The streetlights on the way home from Luminos Café flickered like dying fireflies.
Paulo's trainers scuffed above the cracked pavement in a rhythm that matched the dull throb behind his remaining eye.
The baton in his hoodie pocket felt heavier than usual, as if it had absorbed the weight of the night on Tokyo Bridge.
Mizaki had wanted to walk with him. Marina had offered to tail him from the rooftops. Shizuka had even suggested planting a tracker in his shoe.
He had refused them all.
"I need five minutes alone," he had said. They had let him go. Reluctantly.
Now the silence pressed in from every side. No footsteps behind him. No drone overhead.
Just the low hum of the city and the occasional rustle of wind through the skeletal branches of the cherry trees lining the road.
Petals had long since fallen; what remained were brittle claws scraping at the sky.
He turned onto the narrow lane that led to his house, his parents' house, technically, though they had not lived here in eight years.
The Satoshi clan had kept it as a safe house, a decoy, a place to stash the kid they did not want involved.
A single-story box with peeling white paint and a mailbox that still read Satoshi in faded kanji.
He was ten meters from the gate when the headlights cut through the dark.
A black sedan, older model, no plates, pulled across the mouth of the lane, blocking his path.
The engine idled with a low, predatory growl.
Paulo's hand slipped into his pocket.
The baton extended with a soft snick.
The driver's door opened.
Takeshi Satoshi stepped out.
He was shorter than Paulo remembered from family photos, five foot ten, maybe, but built like a brick shithouse.
Black suit, no tie, top button undone.
His red hair was cropped close to the scalp, streaked with silver that caught the streetlight like frost.
A scar ran from the corner of his left eye to the edge of his mouth, pulling his smile into something permanently crooked.
He raised both hands, palms open, "Easy, kid. Just talk."
Paulo did not lower the baton, "You brought muscle?"
Takeshi tilted his head toward the passenger side, "Only family."
The door opened.
A woman stepped out.
She was tall, five foot nine, with the same fiery red hair as Paulo, though hers fell in loose waves to her shoulders.
Fair skin, sharp cheekbones, and blue eyes that looked like they had seen the bottom of the ocean and come back colder.
She wore a charcoal trench coat over a black turtleneck and jeans, boots silent on the asphalt.
Paulo's heart stuttered.
He knew that face. Not from life, from photographs.
The ones his father had burned when he was seven. The ones his uncle had hidden in a lockbox he thought Paulo did not know about.
Sara Satoshi.
His mother.
She looked exactly like him.
Or he looked like her. Same jawline. Same tilt of the eyebrows. Same way of holding stillness like a weapon.
Takeshi spoke first. "Paulo. Meet your mother."
Sara's voice was soft, but it carried. "Hello, Paulo."
He could not move. The baton trembled in his grip.
She took a step forward. "You've grown."
Another step. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."
Paulo found his voice. It came out rough. "You left."
Sara stopped three meters away.
Close enough to see the faint lines around her eyes.
The scar on her collarbone peeking above the turtleneck.
"I didn't have a choice," she said.
Takeshi leaned against the car. "We are not here to drag you back, kid. Not tonight. Just to talk. Five minutes. Then you walk away if you want."
Paulo's eye flicked between them.
Mother.
Uncle.
The two people who had shaped his life by their absence.
He collapsed the baton and slipped it back into his pocket. "Talk."
Sara exhaled. "Can we sit?"
He jerked his chin toward the low stone wall beside his gate.
They moved to it, Paulo on one end, Sara in the middle, Takeshi on the other. Like a dysfunctional family portrait.
Sara spoke first. "I know what you did on the bridge."
Paulo's jaw tightened.
"I know about the girl. Mizaki. The fight at your house. The eye." She touched her own left eye, a mirror gesture. "I know everything."
"Then you know I don't need family," Paulo said. "I needed them eight years ago. When Dad died. When you vanished. When they threw me in that river."
Sara flinched. "Your father's death wasn't—"
"Don't," Paulo cut in. "Do not lie. Not now."
Takeshi lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating the scar on his face. "He is not wrong, Sara. We fucked up."
Sara's hands clenched in her lap. "I was in witness protection. Your father, Kenji, he took a fall for the family. Embezzlement. Yakuza ties. The prosecutors wanted me to testify. I refused. So, they came for you."
Paulo stared at the ground. "They told me you were dead."
"I let them," Sara whispered. "It was the only way to keep you safe. Takeshi moved you here. Enrolled you in school. Kept you off the grid."
Takeshi exhaled smoke. "We thought distance would protect you. Turns out it just made you a target."
Paulo laughed, bitter. "You think I am a target because I am here? I am a target because I am a Satoshi. Because I have your blood. Your enemies do not care if I am in the game or not, they just want to hurt you through me."
Sara reached out, then stopped herself. "I came back because of the bridge. Riku and Nijako, they crossed a line. Threatening civilians. Threatening her."
"Mizaki," Paulo said.
Sara nodded. "She's… intense."
"She's mine," Paulo said.
The words came out harder than he intended.
Takeshi raised an eyebrow. "Possessive. Good. You will need that."
Sara ignored him. "I am not here to take you away, Paulo. I am here to offer you a choice."
She reached into her coat and pulled out a small wooden box, lacquered black with the Satoshi crest carved into the lid.
She opened it.
Inside was a ring.
Silver, thick, engraved with cherry blossoms and tiny kanji. The family seal.
"This was your father's," Sara said. "He wore it the day he died. It marks the heir. The one who leads when the old guard falls."
Paulo stared at it. "I'm not ready."
"No one ever is," Takeshi said. "But ready or not, the wolves are circling. The Moris. The Itōs. Half the gangs in Kansai smell blood. You put Riku in the river. That is a declaration of war."
Sara closed the box. "Wear it, and the family rallies behind you. Protection. Resources. A seat at the table. Refuse it, and you are on your own. But we walk away. No more enforcers. No more midnight visits."
Paulo looked at the ring, then at his mother's face. "And you?"
Sara's eyes softened. "I stay. If you will let me. I have missed sixteen years. I will not miss any more."
Takeshi stubbed out his cigarette. "Clock's ticking, kid. Cops will be crawling all over that bridge by now. We need to move."
Paulo stood. The stone wall was cold against his palms.
He thought of Mizaki's hand in his on the bridge. Marina's steady aim. Shizuka's quiet fury.
He thought of Miya's tears. Alexis's guilt. Rin's broken body.
He thought of the river, black and hungry, and the way it had spat him back out.
"I'll take the ring," he said. "But on my terms."
Sara's breath caught.
Takeshi grinned, all teeth. "Name them."
"One: Mizaki, Marina, and Shizuka are under my protection. Anyone touches them, they answer to me."
"Done," Takeshi said.
"Two: No more secrets. I want the full file. Dad's death. Your disappearance. The dock deals. Everything."
Sara nodded. "You'll have it by morning."
"Three: I finish high school. Here. At Sakura High. No compound. No tutors. No cage."
Takeshi barked a laugh. "You're a stubborn little shit."
"Four," Paulo continued, "you teach me. Both of you. How to fight. How to lead. How to win."
Sara stood. She was taller than he had expected. "Deal."
She held out the box.
Paulo took it. The wood was warm from her hand. He opened it, slipped the ring onto his right ring finger. It fit perfectly.
Takeshi pushed off the car. "Welcome to the family, boss."
Paulo looked at him. "Don't call me that."
Takeshi smirked. "Yes, sir."
Sara touched Paulo's cheek, gentle, like she was afraid he would vanish. "I'm proud of you."
He did not pull away. "Prove it."
She smiled, and for the first time, it reached her eyes.
Headlights swept the lane. Another car, this one a silver SUV. pulled up behind the sedan. The driver's window rolled down. A woman with short black hair and a scar across her throat leaned out.
"Takeshi-Sama," she said. "We have got movement. Mori's people. Two blocks out."
Takeshi's smile vanished. "Time to go."
Sara grabbed Paulo's arm. "You're coming with us."
"No," Paulo said. "I walk home. Alone. Like I said."
Takeshi started to argue. Sara silenced him with a look.
"He's made his choice," she said. "Let him make it."
Paulo stepped past them, toward his gate.
Takeshi called after him. "Midnight tomorrow. The old warehouse on pier 17. Training starts. Do not be late."
Paulo did not look back.
The gate creaked as he pushed it open. The porch light was off—he had forgotten to replace the bulb. He fished his keys from his pocket, the ring glinting as it caught the moonlight.
Behind him, the cars pulled away. Engines faded into the night.
He was alone again.
But not really.
Inside, the house smelled of dust and old tatami. He kicked off his shoes, padded to the kitchen. The fridge hummed. A single Post-it note was stuck to the door, Mizaki's handwriting: "Left you dinner. Eat it or I'll be mad."
He opened the fridge. Bento box. Tamagoyaki. Salmon. Rice shaped like a heart.
He ate standing up, leaning against the counter. The ring felt heavy. Real.
When he finished, he went to his room. The window overlooked the backyard, where Watsu had disposed of Rin and Shin. The shed was gone now, replaced by a patch of fresh dirt.
He opened his laptop. New email. No subject.
Attachment: a 47-page PDF.
He downloaded it.
Page one: a photo of his father, Kenji Satoshi, smiling in a suit. Below it, in Sara's handwriting:
The truth starts here.
He read until dawn.