The Road Between

Leonor slammed the brakes.

"What the hell?" Kotae muttered.

From the backseat, Kika leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What's wrong?"

Kotae’s voice was tense. "These guys just... stopped in front of us."

"This can't be good," she said, already reaching instinctively for the bag at her feet.

Both Kotae and Leonor grabbed their guns.

The doors of the obstructing car burst open. Four men spilled out—ragged clothes, smug expressions, tattoos that screamed bad decisions, and the swagger of people who’d gotten too used to taking what they wanted. One of them strutted ahead, a baseball bat slung over his shoulder like it belonged there. He wore his confidence like armor.

Kika’s voice lowered to a whisper. “They look like trouble.”

The man with the bat—clearly their leader—approached the driver’s side window, smirking like this was just another game.

He leaned in and tapped the glass lightly. “Roll the window down for me.”

Leonor didn’t move. Kotae answered instead, voice steady, “No.”

The man narrowed his eyes, still smiling. “I’ll ask again. There won’t be a third time.”

Kotae rolled the window down—just an inch.

“This is as much as you’re getting,” he said coldly. “What do you want?”

The leader let out a slow, theatrical sigh, turning to his crew. “Looks like this guy doesn’t know how to listen.” He turned back toward the car, his grin fading. “And what do we do when people don’t listen?”

There was a moment of silence behind him.

“We teach them a lesson.”

Without warning, he swung the bat hard—slamming it into the window. Glass exploded inward. Kotae recoiled, hissing through clenched teeth as shards sliced across his forearm, a thin red line opening up instantly.

Blood dripped onto his jeans.

But Kotae didn’t panic. His hand, steady despite the sting, rose with his gun—leveling it directly at the man’s chest. He cocked it with a sharp click.

The leader froze. His bat dropped with a dull clatter on the asphalt.

“Whoa, whoa!” he said, raising both hands. “Relax! I was just messing with you. No need for that.” His grin returned, but it was thinner now—strained at the edges.

Then, slowly, the smile dropped.

He squinted at Kotae, tilting his head. “Look at you… You look like the kind of loser we would’ve shoved into lockers a week ago. Where’d you even get that gun? Doesn’t it weigh more than you?”

Kotae didn’t answer. His eyes were locked in—cold, razor-focused, unreadable.

The man laughed. “I admire the act. Really. But you're not gonna shoot that gun. You're just a scared little kid trying to act big. So do yourself a favor… lower it. Before this gets messy.”

Kotae didn’t budge. His finger stayed on the trigger.

The leader nodded, lips tightening. “Alright then…”

He lunged for the weapon.

Too fast for a second guess.

Too slow for Kotae.

Two shots rang out. Quick. Precise.

The leader collapsed onto the asphalt, howling in pain, his leg torn through by the bullets. Blood soaked into the dust, steaming faintly in the afternoon heat.

His men flinched but didn’t move. Guns hadn’t been part of their plan. They looked at each other—waiting to see who'd be dumb enough to step forward first.

Inside the car, Kotae exhaled slowly, trying to steady his breathing. Blood from the glass cut was dripping down his arm, seeping into the fabric of his sleeve.

Kika leaned forward immediately, panic lacing her voice. “Kotae—your arm!”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, barely glancing at it.

“No, you’re not.” Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for him. “You’re bleeding, and you just—” She cut herself off, eyes flicking toward the slumped figure outside. “You just shot someone.”

Kotae didn’t answer.

“Kotae, talk to me.” Her voice was lower now, pleading. “You’re not just fine. That cut needs to be cleaned, and I—” she paused, swallowing hard, “I just need to know you’re okay. Really okay.”

He turned to her, the edge of his mask slipping, just a crack. Enough for her to see the storm underneath. His voice came out quiet, detached. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Kika stared at him, heart pounding. “I know. I know that. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. And it doesn’t mean you’re okay just because it had to be done.”

Leonor’s voice cut through, grim and level. “We need to move. Now.”

Kika reached into her bag, pulling out a clean cloth and wrapping it quickly around Kotae’s arm, her hands still shaking. “Just—hold pressure on it for now,” she whispered. “We’ll take care of it once we’re safe.”

Outside, the looters slowly backed away. One helped the wounded man to his feet while the others kept glancing at the gun still held in Kotae’s lap.

None of them said a word. They turned, defeated and rattled, and climbed into their car. It reversed down the road, then peeled off into the distance—taking their noise and threats with them.

Only the quiet remained.

Heavy. Tense.

Kika sat back, still looking at Kotae like she wasn’t sure whether to hold him or cry.

Kotae didn’t look at her. Just down at the cloth now soaked in red.

Leonor shifted into gear.

No one spoke as the car pulled forward, crawling past blood, glass, and a moment none of them would ever forget.

The ride back was completely silent. Each of them absorbed the weight of what had just transpired, the tension lingering in the air. When they finally reached home, they didn’t say a word. They just grabbed the traded goods and entered their apartment.

As soon as they stepped inside, they set the items down. Kotae’s mother, who had been in the kitchen, froze at the sight of them. A look of horror washed over her face, and the knife she’d been using slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a clatter. She rushed to Kotae, taking his hand, and examined the deep cut.

“What... who did... What happened to you?” Her voice cracked with panic, her heart sinking at the sight of his bloodied hand.

Kotae let out a sharp breath, trying to keep his frustration in check. “I need to be alone,” he muttered, his voice low, strained, and thick with irritation.

Kika, her voice tight with urgency, almost yelled at him, “Your cut!! We need to take care of it. This is NOT an option. Then you can have all the space you need.”

Kotae growled under his breath, refusing to meet her gaze. He didn’t want to deal with it. But despite the sharp edge in his tone, he complied, pulling his hand away from his mother and letting Kika lead him toward the room where they kept their medical supplies.

Kika guided Kotae into the small room, her grip firm yet gentle. He didn't resist, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. She grabbed the first-aid kit and pulled out a clean cloth, dipping it into warm water. Gently, she pressed it to his bloodied hand, the water turning red as she wiped away the remnants of the fight.

Kotae hissed but didn’t pull away. He was quiet, eyes averted, jaw clenched.

She grabbed antiseptic and poured it over the wound. He flinched, his face tightening, but she continued without hesitation. "Sorry," she muttered, her hands steady despite the urgency in her chest. She wrapped a bandage around his arm, securing it tightly.

“There,” she said quietly, stepping back to inspect her work. "This should do."

Kotae didn’t say anything, his gaze fixed on the bandaged hand. She didn’t expect him to speak. He rarely did when he was this way. But she couldn’t help herself. “You don’t have to shut me out, you know,” she added, her voice soft. “I’m here.”

Kotae remained silent, his face unreadable. She didn't push, just gave him one last look before turning to leave. "I’ll be in the other room if you need me," she said over her shoulder, leaving the door ajar.

Kotae lays in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. An hour passed, then two. He didn’t move. His mind was a tangle of thoughts he couldn’t seem to untangle—too many things, too many people, too much silence. Everyone was worried, but no one pressed him. They knew better than to push. So, they waited in quiet uncertainty, giving him the space he needed, though each of them glanced at him from time to time, unsure of what to do.

Eventually, he sat up slowly, the weight of his thoughts dragging at him. He swung his legs off the bed, standing up stiffly. Without looking at anyone, he walked past Kika, his mother, and his father. They all stopped what they were doing and turned toward him, their eyes following him with a mix of concern, confusion, and shock. Kotae didn’t meet their gazes; his expression remained unreadable, his footsteps steady but distant.

He went into the kitchen, his movements automatic. His mother’s cigarettes and lighter sat on the counter. He grabbed them without hesitation, though the action felt strange, unfamiliar. He didn’t even know why he wanted it—maybe it was just the need to do something, anything, to feel the weight of his thoughts in his hands.

He walked silently to the balcony, the door creaking softly as he stepped outside. The cold air hit him, sharp and real. He stood there for a moment, the night stretching before him, before pulling the cigarette out of the pack. His fingers fumbled slightly as he lit it, the flame flickering before he took the first slow, deliberate drag. The smoke filled his lungs, and for a second, it was almost like a release—something to ground him, even if he didn’t know why. He exhaled, watching the smoke curl up into the night sky.

His mother’s instinct was immediate—to march up to him, scold him for taking up a cigarette, for starting down a path she’d never wanted for him. But before she could move, Leonor placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his voice low but steady.

“Linda, now isn’t the time for this,” he said, his gaze flicking to Kotae on the balcony, the tension thick in the air. “Let him have it.”

There was a brief hesitation, a flicker of frustration in Linda’s eyes, but she held herself back. She gave a reluctant nod, her posture stiff with concern, but she didn’t argue further. Instead, she turned away, her hands tightening around the dish towel she had been holding, unsure how else to express her worry.

Leonor's words lingered in the air, a quiet understanding passing between them. Neither of them could fix what Kotae was carrying—not right now.

Behind him, the door to the balcony creaked open. Kika stood there, her eyes cautious, unsure of what to say or even if she should say anything at all. The silence between them felt different this time—thicker, more uncomfortable.

“I’m fine,” Kotae muttered, more to himself than to her.

Kika hesitated, her gaze lingering on him, the quiet stretching between them like a thin thread ready to snap. Finally, she stepped forward, her voice shaking slightly, though she tried to keep it steady.

“You keep saying you’re fine, Kotae. But you’re not. You never are,” she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended. “You don’t get to keep shutting me out. Not this time.”

Kotae’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t look at her. Instead, he focused on the dying ember of his cigarette, his face hardening.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he muttered under his breath, not wanting to face her but unable to stop himself from saying it. “You don’t know how it feels to carry this alone.”

Kika’s chest tightened. She wasn’t prepared for that—hadn’t expected him to admit something so raw, so fragile. But instead of sympathy, something in her snapped. Her next words were fierce, her tone laced with frustration.

“I’m here, Kotae,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve been here this whole time. Don’t make me regret it.”

Kotae’s head shot up, his eyes meeting hers, and for the first time, she saw the full weight of the storm raging inside him. But it wasn’t anger. It was something much darker—something she wasn’t sure she could reach.

Her words hung in the air between them, suffocating, unspoken, like a threat. And for a long moment, Kotae stood frozen, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out.

Kika stood there, breathing heavily, eyes wide with the realization that she had crossed a line. But she didn’t look away.

“I won’t keep pretending anymore,” she added, voice steady but cold. “I’m done waiting for you to break.”

Kotae’s hand tightened around the railing, his knuckles white, as if the words had struck him harder than any wound ever could. He was silent for too long, and just when it seemed like the silence would swallow them both whole, he finally spoke—his voice low and dangerous.

“You don’t get to decide when I break.”