Takemichi didn't remember walking through his front door.
One second, Grandpa Sano was dropping him off with a firm "get some sleep, kid," and the next, he was waking up tangled in his blanket, still in his school uniform, his bag tossed somewhere near the entrance.
He'd meant to take a shower. Maybe text his Papà back with a proper explanation. Maybe eat. But sleep had claimed him first—fast and heavy.
The next day blurred together. He went to class. Ate. Mostly. Told his friends a vague version of the truth when they asked why he looked like a zombie. Something about witnessing a crime. The police. A hospital.
They gave him space, but Takuya made him eat his leftover melon bread at lunch, and Akkun let him copy some of his notes. Small things. Good things. And by the time the final school bell rang, Takemichi felt like his bones were made of static. Not pain. Not quite exhaustion. Just that numb, buzzy weight of a body running on memory alone.
He didn't go to the arcade. Didn't linger behind with the others.
They let him go, no questions. A simple wave from Yamagishi. A quiet "see you tomorrow" from Makoto.
He walked home on autopilot.
The city moved around him in soft smears of light and distant chatter. A vending machine beeped behind him. Someone laughed across the street. A bicycle rolled by.
He didn't remember unlocking the front door. Didn't remember kicking off his shoes.
The last thing he was truly aware of was the familiar creak of the hallway floor beneath his socked feet, the dim lighting of his apartment, and the half-formed thought: I should shower.
Then nothing.
.
Takemichi woke up wrapped in a blanket burrito, arm dangling off the side of the couch, the collar of his school uniform rumpled against his neck. His phone was under his leg. His bag lay abandoned by the genkan.
He blinked blearily at the ceiling.
"…What time is it?" he croaked, his voice raspy with disuse.
He peeled himself out of the blanket, wincing at the soreness in his neck. The sun was already low, leaking gold across the floor through the half-open curtains.
His stomach growled.
The clock on the microwave read 5:48 a.m. and Takemichi winced. Guess I missed dinner.
He rubbed his eyes and shuffled into the kitchen. The fridge was still mostly empty—it was Friday and it won't be until Monday until he bought groceries with Kusakabe. But there was some leftover rice from two nights ago, a couple of eggs, half an onion, and—miraculously—a packet of sliced pork.
Ten minutes later, a half-respectable bowl of pork and egg rice was steaming on the counter. He sat down cross-legged in front of it, chopsticks in hand.
It tasted better than he expected. Warm. Familiar. Not exactly home—but close enough.
Midway through chewing, his phone buzzed from somewhere under the blanket he'd left on the couch.
Takemichi froze, eyes going wide.
"…Oh crap."
He scrambled for it, nearly knocking over his bowl. One glance at the screen confirmed it:
Papà (2 missed calls)
1 new message:
Are you alive or do I need to arrange a funeral and hunt down your soul myself.
He winced. Right. I never followed up.
He thought of calling but the time difference between Japan and Italy stopped him. So Takemichi shoved the phone into his pocket, trying not to panic. Later. After I visit Shinichiro-san.
That thought had been sitting in the back of his mind since he'd woken up.
He didn't owe him anything, technically. He'd done the right thing, called the ambulance, stayed through the night. But something tugged at him, anyway.
Maybe it was the look on Emma's face. The way Manjiro's clenched hands had trembled. The Sano patriarch's quiet thanks. Or maybe it was just the way his Hyper Intuition hadn't let go of the moment, even now.
He packed the last of his rice into a small bento for lunch, showered and put on his school uniform, and grabbed his phone and keys.
He was ready for school, and later he would visit the injured man, because maybe seeing Shinichiro awake—alive—would make it feel a little more real.
.
The hospital looked different in daylight, quieter.
Still sterile, still too quiet in places, but without the weight of sirens and tension pressing against his chest, it felt... manageable. The pale morning sun filtered through the lobby windows, casting soft streaks of light on the linoleum floor. A few nurses moved behind the reception desk, and a man in a gray suit was asleep in a chair with a newspaper over his face.
Takemichi exhaled slowly and walked up to the front desk, offering a polite bow to the woman behind the counter.
"Excuse me," he said. "I'm here to visit a patient—Sano Shinichiro?"
She tapped a few keys, glanced at a chart, and nodded. "He's in recovery on the third floor. Room 317. Visiting hours just started, so you're good to go."
"Thank you."
Takemichi stepped back, but before he could head toward the elevator, a motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Down the hallway, just past the vending machines, two boys stood near a row of waiting chairs—one of them unmistakably Manjiro.
But it wasn't the tense, closed-off boy from two nights ago.
This Manjiro was smiling.
He was wearing a school uniform and sandals, standing on one of the plastic chairs with a half-eaten dorayaki in one hand, animatedly telling a story—arms flailing, eyes alight, grinning so hard his cheeks bunched up. The boy next to him was tall, way taller than Takemichi had expected a teen to be. Lean but solid. A tattoo of a dragon curled along the side of his head.
The taller boy shook his head with a kind of fond exasperation, muttering something with an eye-roll as Manjiro launched into what looked like the punchline of whatever story he was telling.
Takemichi froze, a step half-formed, still holding his phone like he'd forgotten what he was doing.
That smile.
He hadn't expected it.
Not from the same boy who had stood like a stone at the surgery room door, whose fists had shaken with rage, whose voice had cracked from the strain of holding too much.
This version of Manjiro—the one laughing at nothing, legs folded under him like a kid pretending a chair was a stage—was someone else entirely.
And yet... He still felt like gravity.
Takemichi watched him for a moment longer, unmoving.
Then Manjiro noticed him.
The grin didn't fade—if anything, it got wider. He hopped down from the chair with the smooth grace of someone who knew how to land and gestured casually.
"Yo, Takemitchy!"
Takemichi startled. "Huh?"
"You here to see my brother?"
Takemichi blinked. "Yeah, I—uh, I was just gonna—"
"Come on, I'll take you," Manjiro said, already waving him over. "Room 317. We just came from there."
Takemichi stepped closer, nodding gratefully. "Thanks, Sano-kun."
Manjiro looked over his shoulder with a grin that should've been illegal and dramatic at once. "Don't call me Sano-kun. Ew."
"Huh?"
"It's Mikey," he declared with a hand to his chest, like announcing royalty. "Only my grandpa calls me that. And maybe teachers. But you're different."
"...Mikey," Takemichi repeated, cautiously.
The taller boy beside him snorted, crossing his arms. "Is this the guy?"
Takemichi blinked.
"The one who saved Shin-nii?" the tall boy clarified. His voice was deep but relaxed, like he wasn't in a rush for answers. "You didn't tell me he looked like he hadn't slept in a week."
"Draken, don't be rude," Mikey chided, lightly bumping his shoulder against the taller boy's. "He's important."
Then he turned back to Takemichi, that same spark in his eyes.
"This is Draken—Ken-chin, if you wanna see him get annoyed," Mikey said with a wicked grin. "And yeah, I told him about you. You're my brother's savior, after all."
Takemichi turned red on instinct, stumbling over his words. "I-I wouldn't go that far—"
"You literally stopped him from getting brained by a wrench," Mikey said, deadpan. "That qualifies, don't you think, Ken-chin?"
Draken hummed, giving Takemichi an evaluating once-over, then nodded once. "Yeah. Not bad."
Takemichi scratched the back of his head, unsure what to do with the sudden attention. "I just… did what I could. It wasn't just me, the doctors—"
"But it was you," Mikey said, expression softening again—still smiling, but smaller now. Gentler. "You were there. That matters."
Takemichi didn't know what to say to that.
So instead, he just followed quietly as Mikey led the way down the hallway, Draken walking beside them with that easy, quiet stride that somehow made him seem even taller.
Mikey shoved open the door to Room 317 with zero ceremony.
"Oi, Shin-nii!" he called cheerfully, grinning. "Flirting already?"
Inside, the very man in question—Shinichiro Sano, hair slightly disheveled, hospital gown slightly askew—was in the middle of what looked like a deeply one-sided conversation with a nurse slightly older than him. She smiled politely, holding a clipboard like a shield.
"I was just saying," Shinichiro said, completely unbothered, "that if I weren't recovering from a near-death experience, I'd totally ask you to get coffee sometime. Recovery drinks count, right?"
The nurse blinked. "Right… I'll go check on your IV."
Mikey cackled as she slipped out past them. "Rejection number five in two days? You're losing your touch, Shin-nii."
Draken sighed, offering the nurse a half-apologetic bow as she passed. "Sorry about him."
Shinichiro just shrugged. "Can't blame a man for trying."
But the casual smile dropped the moment he saw Takemichi step into the room.
"...You came."
Takemichi froze as Shinichiro made an attempt to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
"Ah—no, no—don't!" Takemichi rushed forward. "You're recovering, please don't bow—!"
"I was just gonna say hi properly," Shinichiro said with a lopsided grin, allowing himself to be pushed gently back into the pillows. "Can't just nod at the kid who saved my life."
Mikey flopped into the visitor chair beside the bed like he owned the place, but soon he received a serious look from Shinichiro that made him sit up straighter.
"Alright, you two, take it outside for a minute."
Mikey squinted. "Huh?"
"I want to talk to Takemichi alone."
Something in his voice was different now—calmer, a little more serious. Not stern, exactly. But firm.
Mikey stared at him for a second, then shrugged and stood. "Fine. But if you try to adopt him, I call dibs on older brother rights."