Chapter 15: Echoes in Blood
The slam of the P.E. room door echoed, a sharp finality in the sudden, suffocating silence. It was a silence that pressed in, heavier than the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of fading sunlight cutting through the grimy window. The air, thick with the coppery tang of blood and the sharp scent of splintered wood, felt unnaturally still, as if holding its breath.
Peter was gone. The whirlwind of controlled fury, the chilling calm that followed the storm – vanished. But his presence lingered, an oppressive weight clinging to the wreckage. It wasn't just the aftermath of violence that stained the room; it was something colder, older, something that resonated with the cryptic words he'd hissed into the void before leaving.
"Yes... I still am the same monster you saw that night."
That night. The phrase hung in the air, unanswered, undefined, yet pregnant with unseen horrors. What night? What monster had been unleashed then? And who, or what, was his first prey? The questions coiled in the shadows, refusing to take shape, feeding the unease that permeated the broken space.
The coach lay sprawled amidst the debris, a grotesque centerpiece in a tableau of ruin. His body twitched almost imperceptibly, a marionette whose strings had been violently severed. His whimpers had faded into shallow, ragged gasps, the only sound besides the slow, rhythmic drip... drip... drip of blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the worn floorboards. His future, now irrevocably bound to the "friend named wheelchair" Peter had promised him, was a chilling testament to the mentor's capacity for absolute, calculated destruction.
But the physical carnage was almost secondary to the chilling evidence scrawled upon the wall.
"You are an unchangeable monster. Always a killer. A failure."
The words screamed silently, smeared in jagged, furious strokes of drying blood – the coach's blood, presumably, yet the message felt alien. It wasn't Peter's voice, not his controlled menace. This was raw accusation, dripping with a familiarity that felt deeply personal, venomous. It was as if an unseen witness had stepped out of the shadows the moment Peter left, leaving its own judgment etched onto the scene.
Who had Peter been talking to? Who had answered back in blood? Was it a ghost from this "that night"? An entity drawn to the violence? Or was it merely the fragmented echo of Peter's own fractured soul, a battle raging within him made manifest?
The silence deepened, stretching thin, threatening to snap. The very walls seemed to watch, holding secrets within their cracked plaster. The lingering energy in the room wasn't just anger; it was something ancient, a deep-seated conflict that Peter carried within him, a darkness that had been momentarily unleashed, only to leave behind more questions than answers. The fight was over, but the true horror, the mystery surrounding Peter D. Rasel and the ghosts of that night, was only just beginning to stir. The air grew colder, the shadows longer, and the silence felt less like peace and more like the pause before a scream.
Peter pulled the P.E. room door shut with a soft click, the sound barely disturbing the heavy silence he left behind. He took a moment, exhaling slowly, the storm within him receding, replaced by that unnerving, watchful calm. He adjusted his coat, smoothing phantom wrinkles, his hands steady despite the violence they had just wrought. The hallway stretched before him, bathed in the long shadows of the setting sun.
Further down, near a corner where the light didn't quite reach, he saw them. The boy – Shoya, the one Peter had warned earlier – stood with his back partially turned, his arms wrapped tightly around the girl, Akane. Her face was buried in his shoulder, her body trembling with ragged sobs, the aftermath of her terror still clinging to her. Shoya held her close, whispering reassurances Peter couldn't hear, his own relief palpable even from a distance.
A faint smile touched Peter's lips – genuine this time, a flicker of warmth in the cold landscape of his current state. They were safe. For now. He approached them slowly, his footsteps soft on the worn linoleum. Shoya looked up as Peter drew near, his eyes widening slightly before a wave of gratitude washed over his features.
Peter stopped a few feet away, giving them space. He gently tapped Shoya on the shoulder. "So, your name is Shoya, huh?" Peter asked, his voice back to its usual calm, almost gentle tone.
Shoya quickly composed himself, pulling away slightly from Akane, though keeping a protective hand on her back. "Y-yes, mister. I'm Shoya." He managed a shaky bow, his relief mixed with lingering worry. "Thanks for saving her, mister. I... I really don't know what would've happened if you weren't here. You... you're a true hero."
"You're welcome," Peter replied smoothly, his gaze shifting to the girl whose tear-streaked face was now visible. Her eyes were red-rimmed and fearful. "And what's your name?"
"A-Akane... Akane Nanao," she answered, her voice trembling, muffled by another sob she tried to stifle against Shoya's shirt.
"You're safe now, Akane," Peter said, his voice softening further, trying to soothe her frayed nerves. "I know how scared you were..." He paused, letting the reassurance hang in the air for a beat before his tone sharpened, hardening like ice forming on water. "...but I'm not a hero."
The shift was instantaneous. Shoya and Akane both looked up, confusion clouding their faces. Before they could question it, Peter moved. His hand shot out, grabbing the front of Shoya's collar with a grip like iron. He lifted, effortlessly pulling the boy's feet clear off the ground until they dangled inches above the floor.
Fear exploded in Shoya's eyes. He gasped, his hands instinctively flying up to claw at Peter's wrist, but it was useless. Akane cried out, launching herself forward, her small fists pounding ineffectually against Peter's unyielding arm.
"LET GO OF HIM!!!" she screamed, tears streaming anew. "PLEASE!!!"
Shoya struggled, twisting, trying to break free, but Peter's grip was absolute. The man leaned in, his face inches from Shoya's, his eyes devoid of warmth, replaced by a chilling intensity.
"You better listen carefully, you weak-ass little shit," Peter's voice was colder than the grave, each word a shard of ice, "because I won't repeat myself." Shoya froze, terror locking his limbs.
"You're lucky I was here," Peter continued, his voice low and menacing. "Lucky I saved your collective asses. Or the next thing you would've seen would be that coach making sport out of your girlfriend right here in the hallway! Or maybe even worse," Peter's lips curled slightly, "maybe I could've easily manipulated her. Made sport out of her myself."
The vile suggestion hung in the air. Shoya's fear momentarily vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated rage. Akane stopped hitting Peter's arm, stepping back slightly, shocked by the turn of events. Shoya's hands shot up, grabbing Peter's arm not in a plea for release, but in anger.
"OVER MY DEAD BODY!!!!!" Shoya roared, his voice raw with fury, staring defiantly into Peter's cold eyes.
Peter didn't flinch. "Will you fight for her?" he asked, his tone still glacial.
"'TILL I COUGH UP BLOOD!!!" Shoya spat back instantly, conviction burning away the fear. "TILL I BREATHE!! TILL MY HEART BEATS, I WILL PROTECT HER!"
"Will you stay by her side?" Peter pressed, bringing their faces even closer, his gaze drilling into Shoya's. "In highs and lows? Love her? Be the MAN she wants?"
Shoya met his stare, his own voice taking on the same deadly seriousness. "I will. I'll be the man she dreams of. The man she wants me to be. I'll be her guardian. Her hero. For life."
Silence. The intensity held for a long moment, Peter scrutinizing the boy's soul. Then, slowly, the ice in Peter's eyes thawed. A calm, almost approving smile touched his lips. He gently lowered Shoya back to the ground, releasing his collar and giving his shoulder a firm, encouraging tap.
"Then I wish you the best of luck, Shoya," Peter said, his voice returning to a warm, calm tone.
Shoya stumbled back a step, catching his breath, staring at Peter with wide, utterly bewildered eyes. Akane looked equally baffled. One second, this man was a terrifying force threatening unimaginable things; the next, he was offering encouragement like a supportive mentor.
Shoya could only stare, his mind reeling, trying desperately to understand what the hell had just happened.
As Shoya stood there, grappling with the whiplash of Peter's sudden shift, Akane subtly hid her face against his chest again. The fierce promises Shoya had just made, born from terror and rage but delivered with unwavering conviction, had sent a wave of warmth through her. A delicate blush, like the first hint of dawn, crept up her neck and bloomed onto her cheeks. She hadn't expected that intensity, that raw declaration of protection. It made her heart flutter in a way that pushed aside the lingering fear.
Peter, ever observant, noticed the faint color rising on Akane's face, the way she subtly pressed closer to Shoya. A knowing, almost mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. He leaned slightly towards Shoya, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, just loud enough for the boy to hear over the pounding in his own ears.
"I think she needs a kiss."
Akane's head snapped up, her blush deepening instantly to a vibrant crimson. "N-no! It's not th-that I..." she stammered, trying to deny it, but her flustered expression and the way she avoided looking at either of them screamed the opposite. Deep down, after the terror and the relief, she desperately wanted that simple connection.
Shoya's head whipped towards Peter, his eyes wide with panic. Now? After all that? He felt completely wrong-footed, his mind still trying to catch up. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but his nerves were shot.
Akane, meanwhile, found the floor incredibly fascinating, her gaze fixed on her own shoes as she tried to hide her embarrassment. She couldn't speak, couldn't move, caught between wanting the kiss and feeling mortified by Peter's bluntness.
Peter caught Shoya's eye again and gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod – a silent command mixed with encouragement. He followed it with another light, reassuring tap on the boy's shoulder. Shoya hesitated for only a second more. What did he have to lose? He had just declared he'd protect her until his last breath; surely, he could manage this.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Shoya turned fully towards Akane. His hand, surprisingly steady now, reached out and gently tilted her chin upwards, coaxing her gaze to meet his. Her eyes were wide, luminous with unshed tears and shy anticipation. He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. She didn't.
Their lips met. It was soft, hesitant at first – a gentle press, inexperienced and tentative. Neither of them really knew what they were doing, but instinct took over. Shoya felt a jolt, like static electricity, run through him. He deepened the kiss slightly, letting his other hand find her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer. His other hand moved to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling lightly in her hair, a silent promise not to let go.
Akane melted into the kiss, her eyes fluttering shut. Her cheeks and even the tips of her ears flushed a deep crimson. The universe seemed to fade away; the cold hallway, the lingering threat, the confusing man watching them – none of it mattered. There was only Shoya, his lips warm against hers, his touch both protective and tender. Shoya's mind, which had been racing moments before, went blissfully blank, filled only with the overwhelming sensation of Akane in his arms, the sweet, simple reality of their connection.
After a moment that felt both fleeting and eternal, Shoya slowly, gently pulled back. He couldn't quite meet her eyes immediately, a wave of shyness washing over him as he looked away, his own cheeks feeling warm.
But Akane wasn't looking away. A radiant smile spread across her face, chasing away the last shadows of fear. It was a smile full of joy, relief, and blossoming affection. She reached up, her fingers gently cupping his chin, turning his face back towards hers. Leaning in, she pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek.
"Chu~" she whispered, her voice regaining a touch of playful confidence, though still soft. "Better take care of me from now on, my darling~" She finished with a quick, adorable wink that sent Shoya's heart tumbling over itself.
He skipped a beat, then recovered, his expression turning serious again, but this time filled with warmth. He took both of her hands, holding them firmly but gently between his own.
"I, Shoya Katase," he began, his voice steady and earnest, locking his gaze with hers, "promise you, and I swear on every blood cell in my body, I will protect you. I'll be the man you want. I will stay by your side 'til my last breath."
Akane's smile softened, her eyes shimmering. She reached up, framing his face with her hands, and leaned in for another kiss, this one shorter, sweeter, imbued with pure love. Pulling back slightly, she looked into his eyes.
"You were acting cute, so I couldn't hold myself back," she admitted, causing Shoya's face to flush again. She giggled softly, then her expression grew sincere. "I'll do the same, Shoya... I love you!"
Shoya felt his heart swell. He leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers, closing his eyes for a moment.
"I love you more, Akane."
Peter watched them from a short distance, the tender scene unfolding in the dim hallway. Shoya and Akane were lost in their moment, foreheads pressed together, whispering confessions of love that felt fragile yet intensely real after the chaos they had just survived. A genuine smile played on Peter's lips as he observed them – the raw honesty, the burgeoning hope. It was a rare glimpse of light in the shadows he usually inhabited.
But even as he smiled, a part of his mind remained detached, calculating. This moment was beautiful, necessary even, but it wasn't the end. There were still pieces on the board, dangers lurking just beyond the periphery. Something remained uncompleted.
He waited a beat longer, letting them savor the quiet intimacy, before approaching slowly, his footsteps soft so as not to startle them. He reached out, his large hands gently petting each of their heads in a gesture that felt strangely paternal, almost comforting.
"And I wish the best luck for both of you," he repeated, his voice warm, sincere.
Shoya and Akane pulled back slightly, looking at each other with soft smiles before turning their grateful eyes to Peter. They opened their mouths to thank him again, perhaps, but Peter held up a hand, cutting them off gently.
"But," he continued, the warmth in his tone receding slightly, replaced by a quiet seriousness, "there is a favor that I need from both of you."
Their smiles faltered, replaced by looks of confusion. A favor? After everything he had just done? They exchanged a quick glance. Whatever it was, they owed him.
"Whatever it is, we'll do our best," Shoya said immediately, his earlier defiance now channeled into earnest determination.
"Yeah, we'll help you!" Akane added, nodding firmly, her fear momentarily forgotten in her gratitude.
Peter nodded slowly, his expression becoming unreadable again. He leaned in closer, beckoning them slightly. They instinctively leaned forward too, their attention fully captured. Peter lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, the words meant only for their ears, lost to the echoing silence of the hallway.
He spoke for only a few seconds.
The effect was instantaneous and profound.
Akane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and a dawning horror. Shoya physically recoiled, stumbling back a step, his face paling as the implication of Peter's words hit him. Fear, sharp and cold, replaced the warmth of moments ago. They stared at Peter, then at each other, speechless.
Seeing their reaction, Peter straightened up, his face impassive but his eyes holding a hint of grim understanding. "It's for both of your safety," he stated plainly, his voice low but firm. "A way to escape from those," he added, a subtle emphasis that hinted at dangers beyond just the coach. "I know it sounds... unorthodox," he conceded, "but, believe me, there is no other choice. Not if you want to truly be free of this."
Akane and Shoya remained frozen, the shock warring with the undeniable logic Peter presented. His plan was bizarre, unsettling, maybe even dangerous in its own right – but the alternative? Returning to their lives knowing what the coach was capable of, knowing he might retaliate, knowing there might be others involved? Peter was right. This strange, frightening path might be the only way to ensure the coach never bothered them, or anyone else, again, and to sever any ties that could lead back to trouble.
Slowly, hesitantly, they looked at each other one last time. A silent agreement passed between them. Taking a deep breath, Shoya nodded. Akane followed suit, her expression still worried but resolved.
They approved.
A flicker of something – perhaps satisfaction, perhaps grim necessity – passed through Peter's eyes. He gave a single, sharp nod.
"Good," he said simply. And with that, turning away from the bewildered couple, Peter began to set his plan in motion, the first steps taken into a scheme whose true nature remained shrouded in mystery.
The after-school meeting dragged on, filled with talk of banners, budgets, and booth assignments for some upcoming school festival Hiroki couldn't care less about. He tuned most of it out, his mind drifting back to the chilling news report, to Peter's cryptic words in the P.E. room, to the unsettling feeling that something significant and dangerous was shifting just beneath the surface of everyday life. When the meeting finally dispersed, he slipped out quickly, eager for the relative anonymity of the hallways.
As he walked towards the main entrance, the sky outside darkened prematurely. A low rumble of thunder vibrated through the building, followed moments later by the sudden drumming of rain against the tall windows lining the corridor. Fat drops splattered against the glass, quickly merging into streaming rivulets that blurred the view of the world outside.
Hiroki paused, drawn to the window. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the downpour. The rhythmic patter, the grey sheet washing over the school grounds, the way the world seemed hushed beneath the sound – it brought an unexpected sense of peace. The constant tension coiled in his shoulders loosened slightly. For a moment, the weight of his secrets, of Peter's secrets, felt a little lighter, washed away by the simple, cleansing sound of the rain.
His gaze drifted down to the schoolyard below. And there, standing unbothered by the rain, his black coat darkening with moisture, was Peter. Waiting. Hiroki felt a familiar mix of respect and unease. Time to go.
He pushed away from the window and started down the main hallway towards the exit. The corridor was mostly empty now, save for a few lingering students and faculty members. As he passed a cluster near the administrative offices, he caught snippets of a conversation – a woman's voice, tight with distress, speaking to a teacher.
"...just vanished after school yesterday," the woman was saying, her voice trembling.
Hiroki slowed his pace slightly, curiosity piqued despite himself. He glanced over. A middle-aged woman, her face etched with worry, clutched a photograph, showing it to a tired-looking teacher.
"This is my girl," the mother pleaded, holding the photo out. Hiroki caught a glimpse – a school picture of a young girl. "She's kinda short," the mother continued, her voice cracking as she listed the details, "black short hair... wears glasses..."
Hiroki paused for only a second longer. A missing girl. Sad, but it wasn't his problem. He had his own battles to fight, his own ghosts to wrestle with. He continued walking, the mother's voice fading behind him as he moved further down the hall.
"...tried calling her friends, the police... Her name is—"
The rest was lost as Hiroki turned the corner, the sound swallowed by the drumming rain and the distance. Just another tragedy in a world full of them. He shook the thought away and quickened his pace towards the exit, towards Peter, leaving the mother's unheard name and unseen face behind him like ripples fading on water.
Hiroki reached the covered entrance just as the rain began to fall a little heavier. He watched Peter approach from the schoolyard, a lone figure moving steadily through the downpour, seemingly unaffected by the weather. Peter reached the steps and shook a few droplets from his coat.
"Mr. Rasel," Hiroki greeted, nodding slightly.
"Hiroki," Peter replied, his tone even. "How was the rest of school?"
"Fine," Hiroki shrugged, falling into step beside Peter as they began walking away from the building. "Just that festival planning stuff... pointless, really."
Peter chuckled softly. "A festival, huh? Could be fun. Might take your mind off things." He produced a large black umbrella seemingly from nowhere, opening it with a smooth fwoosh and holding it over both of them.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Hiroki muttered, not entirely convinced but appreciating the cover from the rain. "I doubt I'll go."
They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound the rhythmic drumming of rain on the umbrella and the splash of their footsteps on the wet pavement. As they rounded the corner towards the street where Peter usually parked, Hiroki stopped dead.
His breath hitched.
Parked at the curb, gleaming under the rain-slicked streetlights, wasn't Peter's usual G-Class or the Porsche from the other day. It was something else. Something legendary.
A BMW M3 GTR.
Instantly recognizable. The iconic white body with the bold blue stripes slicing across its hood and sides. The aggressive stance, the wide fenders, the unmistakable silhouette that haunted the dreams of car enthusiasts and gamers worldwide. It looked unreal, impossible, parked casually on a rainy street outside his school. The rain sheeting off its polished surface only enhanced its mystique, making it look like a phantom materialized from pure fantasy.
Hiroki just stared, speechless. He felt a strange disconnect, like the world had tilted slightly off its axis.
Peter followed his gaze and smirked, the expression knowing and amused. He casually jingled a set of keys in his hand.
"Like it?" Peter asked, his voice laced with understated confidence. "Consider it motivation. Once you learn to drive properly – and I mean properly, pass the test with flying colors – she's yours."
Hiroki couldn't form words. He stumbled forward, drawn by an invisible force, until his hand rested on the cool, wet metal of the car's hood. It felt solid. Real. Too real. This wasn't just any car; it was the car. A machine worth a fortune, a legend on wheels. And Peter was just... giving it to him? The idea was ludicrous, unbelievable.
"Get in," Peter said, breaking the spell. He unlocked the doors with a chirp. "Let's take her for a spin. Get you acquainted." He paused, glancing at the rain. "Pity about the weather, though. Driving lessons will have to wait for a sunnier day. But you'll get your chance."
Still in a daze, Hiroki slid into the passenger seat. The interior smelled of new leather and high-octane potential. The racing seats hugged him, the dashboard glowed with sophisticated instrumentation. His excitement warred with a deep-seated disbelief. Was this another one of Peter's elaborate tests? A joke?
His eyes scanned the dashboard, taking in the details, and then he saw it. Right there, subtly integrated into the trim above the glove box, was his name – "Hikaru Morisawa" – etched in a stylish, flowing script of gleaming gold.
His breath caught again.
Peter slid into the driver's seat, closing the door with a satisfying thud that sealed them inside the luxurious cocoon, the sound of the rain instantly muffled. He noticed Hiroki staring at the dashboard inscription.
"You think I was joking, kid?" Peter asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge of seriousness that cut through Hiroki's lingering doubts. He started the engine, the car roaring to life with a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through the seats. "Let me be clear. When I make a promise, especially to you, I stand on business. This car will be yours. Got it?"
Hiroki finally looked away from the dashboard, meeting Peter's steady gaze in the rearview mirror. The conviction in his mentor's eyes was absolute. This wasn't a joke. It wasn't a test. It was real.
A slow smile, genuine and filled with awe, finally spread across Hiroki's face.
The M3 GTR's engine settled into a low, menacing rumble, a beast barely restrained. Hiroki was practically vibrating in the passenger seat, the awe from moments ago replaced by pure, unadulterated excitement. The sound alone was intoxicating.
Peter smirked, tapping a command into the car's sleek console. Instantly, the cabin filled with the heavy, driving riffs and aggressive vocals of Disturbed's "Decadence." Peter cranked the volume – not just loud, but loud. The bass thumped through the seats, vibrating in Hiroki's chest, perfectly matching the car's raw energy.
"Hold on," Peter said, his grin widening.
He slammed the gearshift, and the car exploded forward. Tires screeched on the wet pavement for a fraction of a second before finding purchase, launching them down the street with breathtaking acceleration. Hiroki was pressed back into the racing seat, a wide, adrenaline-fueled grin plastered across his face.
This wasn't just driving; this was controlled chaos. Peter navigated the rain-slicked city streets with impossible precision. He took corners with sharp, aggressive turns, the tires momentarily losing grip in controlled drifts that sent sheets of water spraying outwards. The engine screamed, the exhaust popped and crackled on downshifts, and the heavy beat of "Decadence" provided the perfect, chaotic soundtrack. It felt exactly like a scene ripped straight from Need for Speed: Most Wanted.
They hit the on-ramp to the highway, Peter barely slowing. He merged seamlessly into traffic, then found an open stretch. His foot slammed down on the accelerator. The M3 GTR surged forward, the speedometer climbing rapidly as the world outside blurred into streaks of light and rain. The deep roar of the engine filled the air, a symphony of power that resonated deep in Hiroki's bones.
"GOD DAMN!!!" Hiroki finally yelled over the music, laughing, pure joy lighting up his features. "I didn't know you could drive like this too! And the music choice? Perfect!"
Peter chuckled, expertly weaving through slower traffic without even seeming to try. "Hope you like it, boy," he replied, his eyes focused on the road but a smirk playing on his lips. "Just be patient. Learn the ropes, and this thrill? It'll be yours whenever you want it."
"Can't wait!" Hiroki breathed, still buzzing from the adrenaline.
After several more miles of high-speed cruising, letting the engine sing on the open highway, Peter gradually eased off the gas. The car settled into a smoother, quieter rhythm, though the powerful engine still hummed beneath them. The rain had lightened to a drizzle. Peter turned down the music, letting the heavy riffs fade into a background thrum.
He glanced over at Hiroki, his expression turning more thoughtful. "Wanna visit Ayato?"
The question shifted the mood instantly. Hiroki's exhilaration faded slightly, replaced by a more somber awareness. He instinctively reached up, his fingers brushing the small bandage covering the fresh scar above his eyebrow – a souvenir from the night they rescued Ayato, the night Peter... dealt with the Yakuza leader.
He thought of the boy in the hospital bed, broken and alone. "Yeah," Hiroki replied quietly, his voice firming with resolve. "Yeah, I'll come with you." He paused, then added, "Maybe I should bring him some of my clothes? Something comfortable for when he gets out."
Peter watched him, a flicker of warmth returning to his eyes. He saw past the hardened fighter, the disciplined warrior he was forging, and saw the core of the boy he'd taken in – the one who, despite the world's cruelty and his own family's betrayal, still possessed a fundamentally good heart.
Peter reached over and gently tapped Hiroki's shoulder. "You're a good kid, Hiroki," he said softly, his voice sincere. "I know... I know your father would be proud of you."
The words struck a chord deep within Hiroki. The tension he hadn't even realized he was holding released in a quiet sigh. A genuine smile, soft and warm, spread across his face – a smile that reached his eyes, reflecting both the lingering sadness of his past and the tentative hope for his future. It felt good. Really good.
Later that evening, the rhythmic chop of a knife against a cutting board echoed softly through Peter's spacious mansion. Peter stood at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up his forearms, expertly dicing vegetables and slicing meat with practiced ease. He wore a simple dark shirt and a dark grey apron tied neatly around his waist. The focused intensity he brought to combat seemed to translate seamlessly into his cooking – precise, efficient, almost meditative.
Across the room, at the massive dining table, Hiroki sat engrossed in a stack of books. Some were thick tomes on martial arts philosophies and advanced combat techniques, their pages filled with diagrams and dense text. Others were his regular school textbooks, open to challenging physics problems and complex literature analyses. Floating silently in the air beside him was Jelunia's holographic projection, offering quiet suggestions or clarifying points whenever Hiroki paused or frowned in concentration.
Hiroki glanced up from his book, his eyes momentarily drawn to Peter's focused work in the kitchen. The scars on Peter's arms and face were stark reminders of a violent past, yet seeing him now, calmly preparing dinner, created a strange dissonance. The apron, the rolled-up sleeves revealing strong forearms, the quiet competence...
A short, sharp laugh escaped Hiroki's lips before he could stop it. He leaned slightly towards Jelunia's hologram, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"He looks so handsome, don't you think?"
Jelunia's holographic form flickered slightly, processing the query. She paused for a beat, then her synthesized voice dropped to an equally low, almost mischievous whisper. "If I were to analyze that query based on prevalent tropes found in certain... dark romance reader communities," she began, her tone clinically precise yet undeniably suggestive, "the probable responses would range from 'Hot damn, he is hot as f*ck,' to the more succinct 'Smash!' or perhaps even elaborate fantasies involving..." Jelunia paused, accessing data, "...ripped skirts, forceful bedroom encounters, hair-pulling, whispered commands issued in a 'deep and hot tone,' culminating in physical exhaustion and unconsciousness due to excessive pleasure."
Hiroki's head whipped around to stare at the hologram, his jaw practically hitting the table. His eyes were wide with disbelief. Do girls really go that far?!! The AI's blunt, graphic description left him momentarily speechless.
Peter, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere and catching Hiroki's wide-eyed reaction, paused his chopping and turned his head, a questioning eyebrow raised.
"Is there something funny you two want to share?" he asked, his tone light but curious.
Hiroki quickly composed himself, though a faint blush lingered on his cheeks. "Uh, yeah," he managed, trying to sound casual. "Just saying... the way you're dressed, with the apron and all... you kinda look like one of those male leads from those dark romance TV shows."
Peter threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that filled the kitchen. "Hahaha! Is that right?" He picked up the large kitchen knife he'd been using and expertly spun it once around his finger before catching it deftly by the handle. "That's a good one, Hiroki. Hahaha."
Jelunia's hologram flickered again. "But Mr. Mori, you didn't allow me to completely elaborate on the statistical probability of specific fantasy scenar—"
"Ahem!" Hiroki cleared his throat loudly, cutting the AI off mid-sentence, shooting a warning glance at the hologram. He definitely didn't need Peter hearing the rest of that analysis. Thankfully, Peter seemed more amused by the initial comment and was already turning back to the stove, carefully ladling steaming ramen into large bowls.
A few minutes later, Peter placed two generous bowls on the dining table and sat down opposite Hiroki. The aroma alone was intoxicating. Rich pork and chicken broth, tender noodles, perfectly soft-boiled eggs sliced in half, thick cuts of green onion, vibrant pink-and-white slices of kamaboko, and a swirl of fragrant, spicy chili oil glistening on top. The smell of the hot sauce was sharp and inviting, making Hiroki's mouth water instantly.
"Enjoy," Peter said simply.
Hiroki picked up his chopsticks. "Thank you for the food," he murmured, a customary phrase imbued with genuine gratitude tonight. He carefully lifted a bundle of noodles, blew on them gently, and took the first bite.
His eyes snapped wide open. Sparks seemed to dance behind his pupils. The heat from the chili oil was perfectly balanced by the rich, savory broth. The noodles were soft yet firm, the toppings cooked to perfection. It wasn't just food; it was an experience. A wave of pure bliss washed over him, and he could only hum in appreciation, momentarily lost in the flavors. He ate quickly, savoring every single bite, the warmth spreading through him, chasing away the lingering chill from the day's thoughts.
Peter watched him, a soft, satisfied smile gracing his features. Seeing Hiroki genuinely happy, even over something as simple as a bowl of ramen, felt like a small victory against the darkness that had tried to consume the boy. Peter began eating his own ramen, the two of them sharing a comfortable silence for a while, punctuated only by the sounds of their meal.
But as Hiroki finished the last of his noodles, the lighter atmosphere began to fade, replaced by the questions that had been simmering in the back of his mind all day. He put down his chopsticks, his expression turning serious.
"Mr. Rasel," he began, his voice quiet but firm, "what happened... that night?" He didn't need to specify which night.
Peter slowly finished chewing, swallowed, and placed his own chopsticks neatly beside his bowl. He met Hiroki's gaze directly, his face settling into a serious, unreadable mask.
"Listen, Hiroki," Peter said, his voice low and steady. "I know you heard the news this morning. But let me ask you something, son." He paused, leaning back slightly in his seat, his eyes never leaving Hiroki's. "Would you let a person roam free if you knew, without a doubt, they felt no regret for killing? For raping? Would you let them walk the streets, knowing they wouldn't hesitate to do it again?"
Hiroki felt a jolt, shocked by the directness and the implication. Before he could formulate a response, Peter continued, his tone hardening.
"And yes," Peter acknowledged, a flicker of frustration crossing his face, "the world needs balance. Good and evil. Light and dark. That's the 'natural order,' a rule I personally fucking hate. But that necessity for balance doesn't mean we stay silent when faced with true evil. It doesn't mean we turn a blind eye while monsters prey on the innocent."
He took a deep breath, the anger in his eyes momentarily sharpening before he visibly reined it in. "That's why I did what I did to him. It was a warning to others like him. It was vengeance for that girl he tormented, and for every other victim he likely created. But Hiroki," Peter leaned forward again, his expression calming, his gaze intense and sincere, "I show no difference based on labels. Not gender. Not race. Not religion. I blame the person, the individual responsible for their actions. Their race, their beliefs, their gender – those things are irrelevant when judging their character."
He held Hiroki's gaze firmly. "I know you might be starting to harbor resentment towards Black people because of that bastard Kokujin," Peter stated plainly, hitting the nail on the head. "But you cannot let one piece of shit poison your view of an entire group. Not all people of any group are evil, just as not all of them deserve automatic respect simply for existing. Judging individuals requires discernment. It requires you to look past the surface." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "It's on you to learn how to see clearly, Hiroki. To judge the person, not the label. Okay?"
Hiroki sat in stunned silence. Peter's words were harsh, uncompromising, yet undeniably logical within the framework of the brutal world they both seemed to inhabit. He hadn't expected such a direct confrontation of his own budding prejudice, nor such a stark explanation of Peter's lethal actions. He didn't know what to say, how to respond. But deep down, as Peter's words echoed in his mind, he felt the toxic seed of hatred towards an entire group, planted by Kokujin's betrayal, begin to wither. Peter was right. Judging the individual, not the group – that was the path forward. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
The city lights painted streaks across the rain-slicked windows of the M3 GTR as Peter drove them back towards the area where the earlier incident had occurred. The adrenaline from the highway drive had faded, replaced by a quiet tension. Hiroki stared out the window, the conversation over ramen still echoing in his mind. Peter's justification for the Yakuza leader's death was brutal, logical in its own dark way, and it forced Hiroki to confront uncomfortable truths about justice, vengeance, and his own simmering prejudices.
They parked a few blocks away and got out. The drizzle had mostly stopped, but the air was cool and damp, carrying the fresh scent of rain-washed pavement. Hiroki pulled the hood of his black hoodie up, instinctively concealing his face, his hands sliding into the deep pockets where the spiked fighting gloves Peter had given him rested, a cold weight against his knuckles.
He glanced at Peter and did a double-take. Gone was the simple coat. Peter now wore something... different. It was dark, multi-layered, with intricate paneling and leather accents. A deep cowl was pulled up, shadowing his face, leaving only the intensity of his eyes visible beneath the brim. The silhouette it created was sharp, angular, almost predatory. It wasn't exactly an Assassin's Creed outfit, but the resemblance was uncanny – practical, intimidating, and radiating an aura of lethal competence. Damn, he looks cool... and kinda terrifying, Hiroki thought.
Hiroki took a deep breath, savoring the clean, post-rain air. It felt good, grounding. He noticed Peter seemed less appreciative, a subtle tension in his shoulders as he scanned the street. Hiroki remembered Peter mentioning something about not liking the rain once, chalking it up to a personal quirk, but now, after everything, he wondered if it tied back to that mysterious "that night."
He opened his mouth, wanting to ask, wanting to understand more about the man beside him, the man who could deliver philosophical lessons on prejudice one moment and execute brutal justice the next. But the words caught in his throat.
Before he could speak, they saw them. A couple, walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk towards them. The woman was visibly pregnant, her hand resting protectively on her belly, a soft smile on her face as she looked at her partner. The man smiled back, his eyes full of affection. A picture of simple, hopeful domesticity.
As the couple drew level, Peter subtly shifted his position, creating space for them to pass comfortably. He even placed a hand briefly over his chest in a gesture of quiet respect.
"Congratulations," Peter said, his voice surprisingly warm, genuine.
The couple paused, surprised but clearly touched by the unexpected kindness from the intimidating figure in the cowl. They offered shy smiles and murmured their thanks before continuing on their way, their quiet happiness a stark contrast to the city's usual indifference.
Hiroki watched them go, a flicker of warmth touching his own chest. Maybe Peter wasn't all darkness and violence—
Then the atmosphere shattered.
From a side alley spilled a group of five men, stumbling, reeking of cheap alcohol. Their laughter was loud, abrasive, grating against the quiet night. One, a blonde with artificially tanned skin, swayed slightly, clutching a near-empty bottle of wine. Two others flanked him – conventionally handsome, but with cruel eyes and sneering lips that gave off a palpably dark vibe. The remaining two were large, dark-skinned men, their expressions blank but watchful.
The blonde leader spotted the departing couple. His eyes, bleary with drink, fixed on the pregnant woman with predatory interest. He stumbled forward, blocking their path, his words slurring. "Well, well... lookie what we got here..."
Before the woman's partner could react, the two dark-skinned thugs moved with startling speed. They grabbed the man, slamming him against the alley wall and pinning him there, hands twisting his arms behind his back. He cried out, struggling futilely.
The blonde laughed, taking another swig from his bottle, while the two handsome thugs stepped forward, cornering the pregnant woman. Her eyes widened in terror, her hands flying instinctively to her belly as she tried to back away.
"Hey now, pretty mama," one of the handsome ones leered, reaching out. "Don't be scared..."
The other one grabbed her arm. She cried out, trying to pull away, her face a mask of pure fear. The implication was sickeningly clear. They weren't just robbing them.
Rage, white-hot and absolute, surged through Hiroki. He instinctively clenched his fists inside his pockets, the spikes of the gloves digging into his palms. He turned to Peter—
And froze.
The man beside him was no longer Peter, the calm mentor or the respectful stranger. Beneath the cowl, Peter's face was a mask of terrifying fury. His eyes, visible even in the shadows, seemed to burn with an intensity that sucked the air from Hiroki's lungs. His teeth were clenched so tightly Hiroki could hear them grinding, the muscles in his jaw rigid as stone. This wasn't just anger. This was annihilation waiting to happen.
"Hiroki..." Peter's voice was a low growl, barely recognizable, strained through gritted teeth. He turned his head slightly, and the eyes that met Hiroki's were frighteningly dark, almost inhuman. "Remember my words... about those who feel no regret?"
A chill, colder than the rain-swept air, snaked down Hiroki's spine. This wasn't a test anymore. This was an execution order.
Peter pointed sharply down a narrow side street perpendicular to their own. "Go. Straight down that street. Take the first left. Circle behind them." His voice was clipped, tactical, deadly serious. "They might have knives. Be ready."
There was no room for hesitation, no time for questions. Hiroki nodded once, sharply. Without a backward glance, he sprinted into the indicated street, melting into the shadows, leaving Peter alone to face the five thugs who had just signed their own death warrants.
The blonde thug, still chuckling as he watched his men restrain the terrified couple, finally noticed the lone figure approaching. He squinted through the dim light, taking in the strange, cowled attire. He sneered, waving a dismissive hand towards one of the handsome thugs beside him. "Oi, take care of this weirdo."
The thug smirked, cracking his knuckles as he swaggered towards Peter. "You lost, old man? Or just looking for trouble?" He didn't wait for an answer, launching a sloppy right hook aimed at Peter's cowled head.
It never connected.
Peter moved like smoke, a blur of motion that seemed too fast for human eyes. Before the thug's fist even reached its apex, Peter's own fist exploded forward – a piston strike driving deep into the man's stomach.
WHUMP!
The air left the thug's lungs in a choked gasp. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his eyes bulged in agony. He doubled over instinctively, but Peter was already following through. A vicious backhand, knuckles connecting solidly with the man's face, shattered his nose in a spray of crimson.
The thug stumbled back, clutching his ruined face, a strangled cry escaping his lips. But Peter gave him no quarter. In the next instant, Peter's hand clamped around his throat like a vise. Lifting the man effortlessly off his feet, Peter slammed him back-first onto the unforgiving concrete with a brutal, echoing choke slam.
CRUNCH.
The thug's body bounced once, then lay still, eyes rolled back, instantly unconscious.
One down. Four to go.
The remaining thugs froze, their drunken bravado evaporating in the face of such swift, merciless violence. The man holding the pregnant woman's partner tightened his grip, while the blonde leader took an involuntary step back.
One of the large, dark-skinned men growled, pulling a set of heavy brass knuckles from his pocket and slipping them onto his fist. The metal gleamed menacingly under the streetlight. He stomped forward, spitting on the ground.
"You think you own the streets, huh?!" he snarled, flexing his metal-clad fist. He got right up in Peter's face, radiating menace. "You messed with the wrong person, n!gga."
He threw a savage punch aimed straight for Peter's jaw, putting all his weight behind the brass knuckles.
But Peter was faster. His hand shot up, catching the thug's wrist mid-swing, stopping the blow inches from his face. The thug's eyes widened in surprise, but before he could pull back or throw another punch, Peter began to twist.
Slowly. Deliberately. Applying pressure to the wrist joint.
The thug grunted, trying to wrench his arm free, attempting to swing with his other fist. Peter preempted it with a blindingly fast kick, his boot connecting solidly with the side of the thug's head. The impact forced the man down onto one knee, dazed and disoriented.
Peter leaned down, his cowled face inches from the thug's, the shadows beneath the hood making his eyes seem like burning coals. His voice was a low, chilling whisper that cut through the night air.
"Did you really think you could win a game... when I set the rules?" He paused, letting the terror sink in. "Nice try, asshole."
With those final words, Peter tightened his grip on the man's captured hand – the one still adorned with the brass knuckles. Then, with a sudden, violent twist—
CRACK! SNAP! POP! CRUNCH!
The sickening sounds of multiple small bones breaking echoed in the alley. Four fingers bent backward at impossible angles.
"AUGGHHHHH!!!" The thug let out a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing fully onto the ground, clutching his mangled hand. "MY FINGERS!!!! MY FUCKING FINGERS!!!"
Peter grabbed him by the collar, hauling his head up. He stared into the man's pain-filled eyes for a split second before delivering a brutal headbutt.
CRACK!
The thug's nose flattened, blood gushing forth. He instinctively brought his good hand up to cover the injury, but Peter slapped it away and delivered another headbutt.
WHAM!
And another.
WHAM!
And another.
WHAM!
Peter slammed his forehead repeatedly against the thug's face with relentless, machine-like precision, each impact driving the man's head back against the pavement until, finally, with a low groan, the thug's body went limp, collapsing into an unconscious heap beside the first victim.
Two down. Three left. A tangible fear now pulsed from the remaining thugs. The blonde leader, the other handsome lackey, and the second dark-skinned brute who was still pinning the pregnant woman's partner against the wall.
Peter straightened up from the broken form at his feet, the cowl still shadowing his face, making him look less human and more like an avatar of vengeance. He took a slow step towards them, the crunch of his boot on the gritty pavement echoing loudly in the sudden tense silence. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, yet radiating an intensity that promised unimaginable pain.
Panic flared in the blonde leader's eyes. His drunken haze evaporated, replaced by cold, primal terror. He knew they couldn't win. In a desperate, cowardly act, he shoved the bottle of wine into his pocket and lunged towards the pregnant woman, yanking her away from the handsome thug who held her arm. He pulled out a glinting switchblade, pressing the cold steel against her throat, pulling her back against his chest as a human shield. Her terrified gasp was muffled by his arm.
"Take one more step and she's gone!" the blonde shrieked, his voice high-pitched with fear and false bravado. The knife trembled slightly against her skin.
Peter stopped instantly. His body went still, but the fury in his eyes intensified, burning hotter, colder. The situation had become infinitely more dangerous. One wrong move, one miscalculation, and the innocent woman would pay the price.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw him. Hiroki. Emerging silently from the side alley as instructed, moving like a wraith along the edges of the shadows, positioning himself behind the thugs. Peter kept his gaze locked on the blonde leader, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl, buying Hiroki precious seconds.
The blonde, emboldened by Peter's apparent hesitation, laughed nervously. "Oh, what's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Can't do anything now, can ya? HAHAHAHA!!!" He nudged the remaining handsome thug forward with his head. "Go on. Play with him. Show this freak what happens when he sticks his nose where it doesn't belong."
The handsome thug hesitated for a split second, clearly unnerved, but the leader's glare spurred him on. He pulled out his own knife, a nasty-looking stiletto, and advanced cautiously towards Peter, trying to project confidence he clearly didn't feel.
"You really are good, gotta give you that," the thug said, trying to sound tough, circling Peter slowly. "But now? Now you can't do shit." He spat contemptuously onto the pavement near Peter's feet, a disgusting gesture meant to provoke. Hiroki, watching from the shadows, felt his own anger surge, his hands tightening inside his gloves. Peter, however, remained utterly still, his death-glare fixed on the thug, letting the provocation slide off him like water. The thug laughed, emboldened by the lack of reaction. "See? Helpless."
That was Peter's cue. He let out a short, sharp whistle – barely audible, almost lost in the ambient city noise.
It was the signal.
Hiroki, hidden behind the blonde leader and the last dark-skinned thug, tensed.
Simultaneously, the pregnant woman, fueled by adrenaline and desperation, reacted to the whistle instinctively. She stomped hard on the blonde leader's foot and bit down savagely on the arm holding her captive.
"YEOWCH! FUCK!" the leader screamed, momentarily loosening his grip and his hold on the knife. In that instant, the woman shoved him away and scrambled towards her partner, who was finally released by the last thug, momentarily distracted by the commotion.
The handsome thug near Peter flinched at the sudden chaos, his attention diverted for a fatal fraction of a second.
It was all Peter needed.
He exploded into action. A lightning-fast punch drove into the thug's stomach, doubling him over with a choked gasp. Before the man could even register the pain, Peter's arm snaked around his neck in a vice-like chokehold. Using the man's own forward momentum, Peter pivoted, releasing his weight and driving the thug's head downwards with brutal force.
SMASH!
The thug's skull connected violently with a protruding stone edge of the alley wall. The sound was sickeningly final. His body went instantly limp as Peter released him, letting him crumple to the ground.
At the same moment, Hiroki burst from the shadows like a released spring. The blonde leader, still reeling from the bite and the woman's escape, barely had time to turn before Hiroki was on him.
WHAM! A straight right connected with the leader's jaw, snapping his head back. Hiroki grabbed his collar, pulling him forward into a devastating gut punch with the spiked glove, tearing fabric and flesh. UGH! Another blow, a sharp headbutt, sent the blonde staggering backward before he collapsed onto the wet pavement.
Hiroki didn't let up. He dropped down, pinning the leader's arms with his knees, straddling his chest. Then the punches rained down – left, right, left, right – controlled fury channeled through his spiked knuckles, turning the man's face into a bloody mess. He brought his fists together, raising them high for a final, crushing blow—
"That's enough, Hiroki."
Peter's voice cut through Hiroki's rage, sharp and commanding. Hiroki froze instantly, his combined fists hovering inches above the blonde's ruined face. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the adrenaline slowly receding, leaving behind the cold discipline Peter had instilled. He pushed himself off the barely conscious leader, leaving him groaning in a pool of his own blood.
Peter now turned his attention to the last thug – the second dark-skinned man, who had been holding the partner. The thug stood frozen, paralyzed by shock and terror, his eyes wide as saucers, watching the utter destruction of his crew.
Peter walked towards him slowly, deliberately, his cowled figure radiating pure menace. The thug trembled, unable to move, trapped by fear.
"LET. HIM. GO." Peter's voice was low, each word dropping like a stone, an undeniable order.
The thug's mind barely registered the command, but his body reacted on pure instinct. He released the partner, who scrambled away towards his wife, pulling her into a protective embrace as they huddled against the far wall, watching in terrified silence.
Hiroki stepped towards the last standing thug. The man flinched as Hiroki approached. Hiroki grabbed his arm, spun him around, and delivered a single, vicious punch to the jaw.
CRACK!
The sound of breaking bone was unmistakable. The thug cried out, stumbling back, clutching his shattered jaw as blood poured down his chin. The spiked glove left deep, ragged gashes across his cheek. He collapsed, whimpering.
Silence fell again, broken only by the distant city hum and the quiet sobbing of the rescued woman.
Peter surveyed the scene – four men down, broken and bleeding. He walked over to the blonde leader, who was weakly trying to push himself up. Peter grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair, hauling him roughly to his feet and dragging him towards the nearest brick wall.
He slammed the leader's face into the rough bricks. Once. Twice. Each impact was dull, wet, sickening. He pulled the man's head back, revealing a face that was barely recognizable, a mangled mess of blood, broken teeth, and swelling flesh.
Then Peter began slamming his head against the wall again. Methodically. Relentlessly. Each blow stronger than the last, driven by a cold, terrifying rage. The sound echoed in the narrow alley – thwack, thwack, thwack – until the blonde's body finally went limp, sliding down the blood-streaked wall into an unconscious heap.
The alleyway fell into a heavy, almost breathless silence, punctuated only by the whimpers of the downed thugs and the ragged breathing of the rescued couple huddled against the far wall. The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the damp night air. Peter stood over the unconscious form of the blonde leader, his chest rising and falling steadily, the terrifying fury slowly receding from his eyes, replaced by a cold, calculating calm. Hiroki stood nearby, flexing his gloved hands, the adrenaline still thrumming beneath his skin.
Peter turned away from the carnage, his cowled gaze softening slightly as he approached the terrified couple. The woman flinched instinctively as he drew near, pulling her partner closer. Peter stopped a few feet away, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.
"It's over. You're safe," he said, his voice low and steady. He focused on the woman, noting her rapid breathing, the way she clutched her belly. "Breathe," he instructed gently but firmly. "Deep breaths. Stress isn't good for the baby."
The woman nodded shakily, trying to follow his instructions, leaning heavily on her partner. The man, though clearly shaken and bruised, managed to stand a little straighter, his eyes filled with immense gratitude as he looked at Peter and Hiroki.
"Th-thank you," the man stammered, bowing his head deeply. "Thank you both. We... we owe you everything."
Peter simply nodded, accepting the thanks without comment. But his expression shifted again, the brief moment of calm replaced by that familiar, unsettling intensity. He stepped forward, his hand shooting out to grab the front of the man's shirt, pulling him close.
SLAP!
The sound cracked through the alley. The man's head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek. The woman gasped, staring in shock and confusion. Why would their savior hit him now?
"Listen carefully," Peter's voice dropped back into that icy tone, devoid of sympathy, "because I won't repeat myself, and this will likely be the last time you ever see me." The man, stunned and holding his cheek, could only nod mutely.
Peter then turned his attention to the woman, his expression softening again. He reached into his coat – not for a weapon, but for his wallet. He pulled out three thick wads of cash, pressing them firmly into her trembling hand. She stared at the money, bewildered.
"One of these," Peter said, gesturing to the first bundle, "is for your silence. You never saw us. You don't know anything about what happened here tonight. If anyone asks, you were attacked, fought back, and they ran off or knocked each other out. Clear?" Both the man and woman nodded quickly, understanding the dangerous necessity of forgetting.
"This second one," he indicated the next wad, "is for you. Personal use. Clothes, food, whatever you need." Again, they nodded, overwhelmed.
Peter's gaze then shifted back to the man, his eyes hardening once more. "And this last one," he said, his voice sharp, "is an investment. You're going to use it to learn how to defend yourself. Martial arts, boxing, weight training – I don't care what. Because tonight? Tonight you were helpless." Peter leaned in slightly. "Like, bro, you're literally thinner than a lizard. You need to be able to protect what's yours."
The insult, though crude, hit its mark. The man's face flushed, a mixture of shame and anger bubbling beneath the surface. Hiroki had to suppress a smirk, and even the pregnant woman managed a watery, incredulous half-smile despite the situation.
"I promise," the man started, his voice thick with emotion, "I promise you, I'll—"
"Don't promise me," Peter interrupted, loosening his grip on the man's collar. "Promise her." He gestured towards the woman. "She needs you. Your child needs you. You know it."
The man looked from Peter's intense gaze to his partner's tear-streaked but hopeful face. Understanding dawned in his eyes. He stepped towards her, gently taking her face in his hands and kissing her forehead.
"Honey," he said, his voice thick but firm, filled with newfound resolve, "I promise you. And I promise our baby. I will protect you. Whoever dares to mess with us again... they'll meet death itself."
The woman sniffled, a genuine smile finally breaking through her tears. "Well, aren't you acting all sweet and brave now?" she teased gently.
"HONEY!!!" the man exclaimed, his face flushing again, clearly flattered despite the circumstances.
"Just kidding," she started, wiping her eyes, "I was just—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening as she let out a sharp gasp, her hands flying to her swollen belly. A wave of pain washed over her face.
"Honey?" the man asked, his voice instantly laced with panic. "What's wrong?"
She looked at him, her breath coming in short pants, a mixture of pain and dawning realization in her eyes.
"It's... it's time!" she gasped out.
The three men – Peter, Hiroki, and the husband – stared at her, their minds momentarily blanking in shock. Then, reality crashed in.
Peter reacted instantly. He rushed to the woman's side, scooping her up carefully into his arms despite the bloodstains on his attire. He turned to the stunned husband, his voice sharp with urgency.
"FOLLOW ME!!"
Adrenaline surged anew, replacing the post-fight calm with frantic urgency. Peter, cradling the groaning woman carefully but securely in his arms, bolted from the alleyway back towards the parked M3 GTR. Hiroki and the panicked husband scrambled close behind, their footsteps pounding on the wet pavement.
Peter reached the car, hitting the unlock button on the key fob. He swiftly opened the rear door, gently laying the woman down across the back seat, trying to keep her as comfortable as possible despite the cramped space and her obvious pain.
"Get in the back with her!" Peter ordered the husband, who immediately complied, sliding in beside his wife, his face a mask of worry as he took her hand.
Hiroki jumped into the front passenger seat, slamming the door shut just as Peter slid behind the wheel. The engine roared back to life, the sound instantly shifting from a predatory growl to an urgent scream.
"JELUNIA!!" Peter shouted, his voice cutting through the tension.
Instantly, the holographic display shimmered to life on the dashboard. "How may I assist you, Mr. Rasel?" Jelunia's calm, synthesized voice was a stark contrast to the chaos inside the car.
"Map! Hospital – the one we visited last time! Fastest route, minimal traffic! Pregnant woman, urgent! Go!" Peter barked the commands, his eyes already scanning the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel.
"Understood, Mr. Rasel. Calculating optimal route. Displaying now." Jelunia's voice remained composed as a green line snaked across the holographic map projected onto the windshield's heads-up display.
"Sit tight, everyone!!!" Peter yelled, glancing back briefly at the couple before focusing entirely on the road.
He slammed the car into gear. The M3 GTR launched forward, engine roaring, tires fighting for grip on the slick streets. This wasn't the controlled, exhilarating drive from earlier; this was a desperate race against the clock. Peter pushed the car hard, the powerful engine screaming as he accelerated through the sparse late-night traffic. Streetlights blurred into streaks of yellow and white. He took corners sharply, braking hard, then accelerating out, the car fishtailing slightly before the traction control kicked in. Inside, Hiroki gripped the door handle, his knuckles white, while the husband tried to comfort his wife, whose gasps of pain were becoming more frequent.
Peter, despite the speed, drove with intense focus, his eyes constantly flicking between the road and the holographic map. He anticipated traffic lights, weaving through intersections just as they turned yellow, occasionally drifting slightly around tighter bends, but always maintaining control, mindful of the precious cargo in the back.
"Just be patient, ma'am," Peter called back over his shoulder, his voice tight with concentration but attempting reassurance. "We're almost there. Just breathe."
Minutes stretched into an eternity, filled with the roar of the engine, the woman's pained breaths, and the frantic beat of everyone's heart. Finally, the glowing green line on the map led them towards the brightly lit entrance of the hospital's emergency wing.
Peter skidded the car to a halt right in front of the doors, ignoring designated parking spots. Before the engine even fully settled, Hiroki threw his door open and sprinted towards the entrance, spotting a doctor in scrubs stepping outside for what looked like a quick break.
"IT'S URGENT!!! SOMEBODY HELP!!!" Hiroki yelled, his voice echoing in the relative quiet of the hospital entrance.
The doctor, startled, immediately rushed towards him, his expression shifting from surprise to professional concern. "What's wrong? What is it?"
"Pregnant woman! In the car! She's in labor!" Hiroki gasped out, pointing frantically back towards the idling M3 GTR.
The doctor didn't waste a second. He spun around, shouting orders back into the emergency room. Within moments, the automatic doors slid open, and two nurses emerged pushing an auto-loading stretcher at a run. They rushed to the car as Peter opened the back door. Working quickly and efficiently, they transferred the woman onto the stretcher. The husband scrambled out of the car, grabbing his wife's hand as the nurses wheeled her rapidly through the emergency room doors, disappearing into the controlled chaos of the hospital, leaving Peter and Hiroki standing by the idling supercar amidst the flashing lights and the lingering scent of rain and adrenaline.
The flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance bay washed over Peter and Hiroki as they stood by the M3 GTR, the immediate crisis averted. The frantic energy of the race to the hospital subsided, leaving a heavy silence filled only by the distant city hum and the idling thrum of the car's engine. The husband had disappeared inside with his wife, swept away by the efficient urgency of the medical staff.
Peter let out a long, slow breath, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. Hiroki watched the hospital doors slide shut, a wave of relief washing over him, quickly followed by a familiar pang of melancholy. He thought of the couple, the fear in their eyes replaced by hope, the promise of new life overshadowing the violence they had just endured.
"I wish them the best," Hiroki murmured, his voice quiet. "Luck... and happiness."
Peter nodded, his gaze still fixed on the hospital entrance. "Yeah, me too." A wry smirk touched his lips. "But maybe next time, he kicks some asses first."
Hiroki managed a small laugh. "Yeah, I hope so." He paused, the earlier plan returning to his mind. "Let's go visit Ayato now."
"Sure, let's go," Peter agreed readily, the intensity returning to his eyes.
They walked into the brightly lit, sterile environment of the hospital reception area. The sharp smell of antiseptic replaced the damp night air. Peter approached the registration desk, adopting his usual calm demeanor.
"Hello, ma'am," he said politely to the nurse behind the counter. "I'm here to inquire about a patient, Ayato Haruno. Is it possible to visit him?"
The nurse typed briefly on her computer, her expression professional. "Um, yes, he's in his room," she confirmed, then paused, frowning slightly as she read further. "But... I'm afraid you can't visit him right now. He already has visitors."
A prickle of unease went down Hiroki's spine. "Who?" he asked, stepping closer to the desk.
The nurse consulted her screen again. "Let's see... it says a girl and two men signed in about fifteen minutes ago. The girl mentioned she was his cousin?"
Cousin? Hiroki and Peter exchanged a sharp, uneasy glance. The memory of Ayato's backstory, the mention of Kasumi, flashed through their minds. The timing felt wrong. Too coincidental.
Peter leaned slightly over the counter, his voice dropping, losing its polite edge and gaining a deadly seriousness. "The visitors... one of the men, was he tanned? Blonde hair?"
The nurse looked up, slightly intimidated by his sudden intensity, but nodded. "Yes, I believe so. Why?"
The confirmation hit them like a physical blow. Kasumi. Takaya. They were here. The air crackled with sudden, explosive tension. Peter's carefully constructed calm shattered instantly.
"YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!!!!!!!"
Peter's roar ripped through the relative quiet of the reception area. Heads snapped around. Patients waiting on benches jumped. Nurses and doctors further down the hall froze, staring. His voice wasn't just loud; it was filled with a raw, terrifying fury that made the air vibrate. The receptionist flinched back, her eyes wide with shock and fear.
But Peter didn't care about the stares. He didn't care about decorum. He knew, with chilling certainty, what Kasumi and Takaya were capable of, what they had already done to Ayato. And they were alone with him.
Without another word, Peter spun around and sprinted down the corridor towards Ayato's room, his long coat billowing behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. Every instinct screamed that something terrible was about to happen, or perhaps already had.
Hiroki didn't hesitate for a second. Fear, cold and sharp, lanced through him, but it was overshadowed by a protective rage. He bolted after Peter, their footsteps echoing urgently down the sterile hallway, racing towards an unknown horror, praying they weren't already too late.
Will they save him?
To Be Continued...