, his face twisting into a savage grin. His eyes locked onto Hayato with a predator's focus.
Thunder cracked overhead, and in that instant, his fist shot forward—swift and merciless, like lightning tearing through a storm.
The blow landed with devastating precision, burying itself deep in Hayato's gut. His body folded around the impact, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as pain exploded through him. The world blurred, spinning in a haze of agony and rage.
For a long, agonizing moment, Hayato lay crumpled on the cold, unforgiving ground, his body a battlefield of pain. Every breath was a struggle, each inhale scraping against bruised ribs and a battered stomach. His vision swam in a haze of dirt and tears, the world around him reduced to a blur of shadows and muffled sounds.
He didn't know if it was the sting of grit in his eyes or the ache radiating through his skull that made everything so unclear—but none of it mattered. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he reached out, dragging his hand across the dust until it brushed against something familiar.
The photo.
The bullies had tossed it aside like garbage, but to Hayato, it was sacred. He clutched it tightly, his fingers curling around the creased, dirt-stained edges. His father's face stared back at him through the grime—worn, faded, but still whole. Still there.
A tremor ran through him, not from pain, but from something deeper. Something ancient. Something awakening.
At that moment, something shifted inside Hayato. Beneath the bruises and broken pride, a fire sparked—small, but fierce. It burned away the fear, the helplessness, the shame.
He wasn't going to let this happen again. Not to him. Not to anyone.
As the gang's laughter faded into the distance, Hayato didn't cry. He didn't scream. He simply stared at the photo, the flames in his chest growing hotter, brighter. A vow formed silently on his lips.
Next time… he would be ready.
After that awful day in the alley, Hayato sat on the edge of his futon, fists gripping the blanket as if holding on could keep the memory from swallowing him whole. His cheeks still burned from where fists had landed; his bright blue eyes, normally so steady, shimmered with unshed tears.
Tetsuya's sneer. The ring of cruel laughter. The sting of dirt ground into his skin.
It looped in his mind like a film stuck on the worst frame.
"I hate them," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking but stubborn. His small shoulders trembled. "I hate them so much! I don't care what they say—I'm not changing who I am."
The room felt too tight, the air too heavy. He needed to breathe. I needed to escape.
Without waking Hikari or his grandparents, Hayato slipped from the house. The night air carried the tang of salt, sharp and bracing, and the moon cast a silver path across the restless waves. Barefoot, he followed the familiar trail down to the dock, each step echoing with his unspoken anger.
The harbor was alive even at night—fishermen finishing repairs, lanterns swaying, the scent of tar, salt, and seaweed thick in the air. Wooden boats bobbed against their moorings, creaking like tired old men settling into bed.
And there, at the far end of the dock, stood his uncle Kenji. Broad-shouldered, with sleeves rolled high and a net slung over one arm, Kenji was a man carved by the sea—skin weathered by sun, eyes sharp as gulls, hands rough but sure.
He glanced up from tying a knot and froze, surprise flashing across his face.
"Hayato? What in the world are you doing here at this hour?"
The boy hesitated, biting his lip. His throat tightened, but he forced the words out.
"I… I just needed to get away."
Kenji set down the net, rising to his full height. His boots thudded against the planks as he closed the gap, crouching so his gaze met Hayato's. The sea breeze stirred his dark hair, and in his eyes was not judgment, but something steadier—concern.
"You look like you went ten rounds with a typhoon," he muttered, brushing dirt from Hayato's cheek with a calloused thumb. "Who did this?"
Hayato's fists clenched again, his jaw stiff. "Some kids in town."
Kenji's brows furrowed. His hands tightened on his knees. "Bullies?"
Hayato nodded, the word catching in his throat. "They said… they said I don't belong."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the lap of waves against the dock. Kenji's expression softened, though his eyes still burned with quiet anger. He exhaled slowly, then placed both hands on Hayato's shoulders, grounding him.
"Listen to me, boy," Kenji said, voice low but firm, the way only men of the sea spoke. "The ocean doesn't care where you come from. The tide takes in everything—stones, shells, driftwood—and still keeps moving. That's how you've got to be. Keep moving, no matter what anyone says."
Hayato swallowed, eyes lifting to meet his uncle's. "But… what if I can't?"
Kenji ruffled his hair, a rough but affectionate gesture. "Then you come find me. We'll face it together. Understand?"
For the first time since the alley, Hayato felt something shift—shame loosening its grip, replaced by a fragile kind of strength.
"…Okay," he whispered.
Kenji gave him a faint grin, straightening to his full height. "Good. Now, since you're here, make yourself useful. Think you can coil these ropes without tangling 'em like last time?"
Hayato blinked, startled, then gave the smallest of smiles. "I can try."
"Try?" Kenji barked a laugh, slapping his back. "No, nephew. Out here we don't try. We do."
The boy followed his uncle's lead, hands fumbling with coarse rope while the sea whispered and the moonlit waves rocked against the dock. For a while, the laughter in the alley faded, drowned beneath the sound of the ocean and the steady voice of a man who believed in him.
The moon had risen higher, scattering silver across the waves. After finishing with the nets and hauling in a modest catch, Hayato wiped his brow, proud of the small role he played beside his uncle. His arms ached, his hands raw from rope burns, but for once, the pain didn't feel like shame—it felt earned.
Kenji clapped him on the shoulder. "Not bad for a landlocked kid. You've got grit, Hayato. More than you think."
The boy looked away, fingers curling at his sides. "It doesn't matter. They'll still push me around. I'll never be strong enough to stop them."
Kenji studied him for a long moment. The sea breeze whipped through his hair as memory flickered in his eyes—of years past, of battles fought not with nets and hooks, but fists and discipline. A younger version of himself, bowing to his sensei, training until his knuckles split and his spirit hardened like tempered steel.
"Maybe it's time I stopped keeping that part of me buried," Kenji muttered. Then, louder: "Hayato. Come with me."
They moved to a quiet stretch of dock, where lantern light painted shifting circles on the planks. The boats rocked gently, their ropes creaking like the floorboards of an old training hall. Kenji stood tall, his posture shifting—less fisherman, more fighter. His shoulders squared, his stance rooted, his gaze sharpening with a forgotten edge.
"When I was your age, I studied martial arts," he said, voice steady, carrying the weight of truth. "It wasn't about beating people up. It was about control. About knowing who you are when the world tries to break you. You want to face those bullies? You don't need rage. You need discipline."
Hayato's eyes widened, awe and determination sparking together. "You'll… teach me?"
Kenji gave a single nod. "If you're ready to sweat. No whining. No excuses." He stepped back and raised his hands into a guarded stance. "Show me your fists."
Hayato raised trembling fists, knuckles pale. Kenji chuckled. "Too stiff. Relax your shoulders. The ocean flows, boy—so must you." He adjusted Hayato's arms with careful hands, grounding him in balance.
Then the drills began. Simple at first—stance, guard, the rhythm of stepping forward and back. Kenji barked corrections, sharp but not cruel, while the waves filled the silence between each strike.
"Again!"
Hayato's bare feet slapped against the dock.
"Breathe with the motion!"
Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he didn't stop.
Finally, Kenji crouched low, meeting his nephew's gaze. "Strength isn't in your fists, Hayato. It's in your spirit. Bullies feed on fear—take that away, and they've got nothing."
Hayato panted, chest heaving, but nodded fiercely. "I won't let them win again."
Kenji allowed a small smile, pride flickering across his weathered face. "Good. Tomorrow night, we begin proper training. For now—remember this stance. Live in it. Sleep in it if you have to."
The boy straightened, fists raised once more under the lantern's glow, as if the dock itself had become his battleground. The sea roared softly behind him, carrying his promise out into the night.
The days after that night on the dock began to blur into a rhythm. By day, Hayato helped in the shop, trailed after Hikari, and pretended to be an ordinary boy. By night, after the lamps dimmed, he trained.
Kenji drilled him in stances, strikes, and blocks. When his uncle was out at sea, Hayato kept practicing alone. He made the old oak tree his enemy, bark scarred by the repeated thud of his small fists. His knuckles swelled and split; his knees bore scabs from missteps; his arms carried faint bruises from blocking wrong. Each ache was fire, but it was fire he welcomed—proof that he was no longer helpless.
It hurt. It burned. It bled.
But Hayato didn't care.
Every scar was a step away from weakness.
Still, the house had sharp eyes. His grandparents noticed the dirt on his clothes, the stiff way he moved, the way he devoured food as though he'd been starving.
That evening, as the family gathered around the table, his grandmother slid an extra piece of grilled fish onto his plate. Her expression was calm, but her gaze lingered.
"Hayato," she said, voice soft yet pointed. "You've been eating like a bear lately. What exactly have you been doing to make you this hungry?"
Hayato froze, chopsticks hovering above his rice. His heart pounded like a drum. If they knew he was fighting or training, would they stop him? His lips stumbled around the first excuse that came to mind.
"Uh… just… running around with Hikari!" He forced a grin. "She's fast. I have to keep up."
Across the table, Grandpa sipped his tea with a low chuckle, sharp eyes glinting knowingly.
"Running, hm? Must be some serious running to wear you out like that."
Grandma turned her gaze on Hikari, who was already stuffing her cheeks with rice, eyes sparkling. "Is what your brother says true, Hikari?"
Mouth still full, Hikari mumbled, "Mm-hm! We had a race across the entire beach… and I won!" She swallowed quickly and grinned. "Nii-chan was so slow!"
Hayato nearly choked on his food, ducking his head to hide his smile.
The subject was dropped. No lectures, no scolding. But after that night, his favorite meals—grilled fish, miso soup, steaming rice—appeared on the table more often. And on more than one occasion, he found small snacks left waiting on the counter: rice balls wrapped in seaweed, a piece of sweet bread, always with a note written in his grandfather's careful hand.
For after-school adventures.
They knew.
They just weren't stopping him.
And somehow, that unspoken trust—more than the pain in his knuckles or the sting in his muscles—made Hayato want to train even harder.
The evening light burned gold across the horizon, staining the waves with fire. Hayato stood atop the rocks, his small frame silhouetted against the sinking sun. Sweat clung to his skin, his chest heaved, and his bare feet gripped the warm stone as though anchoring him to the earth.
Every muscle screamed at him to stop, but he wouldn't. Not yet.
"Again," he muttered, rolling his shoulders, raising his fists. His arms trembled with fatigue, but his heart beat steady.
In his mind, the bullies were there—Tetsuya's sneer, their laughter, their jeers. He could hear them, see them. This time, though, he wouldn't fall.
Hayato darted forward—jab, jab, duck. A counterstrike. His feet shifted with purpose, no longer stumbling, carrying him with a fluidity born from repetition. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but his focus didn't break. Each strike landed sharper than the last.
When he finally stopped, his lungs burning, his fists red and raw, the sky above had deepened to indigo. Stars blinked to life like watchful eyes. Hayato clenched his fists tight.
"I'm gonna get stronger," he whispered. His voice carried in the wind, fragile but fierce. "Strong enough to protect Hikari. Strong enough to stop them."
A breeze rolled in, cooling his overheated skin, brushing the sweat-soaked strands of hair from his forehead. And for the first time, Hayato felt it—not weakness, not helplessness, but something rising inside him. Something solid.
A smile tugged at his lips. For the first time since that day in the alley, he didn't feel powerless.
He didn't notice the heavy steps on the rocks until a familiar voice cut through the wind.
"You're a stubborn one," Kenji said, arms crossed, watching from the slope. The fisherman's face, usually calm and weathered, now bore a small grin. He stepped closer, boots scraping against stone. "I've seen grown men quit sooner than you."
Hayato's eyes widened. "Uncle… how long were you—?"
"Long enough." Kenji crouched, meeting his gaze. His sharp eyes gleamed with something rare—pride. "Your stance, your strikes… you're a quick learner. Faster than I expected."
Hayato blinked, chest still heaving. "…Really?"
Kenji nodded once, firm. "You're ready, Hayato. Ready to face them. Not because you can throw punches now—because you've learned what matters. Control. Discipline. The will to keep standing."
For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the crash of the waves. Then Kenji stood and extended a hand. "When the time comes, you won't be alone out there. Remember that."
Hayato took the hand, his small fingers gripping tight. His uncle's calloused palm felt steady, grounding him.
And as the stars shone brighter over the sea, Hayato realized he no longer feared the shadows of Tetsuya and his gang. He was ready to face them—ready to fight, not just for himself, but for the family waiting at home.
The autumn air was crisp, the sky painted in shades of orange and purple as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Fallen leaves crunched beneath their feet as Hayato and Hikari walked home from school together, the golden light catching in Hikari's flowing white hair.
She skipped ahead, twirling on the tips of her toes before spinning to face her brother with an eager grin.
"Nii-chan, let's stop at the candy shop!" she chirped, practically bouncing on her heels.
Hayato let out a small chuckle, shaking his head as he reached out to ruffle her hair. "Maybe tomorrow," he said. "Grandma's making tempura tonight, and we can't be late."
Hikari puffed out her cheeks, crossing her arms in an exaggerated pout. "Mou~ you always say that!" But despite her playful protest, she didn't argue further, skipping alongside him as they continued down the familiar path home.
Then, as they turned the corner near an empty lot, Hayato's stomach twisted.
A group of boys stood in their path.
Tetsuya. And his gang.
The relaxed, carefree air of their walk home vanished instantly, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension. Hayato's steps slowed, his grip instinctively tightening around Hikari's hand.
"Great," he muttered under his breath.
Tetsuya's smirk widened as he stepped forward, his narrow, fox-like eyes glinting with amusement. "Hey, Konketsuji!" he called out, his tone dripping with mock friendliness.
Hayato clenched his jaw. "Just ignore them," he whispered to Hikari, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze as he attempted to guide her past.
But before they could slip away, Tetsuya moved, stepping in front of them and blocking their path.
"What's the rush? Stay and chat."
Hayato stopped, his blue eyes narrowing. "We don't have time for this." His voice was cold, steady, but inside, his blood was starting to boil.
One of the boys behind Tetsuya snickered, nudging his friend. "Maybe we should ask the little girl to stay instead."
Hikari stiffened beside Hayato, clutching the strap of her bag tightly.
Hayato's patience snapped like a frayed wire.
His gaze darkened, his posture shifting into something dangerously still. "Don't you dare touch her."
Tetsuya grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, Konketsuji. We're just being friendly."
But the moment Hayato turned to walk away, one of the boys grabbed Hikari's arm.
"Hey—Let go of me!" Hikari cried, struggling against the rough grip.
Everything inside Hayato ignited at once.
His entire body tensed as a sharp, white-hot fury exploded in his chest. He whirled around so fast the air practically vibrated—his eyes blazing, his pulse pounding like war drums in his ears.
"Let. Her. Go!"
His voice cut through the air like a blade, ringing with a force that made even the birds in the trees go silent.
Then, he moved.
Hayato launched himself forward, a blur of speed, his small fist colliding hard into the boy's stomach with an elbow strike. The impact sent a shockwave through the thug's body, making him wheeze and crumple as he instantly released Hikari's arm.
She stumbled back, her wide eyes locked onto her brother.
Then the others rushed at Hayato all at once.
The first one swung at him, but Hayato dodged cleanly, dropping low and sweeping the boy's legs out from under him with a sharp kick. Before the thug could even hit the ground, Hayato was already moving—twisting his body, slamming his elbow into another attacker's ribs so hard that he heard the breath leave his lungs.
Tetsuya lunged next, swinging a wild punch aimed at Hayato's face.
Hayato ducked.
Then countered with a powerful jab straight to Tetsuya's ribs.
Tetsuya let out a sharp gasp, staggering back, eyes wide in shock.
Another thug tried to grab Hayato from behind. Big mistake.
Hayato twisted out of the hold, grabbing the attacker's wrist before slamming a knee into his gut and shoving him back.
Hikari stood at a safe distance, watching the fight unfold, her hands clutching her school bag tightly.
"Nii-chan, stop! You're going to get hurt!" she called, worry laced in her voice.
Hayato barely spared her a glance, his breath coming in short bursts. "I'm fine, Hikari! Just stay back!"
The fight was fast, brutal, and chaotic.
But Hayato was faster.
And for the first time—he wasn't losing.
He moved like a storm, his every motion sharp and precise, every strike filled with purpose. He wasn't just swinging blindly. He was fighting with everything he had.
When the dust settled, the only ones left standing were him and Hikari.
Tetsuya and his gang were scattered across the ground, groaning in pain.
Hayato stood over them, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His knuckles stung, scraped and raw from the fight, but he didn't care. He only cared about one thing.
He stepped closer to Tetsuya, his eyes sharp and unrelenting.
"Stay away from my sister," he said, his voice low, firm—unshakable.
Tetsuya glared up at him, his face twisted with pain and rage.
But he didn't say a word.
He couldn't.
Hayato turned to grab Hikari's hand.
"Let's go Hikari!" he said with a firm voice.
They walked away, leaving the group of boys hurt and beaten on the ground.
The road was quiet. Hikari's hand stayed locked in Hayato's, small fingers clutching like she was afraid he'd slip away.
"Nii-chan…?" Her voice was small, almost trembling. "Why do they hate us so much?"
Hayato slowed, staring at the ground. "…I don't know." He forced the words out, though his throat burned. "Maybe because we're different. Maybe because they're cowards."
Hikari's eyes lowered. "It's not fair."
"I know." He gave her hand a squeeze. "But we can't let them decide who we are."
They walked a little farther before Hayato tugged her toward a narrow path that veered off the main road. Hikari frowned. "Where are we going?"
"To see Mom."
Her eyes widened, but she didn't resist.
The small grave was simple, a weathered stone surrounded by grass that the evening breeze made whisper. Hayato stopped, his hand loosening so Hikari could step closer.
She crouched, tracing the carved name with her little fingers. "I don't… remember her."
Hayato swallowed hard. His chest tightened. "…I only remember pieces. Her smile. The way she'd pat my head when I was scared. A song she used to hum. That's all."
"Do you think she'd like me?" Hikari asked, looking up at him.
Hayato knelt beside her, setting his bruised hands on the grass. His voice wavered, but he forced it steady. "She'd love you. More than anything. She'd be proud of both of us."
Hikari's lip quivered. "Even if I'm weak?"
"You're not weak." He reached out, ruffling her hair. "You're braver than you think. You're the reason I keep fighting."
For a moment, they were quiet. Then Hayato looked at the stone, his fists clenched. "I promise, Mom. I'll protect her. No matter what."
Hikari leaned against him, whispering so softly it was almost carried away by the breeze. "I'll protect Nii-chan too."
Hayato smiled faintly, resting his forehead against hers. "Then we'll protect each other."
Hand in hand, they turned back toward the village, the grave behind them but their mother's presence walking beside them in silence.
Hayato's words hung in the air like the evening mist.
"Because we're different."
Hikari frowned, her brows knitting tight. "That's stupid."
Hayato let out a breath of laughter—short, but real. "Yeah… it is." His gaze drifted toward the ocean beyond the headstones, the waves rolling endlessly beneath the fading light. "But sometimes… people don't like things they don't understand."
Hikari was quiet, her small hand squeezing his. She thought hard, the way she always did, as though trying to put the whole world into place inside her head. Then she spoke, her voice firm, clear.
"Well, I don't care if we're different."
Hayato blinked, turning to her.
"You're my Nii-chan," she said simply, eyes shining. "And you're the best one ever."
The knot in Hayato's chest loosened. Slowly, a smile—real this time, small but warm—spread across his face. "…Thanks, Hikari."
She grinned back, triumphant, like she had just declared a truth no one could ever deny.
Hayato looked back at their mother's grave, his voice soft but steady. "And as long as I'm here, I won't let them hurt you. That's my promise, Mom. I'll protect her."
Hikari leaned closer to the stone, whispering as if speaking directly to the mother she never knew. "I'll protect him too. So don't worry about us, okay?"
The two of them sat there in silence, side by side, hands still clasped, as the first stars appeared overhead. Fireflies drifted lazily around the graveyard, their glow like tiny lanterns keeping watch. The ocean's steady rhythm carried through the night air, endless and unchanging.
Bruised, aching, but unbroken—Hayato felt something stir inside him. Something stronger than pain. Something that made him lift his chin and hold Hikari's hand tighter.
Pride.
Not for winning the fight.
But for keeping his promise.
And as the night deepened around them, brother and sister stayed at their mother's grave a little longer, the quiet presence of family wrapping around them like unseen arms.
Crickets sang in the grass, and the ocean's rhythm rolled steady in the distance.
Hayato and Hikari stood in front of their mother's grave, side by side. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wildflowers.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Hayato bowed his head, his voice quiet but firm.
"Thank you… for everything you gave us."
Hikari copied him, her small frame dipping forward. "We'll be okay, Mama. I promise."
Together, they pressed their palms together, heads lowered in respect.
When they straightened, Hikari tugged at Hayato's sleeve. "I want to give her something."
Before he could answer, she darted off into the grass, her little hands reaching for the clusters of wildflowers that grew between the headstones. She hummed softly as she gathered them, skipping from patch to patch, her white hair glimmering in the starlight.
That left Hayato alone.
He stayed in front of the grave, staring at the carved name. His fists tightened at his sides, knuckles still raw. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low whisper—one meant only for her.
"Why did you have to go?" His throat tightened. "Why did you leave us when we needed you most?"
He glanced at the flowers Hikari was gathering, her laughter soft in the background, and his jaw clenched.
"Everything's harder without you here. They look at me like I don't belong. Like I'm not enough. And maybe they're right." His voice cracked, sharp with bitterness. "I hate it… I hate being half-Japanese. It makes me feel like I'll never fit in, no matter how hard I fight."
He pressed a trembling hand against the stone, eyes burning. "If you were here… would it be different? Would they still laugh at me? Would I still feel like this?"
His breath shuddered, and for a moment he said nothing more. Just listened to the waves, to the soft rustle of Hikari's footsteps in the grass.
When she returned, arms full of flowers, her smile was as bright as the stars. She laid the blossoms carefully across the grave, arranging them with care. "See, Mama? Now it's pretty."
Hayato wiped at his face quickly, forcing a small smile. "Yeah… it is."
The two of them stood together again, hands clasped, the grave before them covered in wildflowers. The night stretched vast and endless, the first glimmer of Genesis glowing faintly in the heavens above—unnoticed, for now.
But in that moment, beneath the stars and before their mother's grave, they were only a brother and sister, holding on to the promise of each other.
The next day, the sun bathed the streets of Okinawa in golden hues, stretching long, lazy shadows across the worn pavement. The air was warm and thick with the lingering scent of the ocean, mingling with the earthy aroma of rain from the passing storm earlier that day.
Hayato walked at a steady pace, his school bag slung over one shoulder, while Hikari skipped beside him, her boundless energy refusing to be tamed. Her white hair bounced with each hop, catching the sunlight like strands of silk. Her bright blue eyes gleamed with the innocent joy of childhood, reflecting a world far less complicated than the one Hayato saw.
A tug on his sleeve broke him from his thoughts.
"Nii-chan, can we stop for snacks?" she asked, peering up at him with an expectant grin.
Her voice was sweet, almost too sweet—like she already knew he wouldn't say no.
Hayato sighed, feigning reluctance as he ruffled her hair. "Alright, but just for a minute. We can't be late for dinner, or Grandma will lecture us."
"Yay!" Hikari cheered, practically dragging him toward the small convenience store ahead.
As the automatic doors slid open with a faint whoosh, a blast of cool air washed over them, starkly contrasting the warmth outside. The store smelled of instant noodles, fried food, and faint traces of cleaning supplies. It was a familiar scent, one that reminded Hayato of all the times they'd stopped here for a treat after school.
"I'm getting the strawberry gummies!" Hikari declared, dashing toward the snack aisle, her long hair trailing behind her like a ribbon.
Hayato shook his head with a small smile and made his way toward the refrigerated section. He grabbed a bottle of water and glanced at the clock hanging above the counter. "Don't take too long, Hikari. We have to—"
"I won't!" she called from the aisle, already clutching a small bag of candy like a hard-earned prize.
As Hayato walked toward the counter, something changed.
The usual soft background music—a light, cheerful jingle that played on repeat—fizzled out, replaced by a jarring burst of static. A large TV mounted above the cashier's counter flickered, and the sound of a news anchor's voice crackled through the store's speakers.
"—continuing our live coverage. Reports have been confirmed—"
The footage on the screen cut to a massive celestial body, glowing ominously against the black backdrop of space. It was an asteroid—huge, its surface crackling with unnatural energy. Hayato's breath caught in his throat as the screen zoomed in, revealing jagged fractures along its body, pulsing with eerie golden light.
His grip on the water bottle tightened.
"Nii-chan, what's wrong?"
Hikari had reappeared at his side, clutching her candy. Her gaze followed him to the screen, her expression shifting from curiosity to confusion.
Hayato barely heard the cashier handing him his change. The news anchor's voice filled his ears, growing sharper, more urgent.
"—scientists say the meteor, designated as Genesis, will soon enter Earth's atmosphere. Its trajectory suggests a catastrophic impact—"
The store suddenly felt too small, the air thick, suffocating. Hayato swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Genesis.
The name alone sent a chill down his spine.
Hikari's small hand tugged at his sleeve again, this time more hesitantly. "Nii-chan…?"
Hayato tore his gaze from the screen and forced himself to breathe. He crouched down, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Hikari, we need to go. Now."
Her brows knitted together. "But my candy—"
"Forget the candy." His voice came out sharper than intended.
Hikari flinched, her expression falling. Regret flickered in his chest, but there wasn't time to explain.
He softened his tone, squeezing her hand. "I'll get you more later. But right now, we have to get home."
She hesitated, then nodded, sensing the urgency in his voice.
Without another word, Hayato grabbed her hand and led her out of the store, the sound of the news broadcast still echoing behind them.
Outside, the golden light of the afternoon felt different—heavier. The wind had picked up slightly, rustling the leaves of a nearby cherry blossom tree. The village around them continued on as usual, people going about their daily routines, unaware that their world had just changed forever.
A loud sound came out of nowhere. It was the sound of missiles and nukes that the government launched into space to destroy Genesis.
Hayato and Hikari covered their ears and closed their eyes because the sound was too loud for them to handle.
When the sound was low enough, they opened their eyes and saw clouds coming from the ground into the sky.
"Nii-chan?" Hikari said with a worried expression.
Hayato, who was still looking at the clouds with a scared look, quickly snapped out of it and looked at Hikari.
"We have to keep moving." Hayato said.
Hayato grabbed Hikari's hand and they dashed home. As they were running home, things began to start changing.
Hikari looked up at him, concern evident in her eyes. "Nii-chan, what's happening?"
Hayato didn't answer right away. He stared up at the sky, at the sun shining brightly in its usual place. Everything looked the same.
But it wasn't.
Nothing was ever going to be the same again.
He tightened his grip on Hikari's hand.
"I'll explain later." His voice was steady, but inside, he wasn't sure he believed his own words. "We just need to get home."
The village was falling apart.
What was once a peaceful place filled with the sound of ocean waves and evening chatter had become a whirlwind of panic and confusion. The scent of grilled fish from dinner stalls had been replaced by the sharp sting of smoke and sweat. People ran wildly through the streets, their voices a tangled mess of fear and desperation.
Shutters slammed. Doors locked. Families clutched one another like the world was already ending.
The air was heavy with tension, thick enough to choke on. The night sky—usually serene and painted with stars—felt suffocating now, as if it was pressing down on them, warning them of what was coming.
Hayato held onto Hikari's hand like his life depended on it, weaving them through the frantic crowd. His pulse was hammering in his ears, drowning out everything else.
A man shoved past them, nearly sending Hikari to the ground.
"Get out of the way!" he shouted. "We have to reach the bunker before it's too late!"
Hikari whimpered, stumbling slightly.
Hayato immediately steadied her, tightening his grip on her tiny fingers. "Careful!" His voice came out harsher than he intended, but the fear thrumming through his body made it impossible to stay calm.
Hikari looked up at him, her small face filled with uncertainty. "Nii-chan… why is everyone so scared?"
Her voice was small, barely louder than a whisper, but Hayato could hear the fear creeping into it.
His jaw clenched. He didn't want to lie to her—but how could he tell his little sister that everything they knew was about to be ripped apart? That the home they had always known might not exist tomorrow?
Another loud crash echoed from further down the street.
A group of men had overturned a stall, desperately grabbing supplies. The shopkeeper shouted at them, but no one listened. People weren't thinking anymore—they were just trying to survive.
"Nii-chan?"
Hikari's grip on his sleeve tightened, her fingers trembling.
Hayato forced himself to swallow his panic. He had to be strong—for her. He squeezed her hand just enough to reassure her.
"It's… complicated," he muttered, dodging past another rushing villager. "Something really bad is going to happen. But it's okay. We're going to be okay."
"But—"
"No buts, Hikari. Just stay close to me."
She nodded hesitantly, but the uncertainty in her eyes didn't fade.
As they turned the final corner, their house finally came into view.
For a brief second, relief washed over Hayato. The warm glow from the windows stood out against the growing darkness, a reminder that they still had a home to return to.
But the second passed.
Because the village wasn't the same anymore.
And Hayato knew—deep down—this was only the beginning.
The warm scent of grilled fish and simmering miso soup drifted through the air as Hayato and Hikari reached the front steps of their home. The familiar glow of the windows spilled onto the sand-covered path, a small beacon of comfort amidst the growing unease that had consumed the village.
But no matter how inviting the house looked, Hayato knew things wouldn't be the same once they stepped inside.
Their grandmother had already been waiting by the door, her sharp gaze scanning the darkening streets beyond their home. The usual calm in her eyes had been replaced with something else—worry.
The moment she saw them, her tense shoulders dropped slightly, but not enough to hide her concern.
"You're back late," she said, relief and unease laced in her tone. Her eyes darted behind them toward the village square, where distant shouts and hurried footsteps echoed through the air. "What's going on? Why is everyone acting like this?"
Before Hayato could answer, their grandfather appeared in the doorway, his brows furrowed as he looked past them. "We heard shouting outside earlier," he said, his voice steady but tight. "Something's happening, isn't it?"
His hands, usually occupied with tools or the shop's ledger, were clenched at his sides. He had been waiting—watching—worried for them.
Hikari, still clutching Hayato's hand, glanced between their grandparents and the village behind them. The panic was growing—more voices, more frantic movements, the sound of a child crying somewhere in the distance.
Hayato stepped forward quickly, pulling Hikari inside as he spoke. "Turn on the TV," he said, his voice urgent but controlled.
Their grandfather's frown deepened. "Hayato, tell me what's going on."
"Just turn it on," Hayato repeated, sharper this time.
His grandmother hesitated only for a moment before exchanging a look with her husband. Without another word, she moved toward the television, her movements stiff and deliberate.
The old TV flickered as she pressed the button. A moment of static—then the image sharpened.
The broadcast had already begun.
A grim-faced news anchor stared back at them, his voice a heavy weight that settled over the room.
"—official reports confirm that the meteor, now classified as Genesis, will impact Earth within a few hours."
The screen shifted to display a computer-generated simulation—Earth, a blue and green jewel floating in the vastness of space. But it was no longer alone. A massive asteroid, dark and jagged, loomed in the distance, its trajectory locked onto the planet with chilling precision.
The words landed like a blow.
The house, once filled with the familiar sounds of a peaceful evening, was now suffocated by silence.
The screen cut back to the anchor, his expression unreadable, though his tightly clasped hands hinted at the weight of the message she was delivering.
"The meteor's size and speed make it catastrophic," he continued, her voice carefully measured. "Despite global efforts, attempts to destroy or divert Genesis have failed. Earlier today, a coordinated nuclear strike was launched into space in a last-ditch effort to eliminate the asteroid before impact."
A momentary pause.
Then, the footage changed again. A series of grainy, high-altitude satellite clips played, showing the Earth's final defense—rockets streaking toward the asteroid, their trails cutting across the darkness like shooting stars. Explosions erupted across Genesis' surface, fiery bursts of energy illuminating the void of space.
But as the dust cleared, the asteroid remained.
And it was falling even faster.
"While the detonation succeeded in reducing the meteor's outer layers," the anchor's voice carried the weight of impending doom, "the core remains intact and is now traveling at an even greater velocity."
The footage faded, replaced by a simple, unchanging text on the screen:
IMPACT: 10 HOURS
His tone didn't waver, but the tension behind his eyes was unmistakable.
"Government evacuation plans are underway. Citizens are urged to prepare for immediate relocation. Further details will be announced—"
The tv suddenly turned off. Hayato barely heard the rest.
His grandmother slowly sank into the nearest chair, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words came. Her hands trembled as she reached for the wooden table, gripping the edge for support.
His grandfather remained standing, his gaze locked onto the screen. His expression didn't waver, but Hayato could see the slight tremor in his fingers, the tightening of his jaw. The man who had always been their pillar—the one who fixed everything, who always knew what to do—was frozen.
Hikari tugged at Hayato's sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Nii-chan… what's a meteor?"
Hayato turned to her, his heart twisting at the innocence in her face.
He crouched down, forcing his voice to remain steady even as fear coiled in his chest. "It's… a big rock from space," he said carefully. "It's heading toward Earth."
Hikari's brows furrowed. "Is it going to hit us?"
Hayato felt his throat tighten.
He didn't know the answer.
The truth was staring at him through the television screen, the weight of it pressing against his ribs like an invisible force. He could see it in his grandparents' faces. In the panic outside. In the way the news anchor's voice wavered ever so slightly, betraying his own fear.
But none of that mattered.
Not to Hikari.
She was looking at him, trusting him—waiting for the answer that would decide whether she should be scared or not.
So Hayato did the only thing he could.
He tightened his grip on her small hands and said, without hesitation—
"No."
His voice was firm. Steady. Unshakable.
"It's not going to hit us. We'll be okay. I'll make sure of it."
His grandfather exhaled sharply through his nose, finally tearing his gaze from the screen. His grandmother slowly lifted her head, her face unreadable.
Hikari searched his eyes for a moment longer before nodding, her grip tightening around his fingers.
She believed him.
The next hour was a whirlwind of movement, fear, and urgency. Their once-peaceful home—filled with the familiar scent of grilled fish and the soft lull of the ocean breeze—was now tense and chaotic, filled with hurried footsteps and the rustling of bags being stuffed to capacity.
Their grandparents moved with quiet determination, their usually steady hands trembling as they packed everything they could carry—clothes, preserved food, a few valuables, and essential documents. Their grandmother's face, normally lined with warmth, was tight with worry. Their grandfather, always a pillar of strength, now wore an expression Hayato had never seen before.
It was the look of a man preparing for the unknown.
Hayato did his best to help—grabbing supplies, checking their bags—but his mind was spinning. The news reports echoed in his head on an endless loop:
"Impact expected in approximately 10 hours… All citizens must evacuate immediately… Government shelters are at maximum capacity…"
It didn't feel real. It couldn't be real.
Yet, the fear twisting in his gut told him otherwise.
Across the room, Hikari sat on the floor, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest. Her wide eyes darted from one person to the next, trying to make sense of the urgency around her. The normalcy of their home—the cozy warmth of their grandparents' house—felt like it was slipping away, piece by piece.
A sharp sigh broke through the tension.
"Kenji… We need to get to Kenji."
Their grandmother muttered the words under her breath, glancing anxiously at the old wooden clock on the wall.
Their grandfather, who had been double-checking their supplies, nodded. "I'll go and retrieve him once I've dropped you all off at the shelter," he said, his voice laced with forced steadiness, as if trying to convince himself that time was still on their side.
"No."
The firmness in my grandmother's voice made everyone pause.
Her eyes locked onto his grandfather's. "We all go together, as a family."
His grandfather frowned. "But Kenji lives on the far side of the island. I need to make sure you three make it into the shelter first!"
"The sooner we leave, the safer we'll be. The longer we wait, the harder it'll be to reach Uncle Kenji." said the grandmother
For a brief moment, the grandfather hesitated. Leaving in the middle of the night, with the village in chaos, was a risk. But the grandmother's expression was unwavering, her determination cutting through these doubts.
They exchanged a look—one of silent understanding.
Then—
The phone rang.
The sharp, shrill sound cut through the room like a knife, freezing everyone in place.
Hayato's grandfather was the first to move. He crossed the room in hurried strides and picked up the receiver, his weathered hands gripping it tightly.
"Hello?"
A crackle of static.
Then—
"Hello, is everyone there?"
The voice was distant but unmistakable.
It's their father.
Hayato's breath caught.
"Elijah, we're here," their grandfather said quickly, his voice thick with emotion. "What's happening?"
Their father exhaled sharply on the other end. "Listen to me. You need to get to the nearest bunker immediately. Don't wait. Don't hesitate. Just go."
Hayato moved closer, straining to hear every word.
"We're almost ready," their grandmother said, her voice filled with both urgency and fear. "Once we're packed, we'll get Kenji and head to shelter."
A heavy silence stretched over the line before she finally asked—
"What about you?"
There was a pause.
Then, their father's voice came back, quieter this time.
"I can't leave my post."
The weight of those words settled like a stone in Hayato's chest.
Of course.
"We're running evacuation operations. I don't know if I'll make it in time."
His voice was steady, but Hayato could hear it—the uncertainty.
Even now, their father was prioritizing his duty. The Air Force, the country—the world.
But not them.
Hikari's small fingers clutched Hayato's sleeve. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Daddy…?"
Hayato reached down, placing a hand on her head, gently squeezing.
On the other end of the line, their father took a deep breath.
"When this is over… I will find you. I swear it."
Hayato swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat.
His grandfather spoke, his voice thick. "We'll be waiting. We'll find each other again."
Another long silence.
Then—
"Stay safe."
And the line went dead.
The quiet that followed was deafening.
Their grandmother took a shaky breath and wiped at her eyes before straightening her back. Then, in a voice that allowed no argument—
"We leave. Now."
No one hesitated.
No one argued.
They moved faster, stuffing the last of their belongings into their bags. Every second that passed felt like sand slipping through an hourglass—precious and irreversible.
As Hayato pulled his bag over his shoulder, his father's final words echoed in his mind.
"I will find you."
He wanted to believe them.
He had to.
The house behind them buzzed with movement—hurried footsteps, the rustling of bags, the occasional murmur of worry exchanged between their grandparents. Inside, preparations continued, but out here, on the porch, the world felt strangely still.
Hayato stepped outside, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest like an invisible force. The cool night air wrapped around him, carrying the familiar scent of salt and the distant rustling of palm trees. Normally, this kind of evening would bring a sense of peace, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore a comforting lullaby.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, the silence felt wrong.
A faint creak broke through the hush as the door behind him opened. Small footsteps padded across the wooden floor, and a moment later, Hikari appeared at his side. Without a word, she reached for his hand, her tiny fingers curling around his.
She was shaking.
"Nii-chan… are we really going to be okay?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, fragile like glass.
Hayato exhaled softly, crouching down beside her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She was trembling—not from the cold, but from the fear neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
He looked into her wide eyes, searching for reassurance in a place where there was none. She needed him to be strong. She needed to hear certainty in his voice, even if his own heart was hammering with doubt.
So, he forced himself to nod.
"Yes," he said, his voice steady, his grip firm. "We'll be okay. I'll make sure of it."
And for her sake, he willed himself to believe it.
But as he spoke, his gaze drifted upward—toward the vast, endless night sky.
The stars shimmered against the deep indigo expanse, tiny and distant, untouched by the chaos unfolding on Earth. But there, cutting through the darkness like a silent omen, was something far brighter.
Genesis.
The meteor.
It burned through the heavens like a celestial wound, a streak of red, orange, and gold slicing across the sky. Its fiery tail flickered against the blackness, its glow impossibly beautiful despite the destruction it promised.
For a brief moment, Hayato forgot to breathe.
It didn't seem real.
It was mesmerizing, the way it illuminated the night—like something out of a story, a cosmic event meant to be admired from afar. Not something that was coming to end everything.
If only it would keep soaring through the cosmos, never drawing closer, never bringing ruin in its wake.
If only…
"Wow…" Hikari whispered beside him, her voice filled with something he hadn't expected.
Wonder.
Hayato turned his head slightly, watching as her fear momentarily faded, replaced by pure, childlike awe.
Even now, with the world on the brink of disaster, she still found beauty in the unknown.
A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of Hayato's lips. He reached up, gently tucking a strand of her white hair behind her ear.
She still saw the world through untainted eyes. Even as everything threatened to crumble around them, she could find something to marvel at.
She still believed in something beyond fear.
The stars above seemed dimmer than usual, their light paling in comparison to the blazing streak of Genesis. It was as if the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable.
Hayato tightened his hold around Hikari, shielding her from the cold, from the uncertainty, from the storm that was about to crash into their lives.
Whatever happened next—whatever was coming—
He wouldn't let it take her.
The once-familiar warmth of their home had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of urgency. The usual evening calm—the soft clinking of dishes in the sink, the murmur of conversation, the gentle hum of the ocean outside—had vanished, replaced by hurried footsteps and the rustling of fabric as bags were hastily packed.
Hayato moved quickly, grabbing his small backpack and stuffing it with anything he thought he might need: a change of clothes, a flashlight, and, most importantly, the small family photo he always carried. His fingers brushed over the worn edges of the picture before carefully tucking it into the bag. He couldn't leave without it.
Across the room, Hikari darted between her grandparents, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit—a small, well-loved toy with floppy ears and slightly frayed stitching. She hugged it to her chest like a lifeline.
"Nii-chan, should I bring more toys?" she asked, hesitating near her small pile of belongings.
Hayato paused, glancing at her. The innocence in her voice made his chest tighten.
"Just your favorite one, Hikari," he said gently. "We don't have much space."
Her lips pressed into a small pout, but she nodded, squeezing the rabbit a little tighter before stuffing it into her bag.
Their grandmother, moving with uncharacteristic urgency, scanned the room, eyes darting from corner to corner as if checking for anything they had forgotten. "Do we have everything?" she called, her voice laced with barely concealed worry.
Their grandfather, already gripping the car keys in one hand, gave a firm nod. "Yes. We can't waste any more time."
The air felt heavier with each passing second, the weight of what was happening pressing down on them. There was no telling what would happen once they left—no certainty that they'd even reach the bunker in time.
Hayato swallowed hard, shaking the thought away. No. They would make it. They had to.
He quickly moved to help Hikari into the back seat of their small, old but reliable car, buckling her in tightly before sliding in beside her. She clutched his sleeve as the engine rumbled to life, her wide eyes darting toward him for reassurance.
"Nii-chan… will we be okay?"
Hayato forced himself to smile. "Of course."
The words felt hollow in his throat, but he had to say them. He had to believe them.
Their grandparents took their places in the front seats, their expressions tense but focused. The car jerked forward, pulling away from the house—their home.
As they drove down the narrow dirt road, Hayato turned, staring out the window. The house grew smaller in the distance, framed by the glow of the setting sun and the rolling waves of the ocean beyond.
The familiar sight filled him with a deep, aching sadness.
Would they ever see it again?
Would they ever return to the home where laughter once filled the air, where they sat around the dinner table and listened to their grandfather's stories, where their grandmother scolded them for tracking sand onto the wooden floors?
Or was this goodbye?
Hayato's fingers curled into fists on his lap, his gaze lingering on the silhouette of their home until it finally disappeared from view.
The streets were nothing like they used to be. Where there was once a peaceful hum of daily life, now there was only noise—blaring car horns, hurried footsteps, and frantic voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of desperation.
Cars clogged the narrow roads, stuffed to the brim with suitcases, food, and anything people could grab before fleeing their homes. Families huddled together on sidewalks, arguing over what to do next. Some people ran, weaving through the congestion, their faces pale with fear. Others stood frozen, their eyes locked onto the sky, as if waiting for something—as if waiting for the end.
Inside the car, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The rhythmic sound of tires rolling over the pavement should have been calming, but instead, it felt suffocating. Hayato sat stiffly, his fingers digging into his knees as he stared out the window. He saw people shouting at soldiers, pleading to be let into already overcrowded transport trucks. He saw children clinging to their parents, their faces streaked with tears.
The world was unraveling.
"Grandpa… is the bunker really safe?" Hayato finally broke the silence, his voice quiet but heavy.
His grandfather glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. "It's the best chance we have," he said firmly. "Your father mentioned it when he called us. We will see him when this is over."
Hayato nodded slowly, but his chest tightened. His father's words replayed in his mind—"I will find you."
But when?
Would he even make it?
The thought made Hayato grip his backpack a little tighter. His father had made a lot of promises over the years—promises that always came second to duty. And now, when they needed him most, he was still so far away.
A small tug on his sleeve pulled him from his thoughts.
"Nii-chan…" Hikari's voice was barely above a whisper. She had curled up against his shoulder, her tiny fingers clutching his arm. "I'm scared."
Hayato looked down at her, his heart twisting. Her usually bright expression was gone, replaced with worry. Her hands trembled slightly as she clung to him, seeking comfort—seeking something solid in a world that was falling apart.
He forced a smile, though it felt hollow. "It's going to be okay," he said, reaching up to gently ruffle her hair. "I won't let anything happen to you."
Hikari nodded, but she didn't look convinced. She just pressed herself closer, as if being near him could shield her from whatever was coming.
The car sped through the streets, dodging abandoned vehicles and weaving past desperate people waving for a ride. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the chaotic city.
Above them, the sky remained eerily calm.
The stars were just beginning to peek through the twilight, twinkling like they always had—uncaring, unchanged.
And in the distance, streaking across the heavens like a silent executioner, Genesis burned brighter.