The room goes quiet the moment Lucien steps inside.
Not stiff.
Not hostile.
Just… patient.
The kind of silence that feels like a closed door with everyone waiting behind it.
His mother sits with her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale.
Rowen offers a soft smile — the sort meant to ease him in, but the weight behind his eyes says this will not be easy.
Elaine lowers her gaze respectfully.
Reggie stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the corner like he's holding the wall up by sheer will.
His father watches silently, unreadable.
Rowen clears his throat gently.
"Lucien… we're glad you're home. Truly."
His mother nods immediately, her eyes softening.
Reggie doesn't move, but the tension in his shoulders eases — a little.
Then Rowen continues, voice still calm, but carrying a quiet edge beneath the warmth:
"But… twelve years is a long time."
A long pause.
A heavy one.
Everyone is careful with their breath, their posture, their eyes — as if afraid to spook the moment.
Lucien steps forward slowly, taking the empty seat in the center of the room.
The chair creaks beneath him — loud in the silence.
He forces a small smile.
Inside, the voice chuckles.
Here it comes. Don't choke, brat.
Lucien exhales through his nose, steadying himself.
He looks at his family — the Reins — every face familiar yet changed with time.
They aren't accusing him.
They aren't angry.
They're just waiting.
Waiting for the truth.
Or something close enough to it.
With everyone's eyes quietly resting on him, Lucien straightens his back and prepares to speak.
Showtime.
Lucien rubs the back of his neck, leaning back in the chair with a long sigh.
"Ahhh… I've been dreading this same thing for the past twelve years, guys."
A few weak smiles flicker around the room, but no one laughs.
They're listening.
Too closely.
Lucien exhales again, forcing a crooked grin.
"Alright. You want the long story or the short story?"
"The long story," they say almost in unison.
Lucien raises a brow.
"Okay… the good long story or the bad long story?"
Reggie crosses his arms.
His father's stare sharpens.
Rowen leans forward.
But it's Elaine — gentle, steady Elaine — who answers.
"The one that truly happened."
The room tightens around him.
Lucien's grin fades into something smaller. Something tired.
The voice in his head hums quietly, almost entertained.
"Ooh… she cut right through you. Careful, brat."
Lucien runs a thumb along the ridge of his knuckle — feeling that faint metallic shift beneath the skin.
He looks up, meeting all their eyes at once.
His family.
His blood.
His past.
Then he exhales slowly.
"Alright then… the truth."
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"But I should warn you… the truth isn't pretty."
A beat of silence.
Everyone waits.
Lucien wets his lips, breath steadying.
The voice whispers in the back of his mind:
Now lie like your life depends on it.
Lucien inhales, looks at his father, and begins:
"Dad… when I boarded that flight to Japan, everything was fine. Normal. Nothing felt wrong at all."
Lucien continues, keeping his expression steady:
"During that time… I had amnesia.
Nothing was clear.
The men took me in because I couldn't tell them anything."
The Rein family stays quiet, listening closely.
Reggie's eyes narrow—not angry, just trying to understand.
Rowen leans forward slightly.
Their father folds his hands, waiting.
Their mother watches with a calm, controlled sadness.
Lucien goes on:
"After we reached the city, there was this old man… and his wife.
They had no children.
I'm pretty sure they took pity on me.
They took me into their home."
In Lucien's mind, the voice speaks—low, factual:
Pity wasn't the reason.
They bought you as a slave.
Lucien doesn't let the truth touch his face.
He keeps the story gentle for his family:
"He taught me Japanese.
Showed me the fishing lifestyle.
Gave me some structure."
Rowen nods slowly—this part feels safer, easier to accept.
Reggie's posture loosens a little.
Their mother exhales quietly, relieved he had some form of "home."
Their father listens without interrupting.
The voice continues, not cruel—just stating reality:
He didn't teach you out of kindness.
He took you on his trips as an extra pair of hands.
You learned the work fast.
Too fast.
Lucien nods to his family as if everything was simple:
"I helped him on trips.
Learned the job quicker than they expected.
I guess… it kept me useful."
The Rein family absorbs this with quiet acceptance.
No dramatic reactions.
Just a heavy understanding that their son survived by adapting.
Their father finally gives a small nod—approval, but muted.
Reggie shifts in his seat, processing.
Rowen watches Lucien with focused eyes.
His mother's expression softens—not happy, but grateful he wasn't completely alone.
Lucien stays calm.
Inside, the voice stays quiet for a moment, then whispers:
They didn't save you, Lucien.
They used you.
But if this story keeps your family breathing easier… go on.
He pauses, steadying his voice.
"But halfway across the Philippine Sea, everything changed."
The room goes still.
"A massive tsunami hit the plane. Hard.
Not enough to crash it outright… but enough to knock out half the electrical systems."
Lights flickering, alarms ringing—Lucien remembers it all.
"The flight started losing altitude.
The pilots told us not to panic, but…" he shakes his head, "I knew better."
He leans forward slightly.
"I unbuckled and got up. The air hostess tried to stop me, but I pulled her with me and ran toward the very back of the plane."
He exhales sharply.
"That saved my life."
His voice lowers.
"When the plane hit the water, nose-first… I watched the entire front section crumble.
Seats folding.
Glass shattering.
Water exploding in like a tidal wave."
Lucien's jaw tightens.
"I forced my way up toward the middle of the cabin… chest-deep in water.
And then—"
He snaps his fingers softly.
"—boom."
"An explosion ripped through the plane and tore it into pieces."
He breathes in.
"By some miracle, the tail section I was in survived.
The woman I'd pulled with me survived too… or at least, that's what I thought."
His eyes drop for a moment.
"A shard of metal shot toward us during the explosion.
She saw it before I did."
A long pause.
"She shoved me out of the way and took the hit instead."
Lucien's voice softens.
"She saved my life."
Lucien's voice softens, slowing just a little as he remembers.
"There was this… hull-like structure.
A curved pocket of metal.
We were both stuck inside it after the explosion."
He swallows hard.
"She didn't die immediately.
But she was close."
He gestures to his own side.
"The shard hit her left abdomen.
From the chaos of it all, I guess it missed her vitals… barely."
He looks down at his hands, remembering the panic.
"I did what I could. Found a first-aid kit.
Bandaged her up without removing the shard — I knew enough not to do that."
He exhales.
"We kept each other alive.
Three or four days… I'm not even sure."
His mother covers her mouth with her hand.
No one else speaks.
"There was food in the cabin scraps.
Some ready-to-eat packs, some supplies meant to be cooked.
We rationed everything. We survived."
His eyes go distant for a moment.
"But after that… my memory goes blank.
Completely.
I don't remember what happened next."
A long pause.
Reggie's brows knit.
Rowen leans forward.
His father watches, silent and steady.
Lucien continues:
"The next thing I remember…
I woke up on a boat."
He gives a tired smile.
"Japanese fishermen.
At first, I had no idea what they were saying — everything sounded strange to me."
He mimics small gestures with his hands.
"But they used actions to help me understand.
Apparently, they found me floating on a broken piece of platform.
Alone."
Lucien's voice drops again.
"When I showed them — tried to explain if anyone else was with me… they said no."
His eyes lower.
"I'm sure that woman… she sacrificed herself for me."
A heavy silence fills the room.
Lucien continues calmly, keeping his tone even:
"I'm… pretty sure she died before I was found.
Pretty sure she sacrificed herself to save me."
No one jumps or gasps.
The Rein family just goes still.
His mother's eyes lower, hands folding tightly in her lap.
Reggie's jaw shifts, the muscle ticking once.
Rowen's posture straightens, expression sharpening.
His father gives a single slow nod — acknowledging the weight of it without speaking.
Inside, the voice murmurs:
She did.
She bought you those last minutes.
Lucien goes on, keeping the story steady, controlled:
"The fishermen took me onto their boat.
They fed me, cleaned me up, gave me new clothes…
but with the fever, dehydration, trauma…
it all hit at once.
I fainted — was out for a few days."
Reggie's eyes flick to Lucien's wrists for half a second, as if checking for scars.
Rowen shifts his weight, listening carefully.
Their mother stays quiet, fingers tightening but face composed.
The voice cuts in — blunt, factual:
They did feed you.
But they tied you up first.
And locked you in a cage.
Lucien doesn't show the flinch.
He keeps speaking:
"When I woke up again… it felt like we were maybe two days away from their destination.
A dock town.
Old coastal village."
Rowen nods once — absorbing the information, not reacting emotionally.
Reggie crosses his arms, gaze narrowing slightly in thought.
Their father listens without a word.
Lucien continues:
"When we reached the island, that's when I realized they were Japanese fishermen.
From Osaka.
Later I found the town was called Misaki."
A brief silence.
Reggie's brows draw together — not dramatic, just thinking.
Rowen gives a small exhale through his nose.
Their father leans back slightly, weighing the information.
Their mother finally looks up, quietly attentive.
The voice finishes the truth in a low tone:
Not all of it was a lie.
You did see the shoreline.
But you didn't understand what those men were.
For better or worse… you were already in the hands of traffickers.
Lucien keeps his expression calm, composed — the version of the story that hurts his family the least.
No one cries.
No one shouts.
No theatrical reactions.
They just watch him —
a quiet mix of shock, restraint, and trying to process the impossible.
During that time… I had amnesia.
Nothing was clear.
The men took me in because I couldn't tell them anything.
The Rein family stays quiet, listening closely.
Reggie's eyes narrow—not angry, just trying to understand.
Rowen leans forward slightly.
Their father folds his hands, waiting.
Their mother watches with a calm, controlled sadness.
Lucien goes on:
"After we reached the city, there was this old man… and his wife.
They had no children.
I'm pretty sure they took pity on me.
They took me into their home."
In Lucien's mind, the voice speaks—low, factual:
Pity wasn't the reason.
They bought you as a slave.
Lucien doesn't let the truth touch his face.
He keeps the story gentle for his family:
"He taught me Japanese.
Showed me the fishing lifestyle.
Gave me some structure."
Rowen nods slowly—this part feels safer, easier to accept.
Reggie's posture loosens a little.
Their mother exhales quietly, relieved he had some form of "home."
Their father listens without interrupting.
The voice continues, not cruel—just stating reality:
He didn't teach you out of kindness.
He took you on his trips as an extra pair of hands.
You learned the work fast.
Too fast.
Lucien nods to his family as if everything was simple:
"I helped him on trips.
Learned the job quicker than they expected.
I guess… it kept me useful."
The Rein family absorbs this with quiet acceptance.
No dramatic reactions.
Just a heavy understanding that their son survived by adapting.
Their father finally gives a small nod—approval, but muted.
Reggie shifts in his seat, processing.
Rowen watches Lucien with focused eyes.
His mother's expression softens—not happy, but grateful he wasn't completely alone.
Lucien stays calm.
Inside, the voice stays quiet for a moment, then whispers:
They didn't save you, Lucien.
They used you.
But if this story keeps your family breathing easier… go on.
"The old man and his wife were kind… or as kind as anyone could be to a kid with no memory.
He taught me more than Japanese.
He taught me how to live.
Discipline.
How to stay fit."
The Rein family listens in calm, tense silence.
Inside, the voice responds:
Kind, yes…
but he wasn't doing it for charity.
He was testing you.
Seeing how far you could go.
Lucien keeps the lie smooth:
"Days turned into months.
Months into a year.
They took good care of me.
But they were old.
Both of them."
He exhales lightly.
"They named me Raizo.
I lived as Raizo for that whole year."
Reggie's brow lifts slightly at the new name.
Rowen looks at Lucien more closely.
Their father only nods once — noting it, nothing more.
Their mother just quietly absorbs it.
Lucien continues:
"His wife… she tried her best.
She had no idea what I liked, what I didn't, but she always made sure I ate.
Always tried to make me comfortable."
A faint smile crosses his face — practiced, soft, curated for them.
"One day, they called me into their room.
They said they were getting old.
That they saw me like the son they never had."
He pauses.
"They gave me a handful of money… and a ticket to Tokyo.
Told me to go to a certain place and mention the old man's name.
Said they would take me in."
The Rein family sits still — absorbing, processing — without any dramatic emotion.
Then the voice enters again, steady and factual:
The truth is different.
Lucien's expression doesn't change, but his heart tightens.
The voice continues:
They did treat you like a grandson.
They did grow to love you.
But you only understood the truth later.
A quiet beat.
That day in the hot tub… when his back was exposed.
Lucien remembers — in the dark corner of his mind.
The voice whispers:
A dragon sprawling across his spine.
The missing pinky.
The wife missing hers too.
They weren't fishermen.
They were retired Yakuza.
Lucien's breath hitches — subtle, invisible to the family.
You slide the door closed behind you, and the room breathes with the soft glow of a single lamp.
Tatami under your knees.
Salt in the air.
A stillness you can't name yet.
They sit in seiza — side by side — older than time, older than regret.
The old man's back straight.
The old woman's hands folded gently over her lap.
"Sit, boy," he says.
You do.
The old man studies you like he's memorizing your face for the last time.
He lets out a slow breath, heavy enough to dim the room.
"Raizo… listen carefully."
His voice is quiet, but it fills the space.
"Many things about your life here were not fate. They were consequences."
You don't speak.
You don't look away.
He continues.
"Forty years ago, in Tokyo… I was an Oyabun.
A head of a small Yakuza family.
Not the largest.
Not the richest.
But respected."
His lips curl into a tired, humorless smile.
"In our world, respect means fear.
And I earned mine the same way every man in that life does—by violence."
His wife shifts slightly, not in shame… in memory.
"My hands were never clean. I don't pretend they ever were."
He pauses.
"One night, during a conflict, I struck down someone I thought was armed.
Someone I thought was an enemy."
His jaw clenches.
"He was a boy.
The only son of a clan with more power than we could ever hope to resist."
His wife's eyes lower.
Quiet grief.
"They wanted my life," he says, raising his maimed hand.
"So they took my pinky first."
The empty space where a finger should be looks older than the rest of him.
"But killing me would have sparked a war.
So they chose a different punishment."
His voice drops to a soft, cold whisper.
"They exiled me from Tokyo.
Stripped me of my title, my protection, my men…
and they cursed me with a sentence."
He looks you directly in the eyes.
"Your debt is a son.
Give us one, or you will live remembering the one you took."
The words fall like stones.
Your stomach tightens, but you keep still.
"We could not give them a child," he says softly.
"It was our greatest sorrow."
His wife nods once, a tear shining but not falling.
"For years we hid.
For years we refused.
For years we survived only because the world forgot us."
Then his gaze shifts—onto you.
"And then you arrived."
The lamp flickers.
"You were half-dead.
Alone.
Broken.
A child with no name, no memory."
His next words come slow, deliberate:
"I bought you."
A cold truth.
"At first," he says, "it was only so no one would ask questions.
A helper on the boat, a set of hands.
Something simple."
His voice softens.
"But you were not simple."
He gestures at you—your shoulders, your posture, the way you sit perfectly straight without realizing it.
"You learned quickly.
Too quickly."
His wife adds quietly, her voice trembling:
"And you were gentle.
So gentle.
You filled a silence in this house we thought would remain forever."
The old man's eyes close for a moment.
"For the first time since exile… I felt like a father."
It hits you in the chest—harder than any blade.
"But the clan does not forget," he says.
"And they do not forgive."
A shadow crosses his face.
"They heard whispers.
They learned I had taken in a boy."
He inhales.
"They came to Misaki."
Your heartbeat slows.
The room shrinks.
The air thickens.
His wife bows her head—not in shame… in mourning for what comes next.
"We could not protect you any longer," she whispers.
"They demanded… a son.
A successor.
A vessel."
The old man straightens, despite the tremor in his bones.
"I refused again.
But your body… your reflexes… your growth…
it all told them what I already knew."
His voice breaks for the first time.
"You were perfect for them."
His wife's voice cracks:
"Raizo… forgive us."
The old man gives you one last look—sad, proud, heavy.
"This death is ours to choose.
Not theirs."
And together—without hesitation, without fear—
they draw the blades.
The sound is soft.
Almost gentle.
Two bodies folding forward in perfect unison, like lanterns collapsing at the end of a festival.
Their final words land in your bones:
"We love you, Raizo…"
And then—
Silence.
The kind that doesn't fade.
The kind that stays with you forever.
You stood there, shocked, unable to do anything. As Lucien, you felt frozen; as Raizo, you moved forward. You walked toward them and bowed, a small, broken gesture of respect and grief. Before you could finish mourning, the sliding door to the outside opened and cold air rushed in. A child ran past, stumbling into the room. You straightened and looked up. A silhouette stood framed in the doorway. You recognized the shape without needing to see the face.
THEY'RE HERE FOR YOU.