" No tears. Just vengeance."
The rain didn't fall — it stabbed the earth like it was mad at it.
Each drop hit the rooftop like the ticking of a bomb.
Eight-year-old Nala crouched low in the wooden closet, knees pressed to her chest, breath locked behind her lips.
The crack in the door, just wide enough to peek through, showed a sliver of the living room — and everything going wrong inside it.
Her mother stood barefoot, arms outstretched like wings, shielding someone. Blood painted her nightgown red.
Behind her, Nala's father — quiet, proud — was already slumped against the wall, unmoving. His katana lay beside him, coated in crimson.
One of the intruders barked an order.
Another laughed.
Then — silence.
Not the kind that follows bedtime stories or snowfall.
This was heavy. Ugly. Final.
Her eyes locked with her mother.
"Nala... don't look," her mother whispered.
She smiled, but it wasn't comforting.
It was the kind of smile someone makes when they know they're about to die.
That was the last time Nala saw her mother's face.
She stayed in that closet long after the footsteps vanished.
The rain stopped.
The wind held its breath.
She counted every second.
When her grandfather finally arrived, he found her curled around silence.
"Child..." he whispered, voice cracking as he opened the closet door.
Calloused hands lifted her out. The house was still — too still.
Nala's gaze moved across the living room, scanning through the blur of memory and shock.
She saw her father and mother lifeless — along with her brothers.
Three of the brothers, lying still in the shadows.
But there were four.
Where was the fourth?
"Don't look," Kenjiro whispered, shielding her face.
But it was too late.
Her eyes had already memorized the horror.
She didn't cry. Not then. Not ever again.
Fifteen years later, the countryside in Takayama was too quiet.
Cicadas hummed, the bamboo rustled, and somewhere in the distance, a chime clinked lazily in the wind.
Nala sat cross-legged on the porch, saxophone case by her side, a bokken across her lap.
Her skin gleamed warm brown beneath the hazy sun, a tone passed down from her mother's island bloodline. Dark curls framed her sharp, beautiful face like waves pulled back from a storm.
Her features were a striking harmony of two worlds — the sculpted bone structure of her Japanese father, and the soft, full contours of her Jamaican mother.
Light brown eyes, edged with long, natural lashes, scanned the sky.
A black lotus tattoo curled around her upper arm like a whispered memory — part beauty, part warning.
Her frame was compact but voluptuous. Short yet powerful.
Toned from years of training — every muscle purposeful, every movement precise.
She looked like she was born for both war and art.
She didn't blink as her grandfather's wooden blade came swinging for her head.
She caught it with one hand.
"You hesitated," she said calmly, voice low like a melody.
Kenjiro chuckled, stepping back. "You were distracted."
His white beard twitched with amusement. Despite his age, he moved with the rhythm of an old warrior — grounded, graceful, never slow.
A laugh echoed from the garden.
"Dang, Nala! Let the old man win once!"
Nala turned slightly. There she was — Lena, her childhood best friend.
Bubbly. Loud. All sunshine and freckled cheeks.
Half-Japanese, half-Hispanic, and full of chaos.
Straight black hair framed her heart-shaped face, falling just past her shoulders with natural wisps that never stayed in place. Her skin had a golden warmth, kissed by summer no matter the season. Light brown-green eyes sparkled with mystery — the kind that could talk you into trouble and charm you right back out of it.
She plopped onto the grass, a rice ball in hand, kicking off her shoes like she owned the world.
"You're late," Nala muttered.
Lena grinned, wide. "And you're predictable."
They all moved through the afternoon like a jazz ensemble— Unspoken cues, sudden shifts, chaos folded into harmony.
Nothing rehearsed. Nothing wasted.
But beneath the warmth of routine, Nala's blade stayed ready.
Grief had trained her just as much as Grandpa had.
She hadn't cried in fifteen years — not once.
And somewhere out there...
The people who took her family away were still breathing.
Not for long.
暗闇に咲く黒花
Kurohana ~ The Black Flower~ Blooms in The Dark