The night was too still. The kind that made the hum of streetlights sound like whispers of something that should never be heard.
Masaru closed the door to Yui's room softly, taking care not to wake her. She slept curled up like she was protecting herself from a dream — lashes still wet from crying. For a moment, his expression softened. Then, as he walked down the hallway, the shadows caught up with him again.
He picked up his phone, his voice sharp and low. "Are things ready?"
A pause. A muffled response from the other end.
Masaru's knuckles tightened around the phone. "Good. Don't make me repeat myself."
He hung up.
The keys jingled once before the car engine roared to life. He drove through the sleeping city — the blur of neon lights bleeding into his windshield like half-formed regrets. His thoughts, however, were awake, restless, and burning.
He had promised Yui safety. That meant removing every ghost that threatened her peace. And lately, every ghost had Haruto's name written across it.
By the time Masaru pulled over, the smell of iron and asphalt hit him first. Two silhouettes waited under a flickering streetlamp. One was standing — the other on the ground.
Shoji. He was breathing, but his jaw was bruised, and his lip was split open. And standing beside him, casually rolling his shoulders like he had been waiting, was Haruto.
Masaru didn't say a word — just walked forward and hit him.
The punch landed clean across Haruto's face. The sound echoed. Sharp, final.
Haruto stumbled back, his expression flickering between shock and amusement. He touched the corner of his lip, saw blood, and smiled faintly. "You took your time," he said, his tone almost teasing.
Masaru's voice cracked through the night. "What did you think — I wouldn't find out?"
Haruto's smirk lingered, though there was no humor in it now. He straightened slowly, eyes dark and unreadable. "I am sor—"
Masaru's second punch came faster, but Haruto caught his wrist this time. Their eyes locked — anger meeting anger, grief colliding with guilt.
Shoji groaned in the background. "Stop—both of you."
Masaru yanked his arm free. "I trained you," he said through his teeth. "Both of you. I made you strong so you could protect others. And look what you've become, Haruto. A storm that destroys everything it touches."
Haruto's jaw tightened. For a moment, his façade cracked — just enough to reveal something hollow behind his defiance.
"You think I asked for that?" he muttered.
Masaru laughed bitterly. "You didn't stop it either."
The silence stretched. A siren wailed somewhere far away.
Haruto dropped down beside Shoji, who was still sitting against the wall. His voice softened, though his eyes stayed on Masaru. "He trained us to fight. To survive. But none of that teaches you how to stay… clean."
Masaru's throat tightened. "You always had a choice."
Haruto looked up. "Not really."
The tone — quiet, almost fragile — made Masaru hesitate. It was the first time he had heard Haruto sound like that since they were kids.
Childhood.
The sound of playground laughter. The smell of paint and chalk. The hum of summer air clung to his uniform.
Haruto was six, sitting alone on the swings while the other children ran in circles, screaming with joy. His face was blank — always blank. Teachers whispered he was "strange." The kind who never smiled, never cried, just watched.
He didn't like noise. He didn't like people. He liked the quiet. Because quiet didn't judge him.
Until one afternoon.
A shout. A small boy crying, a group of girls mocking him for dropping his art project — the paper flowers torn apart.
Haruto didn't know why, but he stood up.
His shoes made a sound against the gravel as he walked closer. His heart was pounding for the first time in memory — a strange, rapid rhythm that scared him.
"Stop it," he said quietly.
The girls turned. "Or what, blank-face?" one sneered.
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared. His silence unnerved them enough to leave.
When they were gone, the boy wiped his nose and whispered, "T-thank you."
Before Haruto could reply, someone else appeared — a girl with messy hair and ribbons on her wrists. She smiled at him like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.
"You were so cool!" she said, giggling. "You scared them!"
Haruto blinked, unsure what to do.
She suddenly leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Just a quick peck, childish and pure.
Haruto froze. His face felt hot. His heartbeat — that strange, heavy feeling — was louder than anything else in the world.
That was the last time he remembered someone touching him without fear.
The memory shattered as a droplet of blood rolled down his chin.
Masaru was staring at him, fists still clenched, his breathing uneven. "What happened to you?"
Haruto gave a short, bitter laugh. "Nothing happened. I just learned the rules. You survive by not feeling too much. By not needing too much. Otherwise, this world eats you alive."
Masaru's gaze softened slightly, though the anger didn't fade. "Leaving for London?"
Haruto looked away.
"I guess no choice left," He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "Is there?"
Masaru exhaled deeply, the rage bleeding into resignation. "I will look into it." He ruffled through Masaru's hair, "You look lively again."
Haruto didn't respond. But his silence — his refusal to admit — said everything.
Shoji slowly sat up, holding his ribs. "Masaru," he said weakly, "he's not the same as before. He's not trying to destroy her."
Masaru's glare flicked toward Shoji. "You're defending him now?"
Shoji coughed a dry laugh. "No. I'm just saying, sometimes the worst people are the only ones who know how to protect someone properly."
The night deepened.Masaru turned away, his voice quieter. "You'll never get it, will you? That girl… she's the only part of this world I haven't lost. If anything happens to her, I'll hold you responsible."
Haruto stood, brushing the dust from his shirt. "You already do."
He started walking, his steps slow, measured — like a man counting the distance between his guilt and his fate.
Masaru didn't stop him. The sound of footsteps faded, leaving only the buzz of the streetlamp and Shoji's shallow breathing.
Inside Haruto's mind, the memory wouldn't fade — the small girl's laughter, the warmth on his cheek, that simple act that changed him.Back then, it was the first spark of emotion.Now, with Yui… it was the same spark, only sharper, more dangerous.
That's what terrified him.
Because somewhere deep inside, Haruto knew — if he ever allowed himself to feel that alive again, he wouldn't survive it a second time.
And yet, every time he thought of her, he wanted to risk it anyway.