Three years earlier.
The apartment was small.
Two bedrooms, a combined living and dining area, a kitchen barely large enough for one person to stand in comfortably, and a bathroom with a shower stall so narrow that turning around required careful planning. Six hundred square feet of aging concrete and peeling wallpaper, located on the fourth floor of a five-story building in Hodogaya Ward that had been constructed during the economic boom of the 1980s and had seen better days ever since.
The walls were thin enough that conversations from neighboring units drifted through like whispered secrets—the elderly couple next door arguing about whose turn it was to buy groceries, the university student above practicing guitar at odd hours, the young family below whose toddler had recently discovered the joy of running back and forth across hardwood floors. The elevator had been broken for six months, the landlord promising repairs that never materialized. The hallway lights flickered with epileptic unpredictability. The water heater required a specific sequence of knob-turns and prayers to produce anything warmer than lukewarm.
And yet, to twelve-year-old Kurosawa Kaito, it was the most wonderful place in the world.
Because his father was there.
"Again! Keep your ankle locked, Kaito! The power comes from your hip rotation, not your leg!"
Kurosawa Takeshi stood in the center of the living room, furniture pushed against the walls to create an open space roughly four meters by three meters. He wore a faded Yokohama F. Marinos jersey from his own youth—the fabric stretched slightly across shoulders that had broadened with age—and a pair of worn sweatpants that had probably been black once but had faded to a comfortable gray. His feet were bare against the thin carpet, toes gripping the floor as he demonstrated proper shooting technique for the hundredth time.
At thirty-five years old, Takeshi Kurosawa possessed the lean, wiry build of a man who had never stopped moving. His face was weathered but handsome, laugh lines carved deep around eyes that sparkled with perpetual warmth and mischief. His hair—the same deep black as his son's—was kept short and practical, with the first hints of gray beginning to appear at his temples. His hands were calloused from years of physical labor at the shipping company where he worked as a logistics coordinator, but they moved with surprising grace when demonstrating football techniques.
He had played semi-professionally once, in his early twenties—a promising attacking midfielder for a third-division club in Kanagawa Prefecture. The dream of reaching J-League had been close enough to taste, scouts watching from the stands during particularly impressive performances, whispered conversations about trials with bigger clubs. And then a knee injury during a cup match had ended everything. Surgery. Rehabilitation. A gradual acceptance that the highest levels of the sport would forever remain out of reach.
But dreams, Takeshi had learned, did not die simply because they could no longer be achieved. They could be passed on. They could be nurtured in the next generation. They could live forever in the hearts of those who inherited them.
And so, every evening after work, he taught his son.
"Like this, Papa?" Kaito asked, planting his left foot beside the small indoor ball—a special soft-foam model designed for apartment training—and swinging his right leg through the striking motion. His small body twisted, hips rotating exactly as his father had demonstrated, ankle locked, toes pointed down. The ball rocketed across the living room and thudded against the folded futon propped against the far wall.
The sound was perfect—a clean, solid impact that spoke of technique rather than wild force.
Takeshi's face split into a grin so wide it seemed to illuminate the entire room. "YES! That's it! Did you feel the difference? Did you feel how the power flowed through your body?"
Kaito nodded eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet with barely contained excitement. "It felt easier! Like the ball wanted to go where I aimed!"
"Exactly!" Takeshi crossed the room in three quick strides and swept his son into a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and spinning him in a circle that threatened to knock over the lamp on the side table. "That's what proper technique does! It makes the impossible feel natural! The ball becomes an extension of your body, responding to your will!"
Kaito laughed—a pure, uncomplicated sound of joy that echoed off the thin walls and probably disturbed the neighbors but neither of them cared. His father set him down and ruffled his hair with rough affection, calloused palm scraping gently across Kaito's scalp.
"You have talent, Kaito," Takeshi said, his voice softening from enthusiasm to something deeper. He crouched down until they were eye to eye, his large hands resting on his son's shoulders. "Real talent. I've coached dozens of kids at the youth center, and I've never seen anyone pick up these techniques as quickly as you. Your brain understands the game in a way that can't be taught. It can only be born with."
Kaito felt his cheeks flush with embarrassed pleasure. "Papa..."
"I mean it." Takeshi's eyes were serious now, the laughter fading into something more profound. "You have something special. Something that could take you further than I ever went. Promise me you'll never give up on this dream. Promise me you'll keep working, keep improving, no matter what obstacles appear in your path."
"I promise, Papa." The words came easily, spoken with the absolute certainty of a child who had never known true hardship. "I'll become the best player in the world. I'll play in Europe, just like you always talk about. I'll make you proud."
Takeshi's smile returned, but there was a shimmer in his eyes that Kaito didn't understand—wouldn't understand until much later. "You already make me proud, son. Every single day."
From the kitchen doorway, a gentle laugh interrupted the moment. Kurosawa Yuki stood leaning against the frame, her slender form wrapped in a simple apron, a wooden spoon in one hand. Her hair—long and dark and perpetually escaping from the clip she used to keep it back—framed a face that carried the soft beauty of a woman who found joy in simple things. Her eyes, the same warm brown as her husband's, crinkled at the corners as she watched her two favorite people in the world.
"If you're done turning my living room into a training ground," she said, her voice carrying the particular tone of loving exasperation that mothers throughout history have perfected, "dinner is ready. And no, you cannot eat standing up while practicing headers."
"But Mama—" Kaito began to protest.
"No buts. Wash your hands. Both of you."
Takeshi caught Kaito's eye and winked conspiratorially. "We should listen. Your mother's curry is not something to be kept waiting."
The meal was simple—rice, curry with chunks of potato and carrot and modest portions of beef, a side of pickled vegetables that Yuki had prepared the previous weekend. The table was small, barely large enough for four people, and Kaito sat squeezed between his parents with his back to the window that overlooked the narrow alley between their building and the next.
In the corner of the room, a portable crib held the twin terrors—as Takeshi affectionately called them—Mei and Mio, six months old and currently engaged in their favorite activity of sleeping simultaneously. Their tiny faces were peaceful, small hands curled into fists beside their cheeks, breath rising and falling in perfect synchronization.
"The youth center tournament is next month," Takeshi said between bites of curry. "I spoke with Coach Tanaka today. He wants to move Kaito up to the U-14 team."
Yuki's eyebrows rose. "Isn't that for older children? Kaito just turned twelve."
"He's ready." Takeshi's voice carried absolute conviction. "His technical skills are already beyond most fourteen-year-olds. And playing against older, bigger opponents will accelerate his development. The best players in history always competed above their age level."
"Like Ronaldo?" Kaito asked, eyes bright with excitement.
Takeshi grinned. "Exactly like Ronaldo. Did you know that when Cristiano was your age, he was already playing against sixteen and seventeen-year-olds at the Sporting Lisbon academy? The coaches thought he was too small, too skinny—but his technique was so perfect that size didn't matter. He made the bigger players look foolish."
"Tell me about him again, Papa! Tell me about his work ethic!"
Yuki sighed, but her smile betrayed her amusement. "You've heard this story a hundred times."
"A hundred and one won't hurt," Takeshi said, launching into the familiar tale with the enthusiasm of a priest reciting scripture. "Cristiano Ronaldo was born in Funchal, Madeira—a small island off the coast of Portugal. His family was poor, even poorer than ours. His father was a gardener, his mother a cook. But from the moment he could walk, he had a ball at his feet."
Kaito listened with rapt attention, even though he could have recited the words from memory. It didn't matter that he knew what came next—the story of Ronaldo's journey from poverty to greatness was more than just entertainment. It was a blueprint. A promise that dreams could become reality if you worked hard enough, sacrificed enough, wanted it badly enough.
"When he was twelve—your age exactly—he left his family and moved to Lisbon to join the Sporting academy. Can you imagine that, Kaito? Twelve years old, alone in a big city, surrounded by older boys who wanted to see him fail. He cried himself to sleep every night for the first month. But he never gave up. He trained harder than anyone else. He stayed late after practice. He arrived early before practice. He studied videos of the greatest players in history and copied their movements until they became his own."
"And then he went to Manchester United," Kaito continued, unable to contain himself. "And Sir Alex Ferguson saw his potential. And he became the best player in the world!"
"Almost right," Takeshi corrected gently. "He became one of the best players in the world. Because the journey never ends, Kaito. Even now, in his late thirties, Ronaldo trains harder than players half his age. He's constantly improving, constantly evolving. The moment you stop getting better is the moment others catch up to you."
Kaito nodded solemnly, absorbing the lesson like a sponge. His curry had grown cold on his plate, forgotten in the face of stories far more nourishing than food.
"Can we watch the match tonight, Papa? Real Madrid is playing, right?"
Takeshi glanced at Yuki, who performed a theatrical sigh of surrender. "Finish your dinner first. And only if you promise to go to bed immediately after, with no complaints."
"I promise!" Kaito attacked his curry with renewed vigor, chopsticks flying.
Two hours later, father and son sat side by side on the worn couch, faces illuminated by the glow of the small television that occupied the corner of the living room. The broadcast was slightly delayed—they couldn't afford the premium sports package that provided live coverage—but neither of them minded. To Kaito, watching Real Madrid play in their gleaming white jerseys was as close to witnessing miracles as he expected to come.
And there, wearing the number 7, was Cristiano Ronaldo.
The match was against Barcelona—El Clásico, the greatest rivalry in football. The Camp Nou was a cauldron of noise and passion, nearly a hundred thousand spectators creating an atmosphere that somehow translated through the tiny speakers of their television. Kaito sat forward on the edge of the couch, hands clasped between his knees, eyes tracking every movement of the ball with the intensity of a predator stalking prey.
"Watch Ronaldo's positioning," Takeshi said, pointing at the screen. "See how he's drifting toward the left wing? He's creating space for the central strikers while preparing for a diagonal run. When the ball goes to the right back..."
As if obeying Takeshi's narration, the Real Madrid right back received the ball and looked up. Ronaldo was already moving, his first two steps explosive, his body angled to receive a cross-field pass that hadn't been played yet but somehow seemed inevitable.
The ball arrived at his feet, perfectly weighted, and Ronaldo's first touch was poetry—a gentle caress that killed the pace of the pass while simultaneously directing the ball into space for his next movement. Two defenders converged. Ronaldo dropped his shoulder, feinted left, and exploded right, leaving both opponents grasping at air.
The shot came without warning. One moment Ronaldo was dribbling, the next the ball was screaming toward the far post with the kind of power and precision that seemed to violate the laws of physics. The goalkeeper dove. His fingers brushed the leather. The ball bulged the net.
Kaito leaped to his feet, arms raised in unconscious imitation of Ronaldo's trademark celebration. "GOOOOOL!"
"SHHH!" Yuki's voice carried from the bedroom, where she was putting the twins down for the night. "You'll wake the girls!"
Kaito clamped his hands over his mouth, but his eyes were shining with unshed tears of joy. He turned to his father, finding Takeshi's expression soft with understanding.
"That's what we're working toward, son," Takeshi said quietly, pulling Kaito back down onto the couch and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Not just the goal—but everything that came before it. The positioning. The movement. The decision-making. Ronaldo didn't just score that goal tonight. He scored it through twenty years of preparation. Every training session, every sacrifice, every moment of pain and doubt—it all led to that one perfect instant."
Kaito nodded, nestling into his father's side, feeling the steady thump of Takeshi's heartbeat against his cheek. "I want to be like him, Papa. I want to make moments like that."
"You will." Takeshi's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "I know you will. And one day, I'll be sitting in a stadium somewhere—maybe in Madrid, maybe in Manchester, maybe somewhere else entirely—and I'll watch you score goals that make millions of people hold their breath. And I'll be the proudest father in the entire world."
The match continued, but Kaito's eyelids were growing heavy. The warmth of his father's arm, the comfortable familiarity of their small living room, the distant sounds of the neighborhood settling into sleep—it all conspired to pull him toward unconsciousness.
His last conscious thought, as dreams began to wrap around him like a blanket, was that this moment was perfect. His family was safe. His future was bright. And his father would always be there to guide him.
He had never been more wrong about anything in his life.
---
The morning of the accident began like any other.
Kaito woke to the sound of his father moving around the apartment, the familiar symphony of morning routines—the hiss of the shower, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the low murmur of the news broadcast from the television. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains of the window beside his bed, painting stripes of gold across the rumpled sheets.
He lay still for a moment, savoring the comfortable drowsiness of those first few seconds of consciousness. It was Saturday, which meant no school, which meant an entire day to spend with his father. They had plans—a trip to the sporting goods store to look at new boots (not to buy, just to look, to dream, to imagine), followed by practice at the youth center, followed by a stop at their favorite ramen shop for dinner.
A perfect day.
"Kaito! Breakfast!" His mother's voice carried from the kitchen, accompanied by the smell of miso soup and grilled fish that made his stomach rumble with anticipation.
He rolled out of bed, landing on feet that had grown considerably over the past few months—his mother complained that he was outgrowing shoes faster than they could afford to replace them—and padded toward the bathroom. The twins were already awake, their babbling audible through the thin wall that separated their room from his.
Breakfast was a chaotic affair, as it always was on weekend mornings. Mei had discovered the joy of throwing things, and her aim was improving with alarming rapidity. Mio preferred to express her opinions through volume, her small lungs capable of producing sounds that seemed physically impossible given her size. Yuki moved between her daughters with the practiced efficiency of a woman who had learned to function on minimal sleep and maximal caffeine.
Takeshi sat at the head of the table, newspaper open before him, but his eyes were on his family rather than the headlines. His smile was the soft, contented expression of a man who knew exactly how lucky he was.
"Ready for our adventure?" he asked Kaito, setting down the paper as his son took a seat.
"Ready!" Kaito attacked his breakfast with the enthusiasm of the perpetually hungry adolescent. "Can we look at the new Adidas Predators? The red and black ones? I saw them in a magazine and they're SO cool!"
"We can look," Takeshi agreed, exchanging an amused glance with his wife. "But looking is all we're doing today. Maybe next month, if I can pick up some extra shifts..."
"I know, I know." Kaito was already used to the financial realities of their situation. He didn't resent them—not really. How could he, when his parents worked so hard to give him everything they could? "Looking is still fun. And one day, when I'm a professional player, I'll buy you a whole store full of boots, Papa!"
Takeshi laughed. "I'll hold you to that."
The morning passed in a blur of pleasant activities. The sporting goods store was a wonderland of colors and textures, racks of jerseys representing teams from around the world, shelves of boots arranged by brand and model and price. Kaito pressed his face against the glass display case that contained the limited edition Predators, imagining how they would feel on his feet, how they would look as he scored the winning goal in a Champions League final.
"Someday," Takeshi said, standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder. "I promise you, Kaito. Someday."
Practice at the youth center was exhilarating. Coach Tanaka had indeed moved Kaito up to the U-14 team, and the difference in competition was immediately apparent. The older boys were faster, stronger, more experienced—but Kaito found himself rising to the challenge, his technique allowing him to compensate for physical disadvantages. By the end of the session, even the most skeptical of his new teammates were nodding with grudging respect.
"That boy has something special," Coach Tanaka told Takeshi as they watched from the sideline. "I've been coaching for twenty years, and I've only seen a few players with that kind of natural understanding of the game. With proper development, he could go far."
Takeshi's chest swelled with pride, but his voice remained humble. "He works hard. That's what matters."
"Hard work and talent," Tanaka corrected. "The first without the second produces journeymen. The second without the first produces wasted potential. Your son has both. Don't let him lose either."
The rain began as they left the youth center, fat drops falling from a sky that had darkened with surprising rapidity. What had been a pleasant autumn afternoon transformed into a gray, wet evening in the span of minutes. Kaito huddled close to his father as they walked toward the train station, sharing the single umbrella that Takeshi had brought with characteristic foresight.
"Change of plans," Takeshi said, checking his watch. "It's getting late, and your mother will worry if we're out much longer in this weather. Let's save the ramen for next week and head home."
Kaito's disappointment was brief—the thought of getting out of the rain and into dry clothes was appealing, and besides, next week meant he had something to look forward to. "Okay, Papa. Next week."
They walked in comfortable silence, the umbrella providing minimal protection against rain that seemed to fall from every direction at once. The streets of Hodogaya Ward were emptying rapidly as residents sought shelter from the downpour. Streetlights flickered to life, their glow diffused by the curtain of water into soft halos of yellow-orange illumination.
They reached the intersection three blocks from their apartment building.
The pedestrian signal showed red, so they stopped at the curb, huddling together under the umbrella. Cars passed in a steady stream, their tires hissing against the wet asphalt, headlights cutting through the gloom like searching eyes. The rain drummed against the umbrella's surface, creating a rhythmic pattern that seemed almost hypnotic.
"Papa," Kaito said, looking up at his father's face, "do you think I could really play in Europe someday? Like Ronaldo?"
Takeshi smiled down at him, and in that moment, his face was the most reassuring thing in Kaito's entire world. "I know you can. The path won't be easy—nothing worth having ever is. But you have the talent, the work ethic, and most importantly, the heart. Those three things together can move mountains."
The pedestrian signal changed to green.
They stepped off the curb together, Takeshi's hand warm and firm around Kaito's smaller one. The crosswalk stretched before them, painted lines barely visible through the sheet of rain that covered the street. Other pedestrians moved around them, umbrellas bobbing, faces hidden beneath hoods and hats.
Kaito was looking at his father when it happened.
He didn't see the car coming.
Later, in the nightmares that would plague him for years, the sequence of events would replay in excruciating slow motion. But in reality, it happened so fast that his brain barely had time to register what was occurring before it was over.
The squeal of tires on wet asphalt—a sound that would haunt Kaito's dreams for the rest of his life. A horn blaring, too late, always too late. Headlights sweeping across his vision like searchlights in a prison yard.
And then his father's hands, shoving him backward with desperate strength.
Kaito stumbled, the umbrella flying from his grip, his body twisting as he fell toward the curb he had just left. Time stretched like taffy, each microsecond lasting an eternity. He saw the car—a white sedan, its driver's face a mask of horror behind the rain-streaked windshield. He saw his father, arms still extended from the push, body turning toward the oncoming vehicle with no time to evade.
The impact was the sound of the universe breaking.
Metal against flesh. Glass shattering. Bones snapping. A human body—his father's body—being lifted off the ground like a ragdoll and thrown across the intersection with the casual violence of physics in motion.
Kaito heard screaming. It took him several seconds to realize the sound was coming from his own throat.
"PAPA!"
He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the wet pavement, falling, rising again. The rain hammered against his face as he ran toward the crumpled form that lay motionless in the middle of the street. Other pedestrians were shouting, cars screeching to halts, someone talking frantically into a phone. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except reaching his father.
Takeshi lay on his back, arms spread at unnatural angles, legs twisted beneath him. His eyes were open, staring up at the rain that continued to fall with indifferent persistence. Blood—so much blood—pooled beneath him, spreading across the asphalt in a dark mirror that reflected the streetlights above.
"Papa! Papa, wake up! PAPA!"
Kaito fell to his knees beside his father's broken body, hands reaching out, touching, desperate for any sign of life. The blood was warm against his fingers, soaking through the knees of his pants, staining his skin with the evidence of catastrophe.
Takeshi's head turned—slowly, painfully—and his eyes focused on his son's face. His mouth moved, forming words that emerged as barely audible whispers beneath the roar of the rain.
"K-Kaito..."
"Papa! Hold on! Someone called an ambulance! You're going to be okay! You're going to be—"
"Kaito." Takeshi's voice was stronger now, fueled by some final reservoir of will. His hand—the one that wasn't bent at an impossible angle—reached up to touch his son's face. The fingers left streaks of blood across Kaito's cheek, warm and wet and terrible. "Listen... to me..."
"Don't talk! Save your strength! Papa, please—"
"I'm... so proud... of you." Each word seemed to cost Takeshi an enormous effort, his chest heaving with labored breaths that produced wet, gurgling sounds. "You have... something special... I've always... known..."
"Papa, stop! Stop talking! The ambulance is coming! I can hear it! Just hold on!"
Takeshi's eyes were beginning to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a wind that only he could feel. His bloody fingers traced the curve of Kaito's cheek, the gesture achingly tender despite the violence of the moment.
"Never... give up... on your dream... Promise me... Kaito... Promise..."
"I promise! I promise, Papa! I'll never give up! I'll become the best player in the world! I'll play in Europe! I'll make you proud! Just please, PLEASE don't leave me!"
A smile touched Takeshi's lips—faint, peaceful, utterly at odds with the destruction of his body. His eyes found Kaito's one last time, and in them was love. Pure, unconditional, eternal love.
"You already... make me... proud..."
The hand on Kaito's cheek went limp.
The light in Takeshi's eyes went out.
And Kurosawa Kaito, twelve years old, kneeling in his father's blood on a rain-soaked street in Hodogaya Ward, began to scream.
---
The hours that followed existed only as fragments.
Paramedics appearing, their faces grim and professional. Hands pulling him away from his father's body—he fought them, clawing and kicking, refusing to let go. A blanket being wrapped around his shaking shoulders. Someone asking him questions that he couldn't understand, couldn't answer, couldn't process.
His mother arriving at the hospital, her face a mask of shock that shattered into grief the moment the doctors spoke. Her arms around him, her tears soaking into his hair, her voice repeating his name over and over as if the word itself could ward off the horror of reality.
The twins, too young to understand, crying in sympathy with the anguish that filled the sterile hospital corridors.
Funeral arrangements. A casket that remained closed because the damage was too severe for viewing. A ceremony attended by relatives he barely knew and coworkers who spoke of his father in the past tense as if he had simply ceased to exist rather than been violently erased from the world.
And through it all, growing louder with each passing hour, the voice.
**"Your fault."**
Kaito sat in the corner of his bedroom—the bedroom he had shared with his father's presence, his father's laughter, his father's dreams for the future—and stared at the wall. The funeral had ended hours ago. His mother had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, the twins quiet in their crib. The apartment was silent except for the rain that continued to fall outside, as if the sky itself was mourning.
**"He died because of you."**
The voice was new. It had appeared in the hospital, a whisper at the edge of his consciousness that he had initially mistaken for his own thoughts. But as the hours passed, it had grown clearer, more distinct, more insistent. It spoke with a tone that was cold and mocking, devoid of sympathy or comfort.
"No," Kaito whispered, hands pressed over his ears. "That's not true."
**"Isn't it?"** The voice seemed almost amused by his denial. **"Who was he protecting when he pushed you out of the way? Who did he sacrifice his life to save? You, Kurosawa Kaito. Your father is dead because you were too slow, too weak, too pathetic to save yourself."**
"Stop it."
**"The last thing he saw was your face. The last thing he felt was fear—fear that he wouldn't be able to save you in time. And now he's gone, and you're still here, breathing air that he'll never breathe again, living a life he'll never see."**
"STOP IT!"
Kaito's fist slammed against the wall, the impact sending pain shooting up his arm. The voice fell silent for a moment, as if surprised by the outburst. Then it returned, softer now, almost gentle in its cruelty.
**"I'm only telling you what you already know. What you'll always know, for as long as you live. Your father is dead, and it's your fault. That's the truth. That's reality. And no amount of screaming or crying or denying will ever change it."**
Kaito slumped against the wall, tears streaming down his face. His body felt hollow, as if everything that had made him who he was had been scooped out and discarded. His father's boots—the old Adidas Predators with TAKESHI written on the heel—sat on the floor beside his bed, exactly where his father had left them during their last training session together.
He crawled toward them on hands and knees, reaching out with trembling fingers to touch the worn leather. They still smelled like his father—sweat and grass and the particular musk of a man who had spent his life in pursuit of a dream. Kaito pressed them against his chest and curled into a ball, sobs wracking his body with violence that bordered on convulsions.
**"Cry,"** the voice whispered. **"Cry for him. Cry for yourself. Cry for the future that will never happen. But know this, Kurosawa Kaito—your tears mean nothing. They won't bring him back. They won't change what you are. They're just water, falling uselessly, like the rain that soaked his blood into the street."**
"What do you want from me?" Kaito gasped between sobs. "Why are you doing this?"
**"I'm not doing anything,"** the voice replied. **"I'm simply telling you the truth. I'm the voice that speaks what you're too afraid to acknowledge. I am your doubts, your fears, your guilt given form. And I will be with you always, Kurosawa Kaito. Every time you fail, every time you fall short, every time the world reminds you how small and weak and worthless you are—I'll be there, whispering the truth you try so desperately to deny."**
Kaito had no response. His voice had been stolen by grief, his thoughts scattered by trauma, his very sense of self shattered by the loss of the man who had defined his existence. He lay on the floor of his childhood bedroom, clutching his father's boots like a lifeline, and listened to the rain fall outside his window.
The voice continued to whisper as hours passed, as night deepened, as the world spun on with callous indifference to the suffering of one twelve-year-old boy. It spoke of failure and weakness and guilt. It catalogued every mistake he had ever made, every shortcoming, every way in which he would never live up to his father's dreams.
And somewhere deep inside Kurosawa Kaito, in a place he didn't even know existed, something began to change.
The grief remained. The guilt remained. But alongside them, buried beneath layers of pain and confusion, a spark of something else flickered into existence.
Anger.
Cold, hard, patient anger that would take years to fully form, years to understand, years to harness into something powerful enough to challenge the voice that tormented him.
But it was there. And it was growing.
**"Sleep,"** the voice said finally, as Kaito's exhausted body began to surrender to unconsciousness. **"Sleep and dream of the father you killed. I'll be here when you wake. I'll always be here."**
Kaito's eyes closed, and darkness claimed him.
The voice had kept its promise. For three years, through endless mockery and doubt and psychological torture, it had remained his constant companion. It had broken him down, piece by piece, until almost nothing remained of the bright-eyed boy who had dreamed of European glory and promised his dying father that he would never give up.
Almost nothing.
But almost was not quite the same as entirely.
And on a rain-soaked evening behind the gymnasium of Yokohama International School, three years after the worst night of his life, Kurosawa Kaito would finally discover what that last remaining spark could become when ignited by desperation and rage.