Chapter 9: Her Wishlist, My War

—Because nothing good ever starts with a joke that sounds too much like a goodbye.

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There are three kinds of jokes:

1. The funny ones.

2. The unfunny ones.

3. The ones that sound like they’re holding a gun to your chest.

Guess which one she picked tonight.

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We were still in the diner. The coffee was dead. So was the conversation—until she leaned back against the vinyl seat, grinning like she’d just thought of the best bad idea ever.

> “You know what I should do?”

“No,” I said automatically, because nine out of ten times, that sentence ends in regret.

> “Make a bucket list.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s… optimistic.”

“It’s practical,” she shot back. “You never know when you’ll run out of time.”

Something about the way she said it made my stomach twist. But I didn’t let it show.

“…Then do it.”

Her smile widened. “Really?”

“Sure. Write one.”

She grabbed the nearest napkin and a pen from her bag. The pen had a little cat charm on it. Of course it did.

> “Okay…” she murmured, scribbling with the confidence of someone writing their own prophecy.

“One: Play a real grand piano. None of this busted keyboard crap.”

“Ambitious,” I muttered.

“Two: See the ocean.”

I stared at her, then at the rain-streaked window. “You… know what that means, right?”

She grinned without looking up. “I said see, didn’t I? Not swim. Don’t ruin my dream, Kazuki.”

I didn’t answer. Because if I did, I might have to tell her the truth: that dream sounded impossible. And impossible was the one thing I hated most.

She kept writing.

> “Three: Eat the most expensive dessert in the city. Something with gold on it. Because why not?”

“Because it’s stupid.”

“Exactly,” she said with a laugh. “The best things are stupid.”

Her handwriting was messy. The kind that dances across the page like it’s in a hurry to outrun something.

When she was done, she folded the napkin and slid it toward me like a contract.

> “There. My list. No refunds.”

I looked at it. At her. At the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I didn’t promise out loud.

But I swore, right there, that I’d make every stupid, impossible thing on that list happen.

Even if it killed me.

Especially if it killed me.

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Later That Night

Fight night. Another underground ring. Another bloodthirsty crowd chanting names like they mattered.

I didn’t care about the money. Or the title. Or the bruises waiting to bloom under my skin.

I cared about the napkin in my jacket pocket. The one that felt heavier than any punch I’d ever taken.

The bell rang.

My opponent was bigger. Meaner. The kind of guy whose idea of romance was probably headbutting someone into submission. Normally, I’d play it safe. Dodge. Counter. Survive.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I fought like I had something to lose.

Because for the first time in years, I did.

Blood sprayed. My ribs screamed. My fists split open like overripe fruit.

And through all of it, I kept thinking:

Grand piano. Ocean. Dessert.

Yume.

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When the final punch landed and the crowd erupted, I was still standing. Barely.

I didn’t smile.

But somewhere under the sweat and blood, something burned brighter than the pain.

A promise I had no right to make.

And no intention of breaking.

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