The next morning, the confirmation came through a single text from Tetsu.
Yabai was dead.
Clean hit, no witnesses.
But the cops were already sniffing around.
Word came back fast: Blondie was sweating in an interrogation room, ready to flip and name me as the mastermind the second they leaned on him hard enough.
So Tetsu handled it.
One less loose end.
And I got the 50k yen back, too.
The manager called me in after shift. He didn't sit. Just leaned against the bar counter, arms crossed, looking at me like he was weighing something.
"We wiped your file clean," he said, voice low, matter-of-fact. "No trail. Suicide ruling is locked in. Case closed."
I nodded once.
He didn't smile or congratulate me. Just stated the facts like they were a weather report.
"Kid," he continued, eyes never leaving mine, "you understand what this means, right? You can't walk away from this anymore. Not ever."
The words landed like a fresh set of chains — heavier than the debt, colder than any threat.
I was clean on paper.
But the weight wasn't gone.
It's just changed shape.
Now it wasn't just money or favors.
It was them.
I belonged to the yakuza now.
Forever.
"Yeah, I get it," I said flatly. "As if there was any other way this was gonna end. I paid to put a hit on a douchebag and I don't regret a damn thing."
I locked eyes with the manager, unflinching.
"Just don't go around acting like you saved me or some shit," I said, voice hard and final. "I was doomed the second I was born into this world. No need to complicate it."
The manager smirked, faint but sharp.
"Kid, you got balls. In these parts, though, one wrong word can still get you killed."
"That would be a mercy," I muttered, quieter than I meant.
The manager studied me for a long moment, his usual hard edges softening—just for a heartbeat.
"You're too hard on yourself, kid," he said quietly. "It's not your fault the world works the way it does."
I knew.
That didn't make it better.
I didn't sleep that night.
Or the nights that followed.
I didn't go to school either.
I just sat in bed, back against the wall, staring at the cracked ceiling of my cramped flat like I was waiting for it to finally give in and crush me.
I didn't eat anything either.
Didn't shower.
Didn't even change out of the same clothes.
I probably looked like a homeless person who'd crawled in off the street, but I was certain if I caught my reflection in the mirror, I'd punch my fist straight through the glass.
I ordered a hit on someone.
Two people died because of me.
The realization hit like the eyebags under my eyes — impossible to ignore.
I'm a murderer.
The thought made me laugh. A hollow sound, not belonging to anyone who still gave a fuck.
It wasn't funny.
It was just... true.
And the truth finally caught up with the part of me that still loved to pretend it didn't.
And now, the result? I'm doomed to be a yakuza lapdog forever. Give me a break...
Eventually, on Friday after class, two sharp knocks echoed through my apartment.
Then three more.
Way too persistent.
"Shiba-kun! Open the door. I know you're in there," Suzuki's voice cut through the silence, loud and annoyed, right on the other side.
I stayed silent.
Didn't move.
Didn't even breathe.
She didn't leave.
The knocking came again—harder, faster, like she was trying to hammer the point home.
"If you don't open in thirty seconds, I'm declaring you missing," she said, voice rising with exasperation. "Don't test me."
The threat landed like cold water.
If she files that report, cops show up.
They drag me back to that house.
Back to Mom's silence.
Back to Kaede's guilt-filled stare.
Fuck.
I groaned, dragged myself off the bed, and crawled my way to the door.
The chain rattled as I slid it open—just enough.
There she stood, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, looking equal parts pissed and worried.
She didn't wait for an invitation.
She pushed the door wider and stepped inside like she owned the place.
"You look like shit. And you smell worse. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't convenience store trash?," she said flatly, scanning the dim room—the untouched food wrappers, the stale air, me.
Funny you should ask. I didn't even eat that convenience store trash... No need to tell her that, though.
I shut the door behind her without a word.
She didn't hug me.
Didn't cry.
She just stood there, staring, like she was deciding whether to slap me or drag me to the shower herself.
"Talk," she finally said. "Or don't. But you're not disappearing on me like this."
I leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes on the floor.
She waited.
And for once, I didn't have the energy to push her away.
"Why are you here?" I asked, voice flat, not bothering to hide the discomfort crawling under my skin.
Suzuki met my eyes—sharp, unflinching, the same look she gave me on the rooftop when she refused to let me hide.
"You think disappearing makes everything go away?" she said. "You think I wouldn't notice?"
She stepped closer, arms still crossed like she was holding herself together.
"The wall's thin, idiot. I hear when you don't move for hours. I hear when you don't sleep." Her voice cracked just enough to betray the anger wasn't all a performance. "So stop acting like you're invisible."
She didn't wait for me to answer.
She just stood there, staring, daring me to push her out again.
I didn't.
"Why do you even care?" I asked, voice flat, not bothering to hide the confusion.
The question caught her off guard—just for a second. Her gaze softened, maybe for the first time since she stepped inside.
"I don't know," she said, the words barely above a whisper. "Maybe because I can't stand to watch someone I care about fall apart like this."
She paused, eyes flickering with sudden uncertainty, like she'd surprised herself by saying it out loud.
Then, quieter still:
"We're... friends, aren't we?"
The question hung there—small, awkward, almost fragile.
You and me? Friends?
The thought landed strange in my head. I'd never thought about it that way. Not once.
Not just with her. Not with anyone, really.
But the way she asked—like she wasn't sure either, like she needed me to confirm it—made something twist in my chest.
I looked away, at the wall, at nothing.
"Yeah," I muttered finally, voice rougher than I meant. "Guess we are."
It wasn't a big declaration.
It didn't even sound convincing.
But it was the truth I had left to give her.
And for once, she didn't push. She just nodded once, like she'd been holding her breath for the answer.
Then she turned around and left.
Without a word.
I figured that was it — the end of the conversation, maybe the end of her showing up.
Five minutes later the door opened again.
She stepped back in carrying two plastic bags from the convenience store down the street, filled with ingredients.
I raised an eyebrow.
"You haven't eaten a proper meal in days, have you?" she said, setting the bags on the tiny kitchen counter. "Let me cook for you."
I opened my mouth to protest.
She cut me off before the first word left.
"And take a shower, goddamn it! You stink."
Ouch.
Point taken.
I didn't argue.
I just stood there for a second, watching her start unpacking — rice, eggs, green onions, soy sauce, some cheap vegetables — like this was normal.
Like she didn't just walk into my disaster of an apartment and decided to fix it.
I turned toward the bathroom without another word.
The hot water hit like a slap and, for a moment, I just wanted to dissolve into it. Imagined it could melt my skin like acid.
As if something that convenient would happen.
Eventually I stepped out, drying off with the same towel I'd used for a week.
When I walked back into the main room, she was already in the kitchenette, working at the stove. The smell of soy sauce and green onions cutting through the stale air.
She didn't look up.
"Food's almost done," she said casually. "Sit."
I sat.
She slid a bowl in front of me—rice, egg, some cheap vegetables stir-fried together.
I stared at it longer than I meant to.
"Eat," she said, softer this time. "Or I'll shove it down your throat myself."
I picked up the chopsticks and grabbed a bite.
"It's... good," I said, stunned.
She looked a bit bashful.
"Thanks...," she said softly, before puffing her chest with pride. "I live alone, obviously I can cook. Don't look so shocked!"
I wasn't about to ask, but fair. Kurumi already raised the bar when it came to idols in the kitchen.
"Well, I thought you were some spoiled princess," I said, a faint smirk slipping onto my face. "So yeah, you can guess why I assumed that."
Suzuki froze for a moment, eyes widening. Then she pouted.
"And I thought you were a violent delinquent," she shot back, pointing at me like a child.
For a second, the absurdity of it all hit me.
The back-and-forth was so stupid it was funny.
We laughed.
And just like that, I forgot — if only for a moment — why I'd wanted to disappear in the first place.
"Thanks for the meal," I said after we finished eating.
Then the doorbell rang.
I peeked through the peephole.
Yamashita stood there, clutching a stack of papers.
For a split second, I forgot she had my new address—until I remembered I gave it to her, "to hand me printouts when I skip," she said.
I opened the door, and Yamashita stepped in, papers clutched awkwardly in her arms.
"Hello, Shiba-kun. I came to hand you this week's printouts," she said, voice careful and formal, but the corner of her mouth betrayed a faint, nervous smile.
"Ah… thanks, Prez" I muttered, taking the papers from her without looking up.
"Su-Suzuki-san…?" Yamashita squeaked, glancing over her shoulder. "Umm… what are you doing here?"
"I live next door," Suzuki said flatly, eyes scanning the room. Her tone carried no welcome, only observation. "What about you, class president?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, almost too quietly, her voice cut through the tension—tone frozen like ice.
"I was worried. He hasn't been to school in days," she said, eyes locking on Suzuki. "Shiba-kun is a student in this class. That makes this… my responsibility."
"Oh. Responsibility's all you're here for?" Suzuki asked, smirking.
"No," Yamashita said evenly, eyes sharp. "And I assume neither are you."
The air between them turned hostile, sharp enough that I almost felt the sparks.
They cared about me.
I realized it without feeling any joy.
Would they still care… if they knew what I'd done?
I didn't know.
I didn't want to.