The final bell of Sakura High rang out at 3:27 p.m.
on a Friday that felt deceptively ordinary, the kind of day where the sun hung low and golden over the athletics field, casting long shadows from the goalposts that stretched like accusing fingers across the grass, and Paulo Satoshi walked out of the building with the casual stride of someone who had finally learned to carry the weight of his name without letting it crush him.
His cobalt hoodie was zipped halfway, the black eyepatch now a permanent fixture beneath the fringe of his red hair that had grown just long enough to brush his collar, and the silver ring on his right hand caught the light every time he flexed his fingers, a subtle reminder of the oath he had taken on that cold night with his mother and uncle.
Mizaki had kissed him goodbye at the gates, her bubble-gum-pink ponytail swishing as she warned him to text her the second he got home, while Marina and Shizuka had peeled off toward the train station with promises of drone upgrades and new tranq recipes, leaving Paulo to walk the familiar route alone for the first time in weeks, the collapsible baton in his pocket a comforting weight against his thigh.
The streets were quiet, the cherry blossoms fully bloomed now in defiant pinks and whites that drifted like snow whenever the wind stirred, and Paulo's mind wandered to the training session scheduled for midnight at pier 17, where Sara had promised to teach him a disarm technique that had saved her life in Osaka, his muscles already anticipating the ache of bokken strikes and the sharp corrections of Takeshi's gravelly voice.
He turned onto the narrow lane that led to his house, the same path he had walked a thousand times, past the convenience store with the flickering neon cat sign and the old man who always watered his potted azaleas at this hour, and for a moment everything felt almost normal, almost like the life he had before the river and the knife and the eye that no longer opened.
The air smelled of grilled yakitori from a street vendor two blocks over, and Paulo's stomach rumbled in response, reminding him that Mizaki's bento had been light on protein today, and he made a mental note to stop for taiyaki on the way back from training tomorrow.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, Mizaki again, a selfie of her sticking out her tongue with the caption don't forget to eat, sunducker, and he smiled despite himself, thumbs hovering to reply when the black van screeched to a halt across the lane, tires smoking on the asphalt, doors flying open before the vehicle even fully stopped.
Riku Satoshi stepped out first, his military-short red hair glinting like fresh blood under the streetlights that had just flickered on, his colder blue eyes narrowed to slits of pure fury that made the scar through his eyebrow pucker and twist, and he wore a black tactical jacket over the Sakura High uniform he had never bothered to change out of, the blazer sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle and fresh bruises from the river.
Nijako followed a heartbeat later, her long red hair tied in a high tail that whipped like a banner of war, green eyes blazing with a manic intensity that Paulo recognized all too well from family gatherings he had only seen in photographs, and she moved with that liquid mercury grace that had let her fold steel into shuriken on the bridge, her fingers already twitching toward the hidden pockets where those deadly origami weapons lived.
They were pissed, beyond pissed, the kind of rage that came from humiliation and broken bones and the knowledge that a cousin had thrown them into the river like rubbish, and Riku's fists were already clenched so tight that the knuckles blanched white, veins standing out like cables under the skin.
"You little shit," Riku snarled, voice low and venomous, each word punctuated by a step forward that closed the distance between them with predatory intent, "you think you can embarrass the family, put me in the fucking water, and just walk away like nothing happened?" Nijako circled to Paulo's left, her smile sharp enough to cut glass, and she whispered something inaudible that made Riku's shoulders bunch tighter, her green eyes never leaving Paulo's face as if memorizing every scar and line for a future hit list.
Paulo's hand slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around the baton's handle, but he did not extend it yet, did not want to escalate until he knew how many more were in the van, because Riku and Nijako never travelled light, and the tinted windows gave nothing away.
The old man with the azaleas had vanished inside, the street vendor's grill sizzled unattended, and the cherry blossoms kept falling in slow motion, sticking to the pavement like pink confetti at a funeral.
"Takeshi's soft on you," Nijako hissed, her voice honey over broken glass, "but we are not. You are coming with us, Paulo. Willing or in pieces."
Riku cracked his neck, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet lane, and he lunged without another word, fist cocked for a haymaker that would have caved in Paulo's cheekbone if it landed.
But it never landed, because Nijako moved faster than thought, slipping behind Paulo in a blur of red hair and black fabric, her arms snaking around his torso in a vice that pinned his elbows to his sides, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered "got you" with a giggle that chilled his blood more than the river ever had.
Paulo twisted, trying to drop his weight and break the hold the way Sara had drilled into him a dozen times, but Nijako anticipated, shifting her grip to lock his arms higher, her nails digging into his hoodie like talons, and he felt the cold press of a blade against his ribs through the fabric, not enough to cut yet but enough to promise pain.
Riku's fist came in a straight line, knuckles leading, aimed square at Paulo's nose with all the force of a lifetime of resentment and a week of drowning shame, and Paulo had a split second to see the rage in those colder blue eyes, the way Riku's lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl that was almost triumphant.
The world slowed, the cherry blossoms frozen mid-fall, the distant hum of traffic fading to a dull roar in Paulo's ears, his heartbeat thundering like taiko drums, and he braced for the impact, knew he could take one punch, maybe roll with it, use the opening to headbutt Nijako or stomp her instep, but the numbers were wrong, two on one in the open with no backup and no time to call Mizaki.
Riku's fist reached the apex of its arc, the air whistling around it, and Paulo closed his good eye, ready to absorb the blow and fight through the stars that would follow.
But the punch never connected, because a blur of violet-purple hair and golden eyes exploded from the alley to Paulo's right, Rin Itō moving with the desperate speed of a man who had nothing left to lose, his once-perfect face still swollen and scarred from Paulo's hallway massacre, and he drove his shoulder into Riku's side with a roar that was half rage and half redemption.
Riku staggered, the punch veering wide to smash into the van's side panel with a metallic crunch that dented the door, and Rin followed through with a vicious elbow to the temple that sent Riku sprawling to his knees, blood already trickling from a split eyebrow.
Nijako's grip loosened in shock, her blade slipping a fraction, and Paulo seized the moment, slamming his head back into her nose with a wet crunch that sprayed warm blood across his hoodie, her arms flying open as she shrieked and stumbled back clutching her face.
Shin Takahashi lumbered out of the same alley like a freight train given human form, his six-foot-three frame moving with surprising agility despite the cane he still needed for his ruined knee, the purple hoodie stretched tight over shoulders that had once crushed Paulo's ribs but now swung a meaty fist into Nijako's gut that folded her in half and sent her crashing to the pavement gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Alexis Smith was right behind them, blonde hair tousled and red eyes wide with a mixture of guilt and determination that Paulo had never seen on his former best friend's face, and Alexis didn't hesitate, didn't speak, just drove his knee into Riku's ribs as the Satoshi cousin tried to rise, the crack of bone audible even over Nijako's wheezing.
Paulo spun free, baton extending with a sharp snick that sang through the sudden chaos, his one blue eye taking in the impossible tableau: Rin, the boy who had held the knife that took his eye, now bleeding from a reopened scar to protect him; Shin, the brute who had pummelled him into the river, limping but relentless as he stomped on Nijako's wrist to disarm her; Alexis, the traitor who had watched it all happen, now raining punches on Riku with a fury that looked like penance.
The van's back doors hung open, empty, no backup, just the two cousins who had come for vengeance and found ghosts instead, and Paulo's mind raced to process the shift, to understand why his betrayers had become his saviours in the space of a heartbeat.
Riku tried to stand again, blood streaming from his mouth, but Alexis tackled him around the waist and drove him headfirst into the asphalt with a thud that silenced his snarls, while Shin ground his cane into Nijako's throat just hard enough to keep her down without killing her, his blue eyes locked on Paulo with an unreadable intensity.
Cherry blossoms continued to fall, sticking to the blood on the pavement, turning the scene into something almost beautiful in its brutality, and Paulo's chest heaved as adrenaline surged through him, the baton trembling in his grip not from fear but from the sheer surreal weight of the moment.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, voice rough, stepping forward to stand over Riku's groaning form, and Rin straightened, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his golden eyes meeting Paulo's with a steadiness that had not been there before the hospital.
"Paying a debt," Rin said simply, and the words hung between them like a bridge neither had expected to cross.