Chapter 4: 1,095 Days (4)

The bell above the door gave a weary chime. He ducked under the frame by instinct and slipped into the narrow corridor between rows of trays and stained cutting boards. Hayate’s shop smelled of vinegar, old wood, and countless fish.

“Evening,” a gravelly voice called from the rear.

The old man was at the counter, a sharp blade in one hand and a shining silver snapper laid out before him. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the apron tied neatly though splashed with stains, and a hairnet secured his hair.

“Evening.”

Ven was curled beside the rice cooker on the heated prep shelf, one paw draped over his eyes as if to block out the world. At the sound of his voice, the cat’s tail twitched.

“You’re late, by the way.”

“I’m not,” he said, stepping over a mop bucket and loosening the scarf around his neck. “I’m exactly on time.”

“On time is still late by my definition. Check the box by the register.”

Ren did as instructed. On it sat a small wooden frame, worn smooth at the edges. Inside was a snapshot: himself on the shop’s back steps, hair still wet, towel slung over his shoulder, and Ven stretched out in his lap with half-closed eyes. The lighting was off, and the picture sat crooked in the frame.

“I took that the day you found him,” Hayate remarked, wiping fish bits from his blade and examining the cut. “He shadowed you for three days straight after.”

“He was hurt.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know.”

Ren replaced the photo gently back on the counter. “You gonna do this every year?”

“I’ll quit once you stop showing up.” Hayate said, finally meeting his gaze with a raised brow.

Ven stretched in a long, rumbling yawn, hopped down with a soft thud, and wound around Ren’s ankles before settling at his feet with a contented meow. He crouched beside the cat, running his palm between Ven’s ears.

“How are you holding up?”

He didn’t lie. Not to him.

“Some days are harder than others.”

“Ain’t that the truth. It’s been three years.”

“Feels like longer.”

A laugh drifted in from outside—likely one of Hayate’s old friends. The place was a magnet for retired cops and ex-paramedics, men who wore their histories like faded leather jackets and came here for the calm as much as the food.

“You know, you don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to work here anymore.”

He straightened, shoulders tight.

“I want to.”

Hayate nodded curtly. “I’ll need you here again tomorrow. Sharp.”

“I always am.”

Ven meowed in agreement.

“Not always.” Hayate patted a towel-dried hand on the counter and regarded Ren. “Three years… It’s time you started living.” he said, his calloused thumb tracing a worn spot on the handle where the lacquer had long since given way to bare wood.

“I didn’t plan this far ahead.”

“No one ever does, son.”

Ren leaned close to the mirror. 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.

A soft rap on the door frame shattered the hush. “Ren—are you okay in there?”

He straightened, and called back, “Yeah. Give me a sec.”

“Don’t forget to wash up.”

He ran water over his hand, glanced at himself one last time. With a tired sigh, he tugged a navy t-shirt over his head, tucked it into worn black jeans, and slipped into the narrow hall.

The Sumire family home unfolded around him like a warm embrace. A low ceiling fan turned lazily, couches draped in indigo 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.

He paused at the threshold, his palm resting briefly on the cool wood. This house wasn’t his, yet whenever he was here, something tightened in his chest.

“Ren! Quit lurking in the shadows! 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 across his chest. His silver hair was cropped close, and his lined face held a mild scowl that softened when he spotted Ren.

He slid onto the wooden chair, its cushion creaking under his weight. “Old man.”

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

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

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

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

“All right! Everybody’s here. Let’s dig in! These dumplings have been my special, secret project for days.” Aki beamed.

“Smells incredible! Your mother’s a genius, isn’t she? Haruka, you hit the jackpot.” Tetsuya waggled his chopsticks at his daughter. “And your dad is pretty cool too, huh?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Careful, Dad. You’re going to choke.”

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

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

“I’m so glad you like it!”

“‘Good’?” Haruka echoed, arms crossed. “Try amazing. A little enthusiasm wouldn’t kill you.”

He met her challenge with a quick glance, then a hefty hand landed on his shoulder, nearly jerking him from his seat.

“Thanks for the save, thought I was a goner.” Tetsuya waved his chopsticks at Haruka. “So how was your week? Anything new? Club activities? Any projects I can help with? Boy troubles, perhaps?”

“No, Dad.”

Ren raised an eyebrow.

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.”

“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.”

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—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.

Haruka’s elbow jabbed his ribs, sharp enough to make him wince. He jerked upright to find her eyes boring into his. “Hey, slacker. Daydreaming again? Pass the bread rolls.”

Ren blinked, then reached for the wicker basket.

“Thanks.”

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

His 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 tossing a blanket at his face without looking at him. ”Just shut up and go to sleep somewhere."

The digital clock on the nightstand flashed 9:47 in accusatory blue.

“Crap.”

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, siphoning every scrap of sunlight until the city streets gleamed in cold, gunmetal 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, their hazard lights pulsing weakly in the gloom. In one windshield, a man’s face was pressed against glass. A few steps later, he passed another figure bent over the seawall, stomach heaving into the gray water below.

He snorted. Probably nursing a hangover.

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

The gates were latched shut; the guard’s booth dark and deserted. Before the bars stood a man in a once-crisp suit, now creased and dust-flecked. His shoulders drooped, arms dangling.

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. He saw ragged tears at the back of his collar, fabric shredded around deep gouges around the neck.

Bite marks?

The man lurched against the gate, slid forward on slick stone, then rose and repeated the motion. Over and over, each crash sounding louder.

Ren’s fingers twitched in response before thought could catch up.

“Excuse me, sir? This is private property. You can’t be here.” A voice broke the hush. It was Fujimori. She stood just inside the gate, backlit by the glass facade, her hair pulled into a ponytail.

He 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 bars again, fingers clawing, shrieking a sound that rattled his ears.

A realization snapped into place.

This guy, he isn’t alive.