Chapter 5
The rain hammered against the window, a constant soundtrack in the Land of Rain, like the sky was throwing one of its notorious tantrums, trying to drown the world in a fit of petty rage. Tatsuya, meanwhile, was sprawled on the couch, lost in a mindless game on his handheld console. He was bored. A twelve-year-old still needed something to do, right?
And then, it happened.
A soft creak. Barely noticeable, but enough to make him freeze mid-game, his fingers glued to the buttons. Another sound followed—one single footstep. Light, deliberate. Too careful to be an accident, too casual to be anyone with a solid plan.
Tatsuya paused the game, his heart beating faster as he listened, every muscle tensed.
Someone was inside his house.
Was it a looter? A thief who thought they could sneak in and grab whatever they could find? Or maybe some idiot who thought this was an abandoned house, ripe for the taking? Whoever it was, they didn't sound like they had much of a plan.
He slipped off the couch, moving like a shadow, eyes locked on the door. His hand instinctively went to his jacket, pulling a gun from his Workshop inventory—silenced, sleek, a handgun. He wasn't about to make it obvious he was armed. He needed to be smart about this.
The footsteps came again, a little closer this time. Barely audible, but there. He could almost feel them, the weight of each step pressing into the floorboards like the tension in his chest.
The plan was simple: wait, observe, and if they were stupid enough to come closer, he'd be ready.
Then the footsteps stopped.
Tatsuya held his breath, becoming still as stone, fingers tight around the grip of the gun. His mind worked quickly, running through strategies, angles, escape routes—anything that might work. But there were no guarantees. He had to be careful.
Then he heard it: a voice, low and hoarse, weathered by exhaustion.
"Looks like it's empty, kiddo."
Tatsuya didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He stayed hidden, watching them from the shadows.
He peeked out just enough to see the figures in the dim light—two of them, silhouettes against the murky gloom. The man was thin, his clothes ragged, dirt-covered, his face haggard, eyes sunken and hollow. His whole posture screamed fatigue, like he hadn't stopped running in days, maybe weeks. The kid beside him, no older than six or seven, was clutching a knife that was nearly too big for them, hands trembling, their small body shaking from exhaustion.
They stepped inside cautiously, each movement calculated, wary. The man's eyes scanned the room like a hawk searching for danger, checking every corner, every shadow. When he saw nothing, he exhaled, a sound barely more than a breath of relief.
"Seems like no one's here..." he murmured to himself, more a statement than a question.
They still didn't know. They didn't know Tatsuya was here, watching them from the darkness, his gun ready, but his finger holding steady, not yet pulling the trigger.
The man sagged for a moment, shoulders slumping with the brief relief, and the knife in his hand lowered. The kid, however, was still on edge, clutching the blade like it was the last thing keeping them from falling apart.
"Papa… what if they come back?" The kid's voice was barely a whisper, eyes wide and filled with fear, constantly scanning the room like an animal in the wild.
The man crouched down, softening, despite the weariness in his eyes. "It's alright," he said, his voice heavy, each word weighed down by exhaustion. "We're safe here. Just for a bit. We'll rest, and then we'll keep going."
The kid nodded, but the tremble in their hands never stopped, the fear still deeply etched into their body. War had done that to them—taken their innocence and replaced it with a survival instinct that was both sharp and brittle.
Tatsuya stayed hidden for a few moments longer, watching them, feeling the weight of his decision pressing on him. Was it worth it? Was it worth revealing himself? Letting them go? Or should he end this before they could bring more trouble?
He sighed, fingers loosening their grip on the gun.
Honestly, he couldn't kill them. Not when they hadn't done anything to him. He wasn't that kind of guy. Sure, he could just let them go, keep to the shadows, but killing innocent people? Especially a kid? No. That wasn't something he could do.
He stayed where he was for a little longer, watching the man and the kid, letting the rain and silence fill the space between them, each of them locked in their own thoughts, wrapped in their own burdens.
And as the minutes passed, Tatsuya sighed as he made his decision. He wasn't that kind of guy.
Perhaps Tatsuya's sigh was louder than he intended. The man tensed immediately, his head snapping in Tatsuya's direction, his body going rigid. He stood up quickly, alert, his grip tightening around the knife as if he could sense something wasn't quite right.
"Who's there?" His voice was low, sharp, wary.
Tatsuya didn't move. Didn't want to escalate things. Slowly, he made the gun he'd summoned vanish, slipping out of existence like it had never been there. No need for it now. Instead, he stepped out of the shadows, his hands raised in a gesture that was more for their sake than his. It wasn't much, but it was enough to show them he wasn't planning on attacking. At least, not yet.
"I live here," Tatsuya said, his voice cool, steady, a little dry.
The man's gaze flickered around the room, his grip on the knife tightening for a second, then loosening as he scanned the place again. Confusion settled on his features as his brow furrowed, trying to make sense of the situation.
"Live here?" he murmured, glancing back at the child, who had stayed close to him, eyes wide and hands still clutching the knife like it was their lifeline.
Tatsuya shrugged. "Yeah. Been here a while."
The man hesitated, his shoulders sagging, the weight of his thoughts catching up to him. He glanced around the room, seeing it in a new light—this wasn't some abandoned, hollow shell. This was a home. Tatsuya's home.
"I... I'm sorry," the man said, his voice soft and apologetic, too human for someone who had been running for days. "We didn't mean to intrude. We're just... we just need somewhere to rest."
The apology hung in the air, fragile and thin, and Tatsuya could tell it wasn't just about the house—it was about them. About the fact that they had nowhere else to go, no safety, no peace. Two people, caught in the middle of a war that didn't care who it chewed up along the way.
Tatsuya didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. He watched the man and the child, both trying to survive, both on the edge of exhaustion.
Finally, he exhaled, running his hand through his wet hair, and motioned toward the couch. "Sit. You're not gonna get a better offer than that."
The man let out a short, tight chuckle, more out of relief than anything else. His body relaxed, sinking back into the couch like he had finally been given permission to breathe. His eyes closed briefly, as if the tension had been holding him together for far too long.
The kid didn't move right away, still clutching the knife with a white-knuckled grip. But after a moment, they slowly edged toward the couch, glancing up at their father, waiting for some kind of reassurance. The man nodded slightly, and the child finally sat next to him, their small body still stiff, muscles wound tight with unease.
Tatsuya turned away, walking toward the kitchen.
The man cleared his throat, the sound rough, as if he hadn't used his voice in days. "Thank you," he said, the words heavy, worn. "We... we didn't know where else to go."
Tatsuya paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The man wasn't looking at him, just staring ahead, his hands resting on his knees as if he was waiting for something he couldn't name. "Same here," Tatsuya said quietly, the words slipping out before he could think too much about them.
The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. Tatsuya wasn't about to play the gracious host. But he also wasn't about to kick them out into the rain.
Instead, he focused on something simple—preparing food in the kitchen. Nothing fancy. Just something to fill the empty space, something to remind him that he wasn't alone in this broken world. Something that told him he was still human.