1,095 Days IV

Ren leaned close to the antique mirror, his breath fogging the glass. He traced the sharp angle of his jaw, felt the ridges of muscle rising beneath his skin. Scars marred his forearm like cracked porcelain, and dark hollows lay under his eyes, relics of nights spent chasing memories he’d hoped to bury. Still, when he blinked, those deep golden irises caught the light. Her eyes—the only softness left in him.

A soft rap on the door frame shattered the hush.

“Ren—are you okay in there?”

The voice belonged to Aki. Even through wood, it sounded like a hand on your shoulder: soothing, concerned. He straightened, yanked off the old bandages, and called back, “Yeah. Give me a sec.”

“Don’t forget to wash up!”

He ran water over his hand and glanced at himself one last time. The mirror revealed every scar, every restless night turned nightmare behind his lids. With a tired sigh, he tore fresh gauze from the roll, pressed it over the old gash across his chest, then wrapped his arm. He tugged a navy t-shirt over his head, tucked it into worn black jeans, and slipped into the narrow hall.

The Sumire home unfolded around him like a warm embrace. A low ceiling fan turned lazily, couches draped in indigo ikat throws sagged under the weight of embroidered cushions. Shelves with framed snapshots—Haruka in a school play, Tetsuya holding a newborn, Aki mid-laugh.

Through the open arch to the dining room came the clatter of chopsticks on porcelain bowls and a soft buzz of conversation, punctuated by the tinny drone of the local news on an old CRT.

Ren paused at the threshold, his palm rested briefly on the cool wood. This house wasn’t his—no family crest bore his name, no childhood echo lived in these walls. Yet whenever he walked in, something tightened in his chest like a homecoming.

“Ren! I saved you a seat!” Tetsuya lifted his glass, rosy-cheeked, foam still clinging to his mustache. He patted the cushion beside him—directly across from Haruka.

At the head of the table, Hayate sat ramrod-straight, arms folded like iron bars across his chest, one booted foot tapping a slow rhythm on the floor. His silver hair was cropped close, and his lined face held a mild scowl that softened when he spotted Ren.

Ren slid onto the wooden chair, its cushion creaking under his weight.

“Old man,” he murmured.

“Old man?!” Tetsuya bellowed, laughter rumbling in his chest. “Which one of us is that, hmm?” He jabbed Hayate playfully with his chopsticks, sending a grain of rice skittering.

Hayate let out a dry snort. “Pretty sure that was a two-for-one.”

Haruka’s voice clipped the air. “Dad, not at the table, please.” She pushed damp strands of hair behind her ear, her black linen top clinging at the neckline. Her shorts rode high on her thighs.

“I’m sorry, Haru-chan,” Tetsuya mumbled around a mouthful of broiled fish.

Aki’s smile flickered like a candle. “All right! Everybody’s here. Let’s dig in—these dumplings have been my project for days.”

Hayate lifted his bowl and inhaled. “Smells incredible.”

“Your mother’s a genius—beautiful, resourceful, top-notch cook. Haruka, you hit the jackpot.” Tetsuya waggled his chopsticks at his daughter. “And your dad is pretty cool too, huh?”

Haruka pinched the bridge of her nose. “Careful, Dad. Wouldn’t want you to choke on your own praise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—Ack!” Tetsuya gasped, choking on a bite of rice. He waved for his water glass, eyes watering.

Silently, Ren slid him the cup. The cool glass rattled against wood as Aki stifled a giggle. He took a tentative mouthful—velvety pork, ginger, a whisper of scallion—and nodded. “It’s good.”

“Thank you! I’m so glad you like it.” Aki said across the table, beaming.

Haruka leaned back, arms crossed. “‘Good’?” she echoed, flat as a blade. “Try ‘amazing.’ A little enthusiasm wouldn’t kill you.”

Ren met her challenge with a quick glance, then turned back to Aki. A ghost of a smile brushed his lips. A hefty hand landed on his shoulder, warm and firm, nearly jerking him from his seat. He tensed, then relaxed as he saw Tetsuya’s grin.

“Easy there, son. Thanks for the save—thought I was a goner.” Tetsuya waved his chopsticks at Haruka. “So how was your week? New club activities? Projects I can help with?”

Haruka’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

Ren raised an eyebrow; Haruka met his look and squared her shoulders. Silence settled like dust.

Tetsuya threw his head back, laughing. “Ah, forget I asked. That school—corrupt, if you ask me. Those Founding Family brats—Makabe, Aokawa, Mizushima—they strut around like they own the place. Fucking rotten up top. But not you two.” He rapped the table. “You’re the best.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Haruka muttered.

“Watch your language, dear.”

“Sorry, hon.”

Aki’s brow furrowed as her gaze drifted to the muted TV. The blue glow cast ghost-light on everyone’s faces. On screen, masked doctors hurried down sterile hallways, ticker text scrolling: [Hanamizu Outbreak: Illness spreads — Hospitals filling fast]

Tetsuya waved it off. “It’s just the flu. No need to panic.”

Hayate said nothing, but his eyes stayed glued to the screen. Their chatter grew distant as Ren’s senses swirled: the clink of porcelain, the wispy steam rising from bowls. A warmth bloomed in his chest, strange and unwelcome—too good for someone like him. He curled his fingers into a fist beneath the table, knuckles paling.

I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve this.

“Hey, slacker.”

Haruka’s elbow jabbed his ribs, sharp enough to make him wince. He jerked upright to find her eyes boring into his.

“Daydreaming again? Pass the bread rolls.”

Ren blinked, then reached for the wicker basket. He laid it in front of her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, twisting her mouth into a line.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

Ren's eyes snapped open, lungs heaving for air. His t-shirt clung to his chest, dark patches spreading across the cotton. He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again. The Sumire guest room materialized around him—Aki's voice from last night still echoing: "You're staying, and that's final." Haruka had tossed a blanket at his face without looking at him. "Just shut up and go to sleep somewhere."

His teeth ground together. The digital clock on the nightstand flashed 9:47 in accusatory blue.

"Crap."

When he pushed himself upright, his shoulder screamed in protest. Through the window, Hanamizu's buildings hunched beneath clouds the color of old bruises. Puddles on the pavement below captured fragments of blinking storefront signs. An ambulance's wail rose and fell in the distance, its echo bouncing between buildings.

Better get moving.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

Ren shifted the frayed canvas strap of his bag onto his shoulder as he broke into a steady jog. Above him, slate-colored clouds massed like a gathering army, siphoning every scrap of sunlight until the city streets gleamed in cold, gun-metal hues.

A heavy gust carried the tang of salt and the promise of rain, yet the streets felt eerily mute. He heard no distant chatter, no rumble of engines—only the faint click of gravel under his running shoes. The few cars parked along the curb sat like ghosts, their hazard lights pulsing weakly in the gloom. In one windshield, a man’s lifeless face was pressed against glass, eyes fixed on nothing.

A few steps later, Ren passed another figure bent over the seawall, stomach heaving into the gray water below. He snorted to himself. Probably nursing a hangover.

Seiryo University’s walls rose ahead, towers of glass and steel. The monorail track swooped in from the bay like a steel ribbon, its station perched beyond the main gate. His legs pumped easily; by the time he reached the entrance, he hadn’t broken a sweat.

Ren paused beneath the towering shadow of the walls. A flock of gulls wheeled overhead. The steel gates were latched shut; the guard’s booth—dark and deserted—leaned against the frame like a half-forgotten toy.

Before the bars stood a man in a once-crisp suit, now creased and dust-flecked. His shoulders drooped, arms dangling as if gravity had suddenly intensified its pull.

Ren narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the bag. A sudden gust rattled the chain-link fence to his left, bringing a stink that clung to his nostrils—not the usual brine of the harbor, but something acrid and coppery.

The suited man shuffled forward. Ren saw ragged tears at the back of his collar, fabric shredded around deep gouges in his neck. Dark fluid oozed, staining the cloth.

Bite marks?

The stranger lurched against the gate’s threshold with a dull thud, slid forward on slick stone, then rose and repeated the motion. Over and over, each crash sounding like a knell.

Ren’s pulse dulled to a quiet throb. His fingers twitched in response—an old habit, before thought could catch up.

“Excuse me, sir? This is private property. You can’t be here.”

A voice broke the hush. Yuka’s tone was firm, her arms crossed. She stood just inside the gate, backlit by the glass facade, her hair pulled into a ponytail.

Ren opened his mouth to warn her, but the moment had passed. With a sudden snap, the man’s head whipped upward. White lenses rolled back. He slammed himself into the metal bars again, sweat-slick fingers clawing at the surface, shrieking a sound that rattled his ears. Yuka’s eyes widened. She stumbled backward. Terrified.

Ren felt ice flood his veins as realization snapped into place: the man’s chest lay still beneath ragged shirt fabric.

This guy... he isn’t alive.