The small clay stove breathed faint heat into the dim room. Dawn had not yet broken; the window was a square of cold blue shadow. A woman's voice, worn thin from restless nights, drifted through the silence.
"Honey… can you check the porridge?"
Her tone trembled like a candle flame in a draft.
Sero Tsuki rose from the straw mat quietly, his steps slow, careful, almost reverent. He was not a large man, but something about the way his presence filled the room felt heavy, as if he carried storms beneath his ribs. His hair fell loose over tired eyes. He opened the pot and stirred. The porridge clung to the wooden spoon like mud refusing to let go.
"Still not ready," he murmured.
His hand slid toward the keys on the table. Metal chimed against silence. A sound too sharp in such a fragile moment.
He moved toward the door. He did not want to look back. If he looked back, he might break.
The door groaned softly as he tried to open it.
"Sero."
The voice stopped his breath.
He turned.
Amara stood there, thin robe draped around her, hair uncombed, hand resting over her swollen belly. She looked like she was made of worry. Her eyes were the kind that loved too fiercely.
"Don't tell me you're going back to that clan." Her voice cracked, raw. "That clan that turns you into a knife. A ghost. A killer."
Sero lowered his gaze.
"If the government discovers you," she continued, stepping toward him, "they won't just kill you. They'll break you first. They'll send you to the Abyss. They'll erase you. I know you are more than what they made of you. I know the world twisted you. But this…" Her hand trembled. "This is not who you are."
She placed his hand over her belly.
A soft movement. A kick. Life pressing against his palm.
"You are a lost soul," she whispered. "But even lost souls can choose where they walk. If you can't stop for me… then stop for the child who hasn't yet seen the sun."
The room felt too quiet.
Sero closed his eyes. His breath shook. A tear traced down his cheek.
"I have to," he whispered. "For us to have a future. For this child to not live in dirt and fear. I love you, Amara. I swear I will come back."
His voice sounded like a prayer spoken to a god he did not believe in.
He left.
And that was the last sunrise he saw as a free man.
Black cloth. Cold stone. Chains like serpents around his limbs.
Sero knelt in a courtyard surrounded by armored guards. Blood ran from a cut across his brow, down his cheek, dripping onto the cracked stone. The air smelled of rust and judgment.
One of the slayers spoke, voice echoing like a judge in a cathedral.
"Behold. The rebel butcher. Sero Tsuki."
His tone carried admiration twisted with contempt. "Four thousand eight hundred and ninety confirmed kills. A mere human. Yet you carved your name into the bones of this nation."
Sero did not respond.
The slayer leaned closer, tapping Sero's chained chin upward with a gloved hand.
"Your life is forfeit. Your story ends here. Unless…"
Sero's eyes stayed cold, empty.
"I am done doing dirty work," he said, voice quiet. "If you want to kill me, then kill me."
The slayer's smile curled.
"Even if it means leaving your unborn child fatherless?"
Something inside Sero cracked. Not loudly. But deeply.
His breathing faltered. His eyes widened, not in rage—but in fear.
Real fear.
The slayer saw it and savored the moment.
Sero's voice dropped to almost nothing. The sound of a man swallowing blood and pride.
"What are you offering?"