Night pressed heavy against the windows. The house breathed in slow, regular rhythms the quiet, small sounds of people asleep. Hayato rose without a sound. Miri's shoulder still rose and fell under the thin blanket. Itsuki lay on his back, hands folded over his chest, face slack for the first time in days.
He moved through the dark like a shadow that belonged to the walls. The floorboards remembered his weight and did not complain. In the kitchen he paused only long enough to pour coffee into a thermos, then went down the narrow stairs that led to the basement the one place in the house that smelled of oil and old plans.
He stopped at the far corner, where the wall was paneled with uneven planks. The wood there was newer, the nails less rusted.
He knelt, pressing a hand against the panels until one gave a faint click. A section slid just enough for his fingers to slip behind. With a grunt, he pulled it aside, revealing a narrow locker built into the frame of the wall.
The lock was old, blackened with age. He fished a small key from around his neck and pushed it in. It took a few tries before it turned, protesting with a dry snap of metal.
Inside, the gear waited in the dark like tools on a priest's table: two handguns, extra magazines nested in a velvet-lined tray, a black katana wrapped in oilcloth, a compact med-kit, and a slim roll of ceramic plates. Hayato selected without hesitation fingers practiced and sure. He checked the slides, the chambers, the magazines with the calm of a man who'd done this too many times.
He brought the weapons to the small basin, ran a cloth over metal, then changed his clothes, A black formal suit, sharp and immaculate, the fabric hugged his frame without a wrinkle. He adjusted the dark tie at his throat, then secured the katana's harness over the blazer the blade resting clean and visible across his back like a silent warning.
The guns clicked into holsters with small, intimate sounds. He thumbed a magazine into each and listened to the measured rattle of rounds seating home.
The house slept around him, oblivious, trusting. Hayato eased the back door open, the night air folding over him. He paused with one hand on the knob, the black blade on his back and the pistols at his sides, and let the quiet settle.
Hayato wasn't at Kuro's nest yet. What he wanted first was the small teeth the watchers, the runners, the men who'd been loitering outside his house, thinking distance made them safe. He moved like a clean wind through the city, He knew the places where petty predators slept, drank, and traded stories for coin.
The first building was a rotting tenement a few blocks off the docks. Hayato kicked the door so hard it folded inward and the room lit on the two men who thought the night belonged to them. Three shots fired before they could think two down, one's head blown open in an instant. He slides the pistol into its holster with a soft snap and draws the katana in one fluid motion. Steel whispers. He steps forward, the room shrinking to the sound of his boots and the wet drip from the ceiling. The surviving thug's face blanches the drunken bravado gone in two breaths.
"You thought I wouldn't notice you fuckers hanging around my place, keeping an eye on my kids, huh?" Hayato says, voice low and amused, like a predator tasting fear."
The fourth, half-drunk and still reaching for his bottle, lunged and cursed hoarsely, "Die, you son of a.." The curse cut off as Hayato's blade sliced a red arc across his throat; he gurgled and fell, blood pooling under his jaw. No pleading, no bargaining. Hayato moved on like water.
At a pachinko parlor that smelled of tobacco and stale beer, the toughs were less cowardly. A group of thugs tried to form a ring and confront him when he stepped through the back door. "You think you can come here and pick us off?" one spat, lunging with a cheap pipe. They shouted curses, names, threats angry and loud, not all afraid. Hayato walked past their first swing, pistol steady. The shots were quick and merciless: one by the bar toppled, another's spine cracked as he fell over a machine, the leader's knife hand shredded by a clean slash. He finished that one with a pistol to the temple and a curling smear across his cheekbone the floor an ugly, bright map.
He found two more at a sunk-in car lot where rusted cars clustered like malformed teeth."We're not scared of you bastard we will kill you and the girl and will bring the young boy to the boss! Come and try us, you son of a bit.." one yelled, and scrambled for a katana. Hayato didn't wait for the full sentence. In a single motion, The katana flashed a clean arc of steel and the head slipped free before the body even realized it was dead. The katana clattered. The remaining thug tried to run; Hayato's pistol fired once and the man slumped into the mud, twitching.
Not every one went quietly. A kid with more anger than sense tried to tackle Hayato in an alley, eyes wild. He managed a desperate swing that nicked Hayato's jacket; the price was immediate. He slit open his throat with no mercy. The kid's last breath came in a gruesome gasp and a mouthful of red. On the pavement, the boy's words were swallowed by the city.
Hayato stepped out of the alley, anger burning cold in his eyes. His voice was low, almost a whisper that carried on the night air.
"You'll all die tonight."
The words had barely left his mouth when two thugs on a roaring bike tore down the street and slammed straight into him. The impact sent him sprawling across the wet pavement, but he was already moving, rolling into the shadows before the tires even stopped spinning.
Gunfire cracked through the alley wild, panicked bursts tearing splinters from the wooden walls. The thugs shouted show yourself you fucker you scared now?, their aim frantic, blind.
But Hayato was gone he was like a ghost.
He moved between the flickers of light, a shape without sound. A glint of steel cut the darkness the katana spun through the air and struck with a wet thud, burying itself clean through one thug's throat.
The other froze, screamed show yourself you coward!! then fired toward where the blade had come from bullets shredding only mist and echo. A breath later, Hayato was behind him, one arm locking around his neck, the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed between his teeth.
"Your wish has been granted," he whispered.
By dawn he had a string of dead and dying where once there had been men whose only sin had been thinking they could threaten his home. He sat once on the seat of a stolen bike, katana across his knees, face smeared with blood and sweat, and inhaled a cigarette as if tasting a bitter, necessary truth. He had the name and the address he needed from the ones who'd begged between shots; he left no witnesses, The hideout's address burned in his head like a hot coal.
He had cleared the smaller teeth first the easy, necessary step. The city was quieter now, but the hunt was far from over. Hayato slid the pistols back into its holster, wiped his blade clean on a rag, and takes the thug's bike.
The sky was turning pale gray when Hayato finally slowed the stolen bike. The machine still reeked of burnt oil and blood, splattered across the handles and his gloves. He coasted down a narrow backstreet, eyes half-lidded from fatigue, before stopping beside an empty construction site.
Without a word, he killed the engine, got off, and kicked the stand. The bike clattered to the ground. He didn't even look back as he walked away, muttering under his breath,
"Your owner won't be needing it anyway."
The quiet of dawn pressed in around him. Every step toward home left faint streaks of crimson on the pavement; his coat, shirt, and hands were all soaked from the night's work.
When he reached his front door, the world was still. Inside, the lights were dim. Miri was slumped at the table, head buried in her arms, her breathing steady and soft. Itsuki was asleep on the floor, his blanket half-slipped off, his expression calm for once.
Hayato stood there, staring at them, blood drying against his skin. For a long moment he didn't move. Then, a faint, weary smile crept across his lips.
"…Still asleep, huh?" he murmured.
He stepped quietly inside and crouched near the sofa. One by one, he placed his weapons down the katana first, its black sheath slick with red; then both pistols, their barrels still warm; and finally a handful of spent magazines that clinked softly against the floor.
For a moment, he just stared at them the tools of his old life and exhaled slowly.
He didn't bother to clean himself. Didn't even take off his jacket. He just let himself drop onto the sofa, the old springs groaning under his weight. The stench of iron clung to the air.
He leaned back, eyes barely open.
"They're safe," he whispered to no one. "That's all that matters."
His breathing slowed. The tension left his shoulders.
Within seconds, Hayato blood-stained, exhausted, and hollow-eyed was asleep.
The first light of morning crept through the curtains, glinting faintly off the dried red on his hands and the cold steel beside him.