Takayama sat on the hard chair in a small police station on another island a tiny town with low houses, narrow streets, and the constant smell of salt and seaweed. The room was cramped, lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were yellowed with age, covered in old missing-boat notices and faded photographs. A fan spun lazily overhead, stirring the humid air but bringing no relief only shifting papers on the desk.
The officer a man in his forties with bags under his eyes and a cigarette perpetually dangling from the corner of his mouth leaned on the desk, looking down at Takayama.
"So… one more time," he said in a low, patient voice that had already lost interest. "How did you leave them behind?"
Takayama stared at the floor. His hands rested on his knees, fingers clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white.
"I went for firewood," he answered quietly, almost without tone. "Said ten minutes. Saw… that. The guard. The wolf. I was too scared. Froze. Couldn't move."
The officer exhaled smoke, watched it rise slowly toward the ceiling and dissolve near the bulb.
"Scared, huh. And the others?"
Takayama didn't answer right away. Inside his head, another voice spoke his own, cold and clear.
I didn't run. I just watched. Stood there and watched the whole thing.
The door opened. Two other officers stepped in uniforms damp from the sea air, faces tired.
"We searched the whole area," one said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "No tents. No boat. No campfire. Just dark ash and scattered stones. Nothing else."
The first officer turned to Takayama.
"So they left on their own. Didn't tell you. Probably already home by now."
Takayama nodded slowly. The officer shrugged.
"You can go. But if you remember anything… you know where to find us."
Takayama stood up. Walked out into the evening air. The island felt smaller, quieter. He looked at the sea calm, dark, reflecting the first stars. In his head the wolf's yellow eyes still burned. And he carried away for the rest of his life only that moment the one he remembered more clearly than anything else.
Many years later.
First day.
Renji lay on his bed in his room. The window was open; the curtain moved slightly in the breeze. Outside the usual city noise: cars, distant voices, train horns. But inside silence. He lay on his back, arms at his sides, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. A small crack ran across it, one he noticed every day but never thought about seriously.
He wasn't sleeping. Just lying there. Breathing even, but his chest rose heavily, as if the air had grown thick. Memories of the previous day of Aya, of Ken, of how he watched and did nothing circled slowly in his head like muddy water in a puddle. He wasn't angry. He didn't cry. Just lay there, waiting for the emptiness to either pass or grow heavier.
Second day. A new day at school.
Morning was bright, almost blinding the sun stood high, sky clear, not a single cloud. The school courtyard buzzed with its usual noise: someone shouting in tag, someone sitting on benches, someone standing by the gates chatting on the phone. The air smelled of dust, hot asphalt, and freshly cut grass from the lawn near the entrance.
Renji lay on the ground in the middle of the courtyard on his back, arms spread wide, eyes half-closed. Dust settled on his school shirt, in his hair, on his face a thin gray layer like ash. On his cheek a fresh bruise, lip split, a thin trickle of blood still seeping from the corner of his mouth. He had been beaten. Not brutally, but enough to leave marks. The girls those same three, a year or two older, from the graduating classes had done it quickly, without extra words. They simply approached, surrounded him, hit a few times fists, feet, knees. He didn't resist. Didn't scream. Just fell. And they walked away laughing.
Now he lay in the dust. Alone.
Around him a small circle of silence gradually formed. Students walked around him, casting quick glances, whispering, but no one approached. No one asked "are you okay?" They just stepped aside, like stepping around a puddle or a stone on the road.
Then they appeared again.
The same three girls. They walked slowly, confidently, as if the courtyard belonged only to them. One in a short skirt, the second with a cigarette between her fingers, the third with a phone in her hand but the screen was off; she wasn't filming, just holding it like a weapon.
They stopped over him. Their shadows fell across his face, briefly blocking the sun.
The first crouched down. Long nails painted black touched his cheek not gently, but testing, as if checking an item on a shelf.
"Puppy," she said quietly, almost tenderly. "Look at him lying there. In the dust, like trash."
The second laughed short, sharp.
"We'd rape you with pleasure. Right here, in front of everyone. You wouldn't even fight back. Too weak."
The third leaned closer, hair falling forward, covering half his face.
"Pathetic sight. Lying there like a rag. Gonna get up? Or do you like it when people stand over you?"
Renji didn't answer. Didn't move. Just looked up through them, through their shadows, into the sky. The sun hit his eyes again. Tears ran down his temples, mixed with dust and blood on his cheeks, leaving dirty streaks.
The girls lingered for another moment. The first straightened up, brushed off her skirt.
"Fine. Let him lie. No one's gonna come anyway."
They turned and walked away steps confident, heels clicking on the asphalt. Whispers behind them faded. The courtyard buzzed back to its usual noise.
Renji remained lying there.
Dust kept settling.
The sun kept shining.
He didn't care.
Meanwhile in prison.
Renji's father fought in a dark corner of the yard. His opponent a tall, scarred maniac with wild eyes swung a fist. The father dodged, struck hard. The punch landed clean on the jaw. A sickening crack. Blood sprayed across concrete. The maniac staggered, teeth red. The father hit again. And again. Bone gave way. The man collapsed. Blood pooled under his head.
Renji's father stood over him, breathing hard, knuckles split, blood running down his fingers. Eyes empty no satisfaction, no rage. Just exhaustion.
In another place an underground fight club.
A man and a girl fought in the center of the ring. No gloves, no rules. She was smaller but faster dodged, struck low, split his lip. He roared, charged. She sidestepped, kicked his knee. He fell. The crowd roared louder.
Miyuki sat alone on the side. Cracking sunflower seeds with her teeth click-click-click spitting shells onto the floor.
"Another one broke," she muttered quietly.
She smiled thinly, cracked another seed.
"They always break."