Chapter 5: The race against time.

*Kiro's POV*

The tab hissed when I cracked open the can. I held it against my lips, the cold metal clinking faintly against my teeth before the bitter sweetness of iced tea spilled over my tongue.

I leaned back into the bench, the wood damp from the day’s humidity, and stared at the sky. The clouds were too low, swollen and heavy, like they were sagging under their own weight. It looked ready to burst at any second.

And yet I couldn’t make myself move.

The quiet was too rare, too easy to sink into. For a while, I just let it all fade—Father’s voice in the back of my mind, Miya’s constant nagging, the endless noise that usually boxed me in. For this brief moment, there was just me, the hiss of cicadas muffled by thickening air, and the bitterness of tea that left a dry aftertaste on my tongue.

A single raindrop struck my cheek. Cold. Sharp.

I blinked up just in time to see the sky rip apart. Lightning carved across the heavens, so bright I flinched and squeezed my eyes shut. The afterimage lingered, burning red and white behind my eyelids.

One heartbeat.

Two.

The thunder came down like the sky itself had collapsed. The bench rattled. The can quivered in my grip. For a second, I swore the sound came from inside me, cracking my ribs open.

I breathed out slowly, trying to settle the uneven thump of my chest.

Then came the vibration.

I lowered my gaze. My phone lay on the bench beside me, its screen glowing, humming insistently against the wood.

Miya.

Her name flashed bright and accusing.

I froze, watching it buzz. Not picking it up. Not daring to silence it either. My fingers twitched but stayed still.

Please… just leave me alone, Miya. Not now.

The phone stopped. The rain didn’t.

I sat there until the can was empty, bitter liquid gone, leaving only the metallic tang on my tongue. When the cold of the storm finally began to gnaw through my shirt, I stood and made my way back home.

The house was dim when I slid the door open, the hum of the TV the only sound. I tugged off my shoes, water dripping onto the entryway tiles. My hand was still on the doorframe when my chest locked up.

Something was wrong.

The row of shoes lined neatly by the step—except one space.

Empty.

Miya’s shoes weren’t there.

My throat tightened. I knew I had seen her earlier. Or at least… I thought I did. My legs moved stiffly, carrying me down the hall until the warm glow of the living room spilled across my feet.

Father was there, hunched forward on the couch, the TV flashing colors over his face. His eyes were tired, distracted, following the news without really watching.

He turned at the sound of me entering.

“Kiro?”

His voice sounded uncertain, like he’d been waiting for me without realizing it.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Where’s Miya?”

His eyes sharpened immediately, but before he could respond—

“Where’s Miya?” he asked back at the same time.

The words collided between us, heavy and sharp, freezing us both.

I stared at him. He stared back.

All the air seemed to drain out of the room.

He blinked first, his jaw tightening. “She said… she said she was going out. To look after you.”

The blood drained from my face.

The world tilted under my feet.

Both of us turned, slowly, mechanically, toward the glow of the TV.

The red banner at the bottom of the screen screamed in bold letters:

Breaking News: Landslide reported near the eastern residential district.

The image showed a hillside split open, soil collapsed like a broken dam. The camera shook as rain hammered the lens.

Eastern district.

Too close. Way too close.

I couldn’t breathe. Father’s face had gone pale, drained like mine, but I didn’t wait for him to move.

The next second, the door slammed behind me as I bolted into the storm.

Rain hammered the streets, pooling at the gutters, gushing like veins. My sneakers slapped through it, water soaking my socks with each step. My breath came out ragged, every inhale like knives in my chest.

Miya… she went out because of me. Because I didn’t answer. Because she was worried.

The guilt was acid, burning hotter than the cold rain could wash away.

Sirens cut through the downpour ahead. Red and blue lights flashed across the sheets of water, each rotation slicing through the dark.

I pushed harder, legs aching, lungs tearing, until the slope came into view.

Chaos.

Yellow tape stretched across the road. Officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, arms out, keeping a crowd at bay. Vehicles were parked crooked, their lights glaring against mud that ran like rivers. The stench of wet soil and broken roots clung to the air.

“Stop! This area isn’t safe!” one of the officers barked, hand outstretched toward me.

But my eyes were already locked on the wreckage. Searching. Desperate.

And then I saw it.

A faint glow, flickering beneath the mud.

A phone screen.

My heart stopped.

“Miya’s phone—” The words ripped out of me raw, cracking mid-scream. “That’s my sister’s phone! Please—you have to let me through!”

The officer’s jaw clenched. He hesitated, glancing at the man beside him. Rain streamed down both their faces, their eyes hard.

And then, slowly, one of them dropped his arm.

“…Go.”

The moment the word left his lips, I broke past them.

The mud clung, sucking at my feet, dragging me down with each step. I didn’t care. I dropped to my knees and dug, hands plunging into the wet earth, scooping, tearing, clawing. My nails bent back, dirt packed beneath them until they bled.

I dug until my arms screamed, until the rain blinded me, until I couldn’t feel where my hands ended and the mud began.

Please. Please let her be alive. Please not like this.

Then my fingers brushed something soft.

I froze. My breath caught.

I cleared more mud, faster, frantic, until a pale hand broke free of the earth. Limp. Cold.

Her hand.

“Miya!” The scream tore something inside me raw.

I clawed harder, uncovering her arm, her shoulder, the curve of her cheek smeared with mud. She wasn’t moving.

The storm roared around me, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat, hammering against the silence of her chest.

Her skin was slick with mud, pale beneath the smears, lips slack, lashes clumped together.

For a moment I forgot how to breathe.

My hands shook as I brushed clumps of wet soil from her face, my thumbs leaving streaks of trembling desperation across her cheeks.

“Miya… no… no, no, no—”

The sound of my own voice cracked and warped, swallowed by the storm.

I dug faster, my hands nothing but claws tearing into earth. My nails bent, skin splitting at the cuticles, blood mixing with mud until it was all just the same color. My arms trembled, burning, but I couldn’t stop.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders. “Kid—move back!”

“No!” My voice was a feral snarl, my body twisting violently. “She’s here! My sister’s here!”

Another set of hands joined, pulling me just enough that I looked up. An officer knelt across from me, eyes sharp, mud streaking his uniform. He barked over the storm. “You—dig here!” He jabbed a finger at the slope, then shouted to another officer. “Get shovels!”

And then they were digging with me. Not stopping me—with me.

The mud groaned with every scoop, suctioning back as if the earth itself didn’t want to let her go.

Every second was war.

Every second, I thought I saw her chest shudder.

Every second, I thought I imagined it.

“Miya, please—please, just breathe,” I begged, scooping more soil from around her ribs, pressing my ear to her chest in a wild, shaking motion. Nothing. Nothing but the hollow roar of the rain pounding on my umbrella-less back.

The officers cursed, shovels biting deeper. More of her body surfaced—her other arm, limp and bent awkwardly; her legs, twisted in mud like broken roots.

When they finally got her free enough, two officers slid their arms beneath her, dragging her from the earth like a body from a grave.

I collapsed beside her as they laid her on the wet asphalt. She looked smaller than I remembered—fragile, too fragile, like she might shatter if I touched her wrong.

“Pulse?” the female officer demanded, already kneeling at her head.

“Faint—damn faint!” another shouted, fingers pressed to Miya’s neck.

The female officer tilted Miya’s head back, mud still smeared across her face. Her lips parted Miya’s mouth, forcing air into lungs that didn’t rise. My body jolted, eyes wide as the sound of air pressed into her chest.

One, two, three compressions.

Her hands slammed down, each push jarring Miya’s body in sickening rhythm.

“Come on, girl. Come on, stay with me.”

Another breath.

I sat frozen, knees on the asphalt, mud dripping from my fingers. My throat felt like it was closing, my ribs crushing inward. Every time her chest fell limp again, something in me tore deeper.

She’s not breathing. She’s not breathing. She’s not breathing.

Then—

A cough.

A horrible, wet, choking cough.

Miya’s body spasmed, dirtied water spewing from her lips. She gagged, eyes fluttering weakly as the officer turned her on her side, letting mud and rainwater spill from her lungs.

“She’s alive,” the officer said, voice tight. Relief and command tangled in one. “But she’s critical. She needs a hospital now.”

The words didn’t comfort me. They stabbed.

Because over the officer’s shoulder, the radio on his belt crackled.

“All units, be advised—secondary landslide reported on Route 8. First responders unable to reach the site. Roads are blocked. Repeat, roads are blocked.”

I felt the world pitch sideways. The rain grew louder, heavier, suffocating.

No ambulances.

No way out.

And Miya’s faint, ragged breath rattled like the last ember of a dying fire.

The radio’s voice wouldn’t stop echoing in my skull.

No ambulances. No roads. No way out.

My pulse hammered like a war drum. Miya wheezed faintly in the officer’s arms, lips still tinted blue. Every ragged breath was a coin flip between life and death.

No. Not like this. Not my sister.

I surged forward, shoving past the officer who held her. “Give her to me!”

The man blinked, startled. “Kid, listen—”

“She’s my sister!” My voice tore from my throat, raw, feral. I wrenched Miya into my arms before he could argue. She sagged against me, her head lolling on my shoulder, breath rattling. Her warmth was fading, stolen by the storm.

I didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for reason. My legs moved before thought could catch me.

And then I was running.

The slope was murder beneath my feet. Mud slid under every step, sucking, pulling, trying to drag me down. My shoes were gone within seconds, swallowed by muck, but I didn’t stop. Bare feet slammed against jagged stone, against roots that split skin, against shards of glass washed from the wreckage of fallen houses.

Pain didn’t matter.

Only speed.

Faster. Faster. She’s dying.

I leapt from a ledge, my body twisting midair to shield Miya from the impact. My ankles shattered on landing, bones splintering like snapped branches. Pain knifed up my legs, white-hot, blinding—

—and then the familiar, searing pull of regeneration tore through me. Flesh knitting. Bone grinding itself back together.

I didn’t pause to let it finish. I forced my legs forward mid-heal, sparks of agony exploding in every nerve. It felt like running on knives.

But I ran anyway.

Branches clawed my arms, drawing lines of blood that rain washed instantly away. Rocks slipped beneath me, some sending me tumbling down embankments. I twisted each fall to shield Miya’s head, taking the brunt into my ribs, my back. Cracks echoed inside me. A rib? Two? Didn’t matter. They would mend.

But she wouldn’t. Not if I stopped.

Headlights flared through the rain, blinding. A truck barreled down the slick mountain road below me, its horn blaring.

I skidded across mud, feet barely catching the asphalt in time to vault over the guardrail. My body screamed as I hit the pavement, knees buckling.

The truck roared past, its gust of wind nearly spinning me sideways. The driver shouted something, his voice lost to thunder.

I didn’t look back.

Every second echoed in my skull.

Her chest is slowing down. Her breaths are shorter. She doesn’t have time.

I cut corners off the mountain road, hurling myself down rock faces, hugging Miya tight against my chest as I dropped.

One fall ended badly. Too far. Too reckless.

We smashed through branches, bark scraping my arms raw, before slamming into a half-buried boulder. My shoulder dislocated instantly, my vision bursting white.

Miya’s limp body nearly slid from my arms.

“NO!” I roared, slamming my back into the rock to keep her from falling, clutching her tighter than I ever had. The arm was useless, dangling. My other arm trembled under her weight.

But my regeneration kicked, tearing muscle and bone back into place with such violence I almost passed out.

Her weak cough against my chest snapped me awake.

And then I was moving again.

I don’t know how long I ran. Minutes stretched like hours, each one heavier than the last. My body—my body that had never failed me, never slowed—was burning out.

For the first time in years, I felt tired.

My legs dragged through mud, muscles locking. My chest heaved, each breath ragged, my throat shredded by rain and cold.

But Miya’s faint pulse against my arm kept me upright.

Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.

The mantra beat in time with my heart, until it drowned out the storm.

At last—the glow of the city below, blurred by rain, but there. Hospitals. Lights. Life.

My knees buckled on the final slope, but I threw myself forward anyway, tumbling down the last stretch of mud and grass. My body rolled and smashed into the ground, pain detonating in every bone.

But when the world stopped spinning, Miya was still in my arms.

Her lips parted slightly, a faint breath escaping.

Alive. Barely.

I staggered upright, my vision swimming, every muscle screaming rebellion. But I didn’t care.

The city lights were close.

I would carry her there.

Even if it killed me.

The hospital doors flew open before my shoulder smashed into them.

“Emergency intake!” I barked, my voice shredded from running. “She’s not breathing right—please, please, help her!”

A wave of blue scrubs and white coats surged forward. Miya was lifted out of my arms, my hands clawing at the empty air where her warmth had been. A nurse shouted something I couldn’t catch, her words cutting through the chaos only in fragments:

“Airway compromised—”

“Possible aspiration—”

“Prep suction—BP dropping—”

“Get her on O2, now!”

My body staggered after them, but another nurse pressed a firm hand to my chest. “You have to wait out here, sir!”

“That’s my sister!” I tried to push forward.

“Sir! Let us work!”

And then the doors to the ER slammed shut in my face.

The hallway was too bright. Too clean. The storm still howled outside, but in here the world was quiet, sterile, detached. I collapsed onto the cold plastic chair, rain still dripping from my hair onto the tile. My chest heaved, every muscle trembling.

Minutes crawled into hours. Every time I thought I’d get up, my body refused, pinning me there.

I kept staring at my hands. Still trembling. Still stained with mud. The faint smell of earth clung to me, choking me even here.

Her phone. Her umbrella. Her small hand reaching.

I slammed my fist against my knee until the bone cracked and healed again. Until I couldn’t tell if the shaking was from anger or exhaustion.

Finally—the doors opened.

A doctor stepped out, surgical mask tugged down, his face drawn but calm.

“She’s stable for now,” he said gently. “But the damage to her lungs is severe. We’ll need to perform a bronchoscopy and possibly thoracic surgery to prevent long-term complications. The sooner, the better.”

My body jerked upright. “Then do it!”

The doctor’s eyes softened with pity. “The estimate… is high. Very high.”

He slid a sheet of paper into my hands. Numbers stared back at me—numbers so large they blurred into meaningless symbols.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach.

“I… I don’t…” My throat tightened. I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Behind me, a slow shuffle of footsteps.

“Father…” I turned, and there he was—Father, drenched from the storm, his cane slick with rain. His eyes darted from me to the doctor, reading the truth without a word.

His hand trembled against his cane. “How much?”

The doctor hesitated, then repeated the number.

The sound of it hollowed me out.

I felt something inside me crack.

Hopelessness. Pure and suffocating.

I pressed the paper against my chest, staring at the tile, tears burning but refusing to fall. “Why? Why does it always have to be like this? I gave up everything. My future. My dreams. I work until my bones snap and heal again. I do everything for them—for her, for you. And it’s still not enough.”

My voice dropped to a whisper. “Why? I just wanted what’s best for everyone…”

I looked up at Father. My eyes begged him for an answer. For anything.

But he couldn’t hold my gaze. He turned away, his weathered face trembling, guilt etched deep into every line.

“I…” His voice broke. “I have failed you, Kiro.”

He gripped his cane like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Finally, his shoulders sagged, his head bowing.

“Go.”

The word shattered me.

But it was permission.

Permission to fall.

Permission to take the path I swore I wouldn’t.

I turned, the paper still clutched in my fist, the storm outside calling me back into its chaos.

Miya was alive.

And I would do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

*Old Man Totsu's POV*

I should’ve stopped her.

God help me, I should’ve stopped her.

Miya stood there in the entryway, umbrella in hand, her face lit by that stubborn fire I knew too well. “Father, I’ll go after him. He’s hurting, and you know it. He won’t listen to you.”

Her voice still echoes in my ears. I told myself she’d be fine. That she was young, strong, determined. I wanted to believe her words. I let her go. My hands should’ve reached out and pulled her back, but I just… watched her leave. Watched her disappear into the rain.

Now, hours later, the television flickers with the image of a mountainside ripped open, soil spilling like an open wound. A landslide. My heart stops. My chest tightens until I can’t breathe. Then Kiro comes through the door, dripping wet, and for one brief second I feel relief. But he’s alone. No umbrella. No Miya.

We speak at the same time—“Where’s Miya?”

The words slice the air in half. I see the blood drain from his face, and I know mine is the same. My tongue is heavy, but I force the truth out: “Your sister went after you.”

Kiro’s eyes flick to the TV screen. Mine do too. Mud. Debris. People screaming. My legs nearly give way, but he doesn’t wait—he bolts out the door, leaving me frozen, staring at the disaster on the screen. My little girl is under there.

I stagger outside, my knees screaming with every step. The rain pelts me, cold and merciless. I can barely keep up with Kiro, that boy moves like he’s half-wind, half-storm, vaulting down the mountain while I’m left to scramble and gasp for air. I want to call out, but the words catch in my throat. My son is breaking himself to pieces for his sister, and I can do nothing but stumble after.

By the time I reach the barricade, Kiro is already digging with his bare hands. Officers try to hold him back, but then they let him through, and I see the flash of a phone in the mud—Miya’s. My baby’s. My chest caves in.

I don’t remember how long it takes. The mud is endless, sticky, greedy, swallowing our hope with every scoop. But then—a glimpse of fabric, pale skin, her hair matted with dirt. My daughter. My Miya. The officers drag her free. A woman in uniform presses down on her chest, breathes air into her lungs. I’m praying, I’m bargaining with God, promising anything, everything—just let her breathe. And then she coughs. A wet, horrible sound, but it’s life. It’s my girl.

“Critical condition,” the officer says, her face grim. “She needs to get to a hospital immediately.”

We rush. We push past the wreckage, find a van, a ride, anything that will take us through the rain-choked roads. I can barely feel my own body as I dial and dial again, calling for help, for transport, for mercy. Every raindrop against my umbrella sounds like a nail being hammered into my coffin.

By the time we make it to the hospital, my hands won’t stop shaking. I’ve never felt so useless. They wheel Miya away, machines screaming, voices sharp and professional. I hear words I barely understand: “trauma resuscitation,” “oxygen saturation,” “intubate if necessary.” They’re speaking a language I should’ve learned long ago, because it’s the language of saving her.

Kiro and I sit outside the ER. I can hear his breathing—ragged, uneven, like he’s about to collapse. Hours crawl by. Then the doctor comes out, mask still on, his eyes tired.

“She’s alive,” he says, and I nearly cry from relief. “But she needs surgery. Soon. Internal bleeding. We have a window, but it’s narrow.” He hesitates, and that hesitation kills me before the words do. “The cost is… substantial.”

My heart stops.

I’ve saved. Scrimped every yen for years. Enough to send them both to Tokyo University, to give them the chance I never had. But it isn’t enough—not nearly enough—for this. Even if I sold the house, who would buy it in less than fifteen hours?

Kiro doesn’t wait. I see it in his eyes—the hopelessness, the breaking point. “I’ll get the money,” he whispers, more to himself than to me.

“No.” My voice cracks, but I grab his arm anyway. “Kiro, not like this. We’ll find another way—”

He looks at me, and for the first time, I can’t meet his gaze. His eyes are wet, burning, desperate. “Why? I just wanted what’s best for everyone.”

I want to tell him he’s strong enough without selling his soul. That I failed him, failed both of them, and this is my burden to carry. But the truth is there, sharp and bitter: I don’t have the money. I don’t have the power.

I look away, ashamed, my tears mixing with the rain still dripping from my hair. My voice breaks.

“I have failed you, Kiro. Go.”

And just like that, I watch my son walk toward the thing I’ve feared most—while I sit there, powerless, a father who couldn’t save his own children.