The night pressed down like a weight on the city, its silence broken only by the occasional hum of a streetlamp or the distant growl of an engine turning somewhere in the fog. Ren lay in bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Sleep never came easily anymore. His body felt restless, his chest tight with questions he couldn't ask out loud.
For days now, the unease had been growing. He noticed it in the way his father's hand lingered over the dinner table, in the way Hana seemed to watch him with quiet concern, and in the heaviness of conversations that ended too soon. Something was changing. The shadow that trailed them all had grown heavier, and Ren could feel it.
He sat up. The silence in the house felt too sharp, as though the walls themselves were listening. Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, mindful not to wake Hana, who slept in the next room. His steps were measured, soft against the wooden floor as he crept into the hallway.
Downstairs, a light was on.
Ren paused at the top of the stairs, the faint glow of a lamp spilling across the living room. His father, Hyūga, sat at the table. Papers lay scattered around him, yellowed with age, some new, some covered in rough handwriting. He wasn't asleep—he was waiting.
Hyūga didn't look up. "Come out, Ren."
Ren froze, his heart jolting. He had thought he was careful. Slowly, he descended the stairs, the old wood groaning under his weight. "You knew I was awake?"
"I always know," Hyūga replied softly. His voice carried no anger, only exhaustion. "You wander when your thoughts are too loud."
Ren hesitated before stepping into the light. He expected his father to scold him, but instead, Hyūga gestured toward the empty chair across from him. "Sit."
The air smelled faintly of old ink and cigarettes, though Ren knew his father hadn't smoked in years. He sat, eyes drifting to the papers. Names were written there, lists, fragments of notes. Most were blurred or crossed out, but one word repeated itself enough times to stand out like a knife wound.
Ren frowned. "What is this?"
Hyūga's expression tightened. His hand hovered over the folder, then finally pushed it toward Ren. "It's time you knew."
Ren opened it carefully. Photographs—grainy, black-and-white. Men in suits, women with guarded eyes, streets captured in haste. Beside them, notes scribbled in hurried strokes, half-legible, half-buried in red marks. But over and over again, one name appeared.
Sōma.
Ren whispered it under his breath, feeling the weight of it. "Who… who is this?"
Hyūga's jaw clenched. For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on the edge of the table as if the name itself was a wound that might reopen. Finally, he spoke.
"A ghost," he said. "A shadow that should never have been given form. A man I once called my brother."
Ren stiffened. "Your brother?"
"Not by blood," Hyūga corrected. His gaze grew distant, as though dragged backward into another time. "We built something together—once. A network, a family of sorts. We believed we could create order in the places where law had abandoned people. We were young, full of ideals."
The silence between them stretched before Hyūga continued, his voice lower now. "But ambition rots. Sōma didn't just leave—he carved his own path through blood. He betrayed me, betrayed everything we stood for. And when he left… he took more than trust. He took lives. Lives I cannot give back."
Ren's hands tightened on the folder. The photographs seemed heavier now, the faces harder to look at. "If he's just someone from the past… why does his name keep coming back?"
Hyūga turned away, staring at the dark window where the fog pressed close against the glass. "Because he isn't gone. I've heard whispers. A shift in the city's rhythm. Places where silence grows too deep. That's his mark. If Sōma has returned…" His words faltered, then settled like stone. "Then peace is already broken."
Ren's voice shook. "Then… is he coming here? For us?"
Hyūga did not answer right away. His shoulders were rigid, the lines of his face sharp with restraint. At last, he said, "Sōma never stops at me. He hunts what matters most to his prey. That is the cruelty he carries. And if he comes—he will not spare you. Or Hana."
Ren felt the room tilt, his chest tightening. He wanted to ask why, wanted to demand how his father could have kept this buried. But the look in Hyūga's eyes silenced him: it wasn't fear—it was something worse. Resignation.
"Then what do we do?" Ren whispered.
Hyūga finally faced him. "We prepare. We endure. And when the time comes… we fight."
The word hung in the air, not like hope but like a burden passed from father to son.
Before Ren could respond, a sharp knock rattled the front door. Both of them froze. The sound was deliberate, too steady to be a passerby. Hyūga rose quickly, signaling Ren to stay seated.
He approached the door, hand tense on the lock. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly in that moment. Slowly, he cracked it open.
No one stood outside. Only fog.
But at his feet lay a small envelope. Hyūga bent to pick it up, his expression unreadable. He tore it open with care, pulling out a single slip of paper. His eyes moved across the words, and something in his face hardened. His fist closed around the message, crushing it.
Ren stood. "What does it say?"
Hyūga's voice was barely a whisper, rough with recognition.
"It says… I'm still here."
Ren's breath caught. The shadows in the room deepened, every corner darker than before.
The name echoed in his chest, a curse and a promise.
Sōma.
Not a memory. Not a story. A presence. A darkness waiting just beyond their door.
And now, it had called them by name.