-HOKKAIDO UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL, ROOM 314-
-7:42 PM, JANUARY 13, 2017-
Night pressed gently against the hospital windows.
The room lights were dimmed.
Rikuu sat beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined.
His grandmother slept, oxygen line steady, breathing fragile but stable.
Ichika had gone home an hour earlier.
He told her to rest.
She didn't want to.
But she listened.
The monitor beeped softly.
For a moment—
Everything felt calm.
Then his phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Again.
He stepped quietly into the hallway before answering.
"…I told you I'm done."
A low chuckle echoed from the other end.
"You don't quit like that, Arakawa."
His jaw tightened.
"I just did."
"Not how this works."
Snow fell harder outside, tapping against the long hallway windows.
"You've built a name," the voice continued. "Crowds ask for you."
"I don't care."
"You should."
A pause.
Then—
"Things can get inconvenient."
There it was again.
That word.
Rikuu's voice lowered.
"…Don't."
"We're not threatening you," the voice replied smoothly. "Just reminding you that loyalty matters."
"I don't owe you anything."
"You owe us consistency."
The line went dead.
Rikuu stood still for several seconds.
His reflection in the window looked older under hospital lights.
Tired.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
-AURORA ACADEMY, EXECUTIVE OFFICE-
-3:18 PM, JANUARY 16, 2017-
Ichika's father sat behind a polished wooden desk.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Sapporo's snow-covered skyline.
Across from him sat a man in a dark coat.
Private investigator.
Discreet.
Efficient.
"I only need to know if he poses a risk," her father said calmly.
The investigator nodded.
"Arakawa Rikuu. Sixteen. Lives in Kita Ward. No criminal record. No gang affiliation."
A folder slid across the desk.
"He participates in unsanctioned alley fights."
Her father's gaze sharpened slightly.
"For money."
"Reason?"
"Medical expenses. Grandmother. Chronic lung condition."
Silence settled across the office.
"And temperament?"
"Protective. Not aggressive without reason."
Her father leaned back in his chair.
Outside, snow drifted softly against glass.
"Does he harm civilians?"
"No."
"Does he escalate conflict?"
"Only when cornered."
A pause.
"Does he care about my daughter?"
The investigator hesitated only briefly.
"Yes."
Her father closed the folder.
"That's enough."
"You're not intervening?"
Her father's expression remained unreadable.
"If I interfere without cause," he said quietly, "I teach my daughter I don't trust her judgment."
Another pause.
"But if he endangers her…"
The investigator nodded.
"I understand."
Outside, the snowstorm thickened.
-HOKKAIDO UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL, EMERGENCY CORRIDOR-
-11:53 PM-
Rikuu had just returned from the vending machine.
Two canned coffees in hand.
When he heard it—
The shift in the monitor's rhythm.
Subtle.
Wrong.
He dropped the cans instantly.
They rolled across the floor.
The nurse rushed in.
"Sir, please step back."
His grandmother's breathing had turned shallow.
Labored.
Her chest rising unevenly.
Rikuu's hands curled into fists.
Not from anger.
From helplessness.
Doctors moved quickly.
Voices calm but urgent.
"Prepare oxygen increase."
"Check saturation levels."
"Call respiratory."
The hallway lights seemed too bright.
Too white.
Rikuu stood frozen again—
Just like years ago.
Just like the first time.
Except this time—
He wasn't small.
He was strong.
And it still didn't matter.
Ichika arrived fifteen minutes later.
She had felt it.
A message from the nurse after Rikuu called her earlier in panic.
When she reached him—
He was standing alone by the wall.
Back straight.
Eyes distant.
She walked directly to him.
He didn't look up.
"…She's not stabilizing," he said quietly.
She took his hand.
His skin was cold.
"You're shaking."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He exhaled sharply.
"I should've taken that last match."
She looked up at him.
"Don't."
"They offered triple."
"Don't."
His jaw clenched.
"If something happens—"
She stepped in front of him.
Firm.
Grounded.
"You stopping fights didn't cause this."
His breathing grew heavier.
"I can't protect her from this."
The words cracked slightly.
Barely audible.
And that—
That hurt more than shouting ever could.
Ichika reached up and placed her hand gently against his cheek.
The bruise had faded.
But exhaustion remained.
"You don't have to win every battle," she said softly.
He closed his eyes briefly.
For just one second—
He leaned into her touch.
The emergency doors opened.
A doctor stepped out.
The silence before he spoke stretched endlessly.
"We've stabilized her," the doctor said calmly. "But her lungs are severely compromised. We need to discuss long-term options."
Long-term.
The phrase felt heavy.
Serious.
Rikuu nodded once.
Controlled.
Composed.
But when the doctor left—
His hand tightened around Ichika's.
Not crushing.
Just holding.
Like he was afraid something else might slip away.
Snow continued falling outside the hospital windows.
Unaware.
Unforgiving.
And somewhere in the city—
Men who disliked being refused began to grow impatient.
Fire doesn't ignite immediately.
Sometimes—
It waits.