The Chase
suggestion song: miracle by KIIXSHI
The night was cold, but the air between them was even colder.
The Yakuza leader staggered forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body barely able to move after the savage beating Hiroki had given him. His legs felt like they were made of lead, his ribs screamed in agony with every step. Blood dripped from his busted lips, staining his already ruined suit.
Yet, even in his pain, he ran.
Or at least, he tried.
His feet stumbled over the uneven ground of the dark alley, his hands desperately grabbing at anything—trash cans, old crates, anything he could shove behind him—to slow his relentless pursuer down. But deep down, he knew.
Nothing would stop him.
Hiroki was coming.
A sound echoed through the empty street—slow, steady footsteps.
Cold. Unforgiving. Unstoppable.
The leader whipped his head back, eyes wide, terror flooding every nerve in his body.
There he was.
Hiroki was still walking.
No rush. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
Just those cold, methodical steps closing the distance.
The leader's breath hitched as he felt his chest tighten. He tried to pick up speed, but his body was betraying him. The injuries, the pain, the overwhelming sense of doom that came with every step Hiroki took—it was all too much.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!!!! GO AWAY!!!!" he screamed, his voice breaking.
No response.
Just more footsteps.
The sound of death approaching.
The leader's mind spiraled into panic. Why?! Why was this happening?! He had money. Power. Influence. Yet now, here he was—running like a rat from a sixteen-year-old.
He tripped.
He caught himself just before falling, panting hard, his body begging for oxygen. He turned his head once more.
Hiroki was still there.
Still silent.
Still wearing that terrifying smirk.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!!!!"
The leader's voice cracked, his desperation turning into pure horror.
Still, Hiroki said nothing.
His footsteps, cold and steady, were the only thing breaking the silence of the night.
And then…
The leader saw it.
Just ahead—a rusted, half-open metal door leading into a dark underground hideout.
A place where his men were waiting.
A place where forty killers—all armed, all dangerous—were stationed.
Hope flashed in his bloodshot eyes.
If he could just make it inside—**just a few more steps—**he could turn the tables.
A wicked grin spread across his battered face.
Hiroki was strong, yes—but could he handle forty men?
The leader lunged forward, diving through the entrance and slamming the door shut behind him.
"Heh… hahahaha… YOU'RE DEAD NOW, YOU LITTLE SHIT!!" he wheezed, pressing his back against the door.
The metal rattled under his weight. His breath came in shuddering bursts.
He had made it.
Inside, dozens of Yakuza enforcers turned toward him, confused by the sight of their bloodied leader.
"What the hell happened?!" one of them barked.
The leader grinned, his confidence returning.
"We've got a problem, boys." He wiped the blood from his mouth and pointed toward the door. "But don't worry. He's just a cocky little bastard who doesn't know when to quit."
He turned back toward the entrance, a cruel sneer forming.
Hiroki was outside. Alone.
And inside?
Over forty men.
Armed. Trained. Ready.
This was his territory.
The leader's breathing steadied.
This was it.
This was where the hunt turned into an execution.
…
…
…Until the metal door exploded inward with a deafening crash.
A single, merciless shadow stepped into the light.
Hiroki had arrived.
And the real fight was just about to begin.
The First Strike
Hiroki stepped further into the dimly lit hideout, his presence like a phantom entering the underworld.
The room reeked of blood, sweat, and something fouler—the stench of men who had long abandoned their humanity.
Shadows flickered against the walls as the overhead lights buzzed weakly, casting an eerie glow over the filthy space. The Yakuza members around him, each gripping their bats and knuckle-dusters, cracked their necks, rolled their shoulders, and grinned.
They thought they had him trapped.
They thought wrong.
But before Hiroki could take another step—
His eyes landed on something.
Something that made his heart freeze.
In the farthest corner of the room, chained up like a discarded animal, was a girl.
Her body was covered in bruises, cuts, and sickening scars—evidence of cruelty beyond words.
She was barely clothed, her frail frame trembling, her breath shallow. Hiroki could see the pain in her half-lidded eyes, the way her chest struggled to rise and fall.
And then, she turned her gaze toward him.
Her eyes locked onto his.
Even in her weakened state, even when it seemed like her body was giving up on her… tears welled up.
Her cracked lips parted slightly.
A whisper.
"Help me."
Hiroki's entire body tensed.
A storm raged in his chest. Fury. Disgust. Unfiltered rage.
But more than anything—
A promise.
A promise that these bastards wouldn't be walking out of here the same.
Or maybe… they wouldn't be walking out at all.
Then, like a distant echo, Peter's voice played in Hiroki's head.
"Listen, Hiroki. I always told you to have a calm mind—to never let anger and adrenaline control you. But sometimes... some people don't need a lesson. They need a hospital bed."
That sentence.
Those words.
Hiroki closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.
Inhale. Calm.Exhale. Focus.
His clenched fists loosened slightly, but his aura grew even colder.
The girl was still staring at him, weakly holding onto consciousness.
Hiroki turned toward her, his face no longer that of a merciless fighter—but of someone offering hope.
A warm smile.
His voice, gentle but firm:
"Don't die yet. You still need to live. So stay still."
At those words, she let out a soft, broken sob—
But this time, it wasn't from pain.
It was from relief.
She wasn't alone anymore.
She was going to be saved.
But before she could cry any more—
A loud cackle shattered the moment.
Hiroki's head slowly turned toward the center of the room.
The Yakuza were grinning, sneering, laughing.
One of them—a broad, ugly bastard with a jagged scar running down his cheek—stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
"Aw, shit, boys. Did you hear that?" he mocked, tilting his head toward Hiroki. "Our little guest thinks he's some kinda hero."
Another thug leaned on his bat, shaking his head. "Tch. What a dumbass."
"Oi, kid." The scar-faced Yakuza smirked, rolling his shoulders. "You just walked into a death trap. You really think you can take on all of us?"
Hiroki straightened up, rolling his neck.
No fear.No hesitation.
Only certainty.
His lips curled into something dangerous.
"I'm not here to take you all on."
The Yakuza exchanged looks.
Then Hiroki's voice dropped to something colder.
"I'm here to put you all down."
Silence.
Then—
"GET HIM!!"
The first fist flew toward Hiroki's face.
A mistake.
A brutal mistake.
The real fight had begun.
The Massacre Begins
The tension in the room had shifted.
No more laughter.
No more jeering.
Only a suffocating silence.
Then—
A sharp glint.
A thug lunged forward, a wicked knife gleaming in his grip.
His strike was fast, aimed straight for Hiroki's face.
And then—
SLASH.
A thin, crimson line cut across Hiroki's left eyebrow.
Blood dripped.
But the truly terrifying part?
Hiroki didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even react.
He just stood there, as if he had let it happen.
A few Yakuza members staggered back, a chill running down their spines.
Even the thug with the knife froze, his breathing turning shaky.
What… what kind of monster doesn't react to pain?
Hiroki's expression remained blank.
Slowly, he touched his eyebrow.
His fingertips came away stained with red.
For a few seconds, he simply stared at the blood.
His face, unreadable.
Then—
He moved.
Like a phantom vanishing into thin air—
And reappearing right in front of the thug.
"Wha—"
BANG.
A single punch.
Fast. Precise. Brutal.
Hiroki's fist collided with the thug's face—striking just between his jaw and skull.
The impact was catastrophic.
The spiked knuckles tore into the man's cheek, ripping skin open, leaving deep bloody slashes across his face.
His vision blurred instantly.
His knees buckled.
Hiroki didn't wait.
A low kick—targeting both legs.
The thug collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
He gasped, struggling, hands weakly pressing against the floor—trying to push himself back up.
Hiroki's eyes darkened.
Then—
THWACK.
A swift, merciless shin strike to the side of the thug's skull.
His body jerked violently.
His mouth flew open, blood spraying out as his eyes rolled back.
Out cold.
The room was silent.
The remaining 39 Yakuza members stood frozen, staring in horror.
Then—
Creeeeeak.
Hiroki turned away from the unconscious thug, walking toward the metal gate.
He grabbed the old rusted door, pulled it shut, and locked it with a slow, deliberate motion.
Then—
He walked back.
Not rushing.
Not running.
Just a calm, chilling pace.
The tension was unbearable.
Hiroki lowered himself onto the unconscious thug's chest.
His legs straddling him.
And then, with the utmost arrogance—
He crossed his arms.
And simply stared at them.
All 39 of them.
They were stunned.
Completely paralyzed.
It was no longer about a fight.
It was about something far worse.
A realization.
They were prey.
Hiroki let the silence stretch, letting it sink in.
Then—
His lips curled into something cold.
And in a voice calm yet darker than the abyss itself, he finally spoke:
"Heh. What a failure. Losing to a sixteen-year-old boy?"
He tilted his head slightly, smirking.
"Pathetic."
The Yakuza gritted their teeth, hands shaking.
Then, as if a switch flipped—
"KILL THIS BRAT!!!"
And the true massacre began.
Hiroki's words had done more than humiliate them.
They had enraged them.
The room erupted in fury.
Three thugs—one with a bat, another with brass knuckles, and the last one bare-fisted but built like a damn tank—charged at Hiroki all at once.
Their movements were wild, reckless.
Pure rage.
Hiroki?
Calm. Focused. Deadly.
As they lunged, he did something unexpected.
Instead of stepping back—
He dropped.
Rolling backward with precise control.
His back hit the cold floor—
And in one fluid motion—
He threw his weight onto his hands, palms pressing into the ground.
BOOM.
A forceful push-off.
His body launched into the air, flipping gracefully—
And in the blink of an eye—
He landed several feet away, light on his feet.
Now, he was ready.
His fists rose, steady.
Knuckles glistening with someone else's blood.
A slow, crimson trail dripped from his eyebrow, slithering down toward his eye.
But Hiroki didn't blink.
Didn't wipe it away.
He simply stared at them through the veil of red.
The air was thick.
This was it.
This wasn't a battle where he could hold back.
There was no escape.
No mercy.
Only two outcomes existed in this place.
He either walked out alive…
Or he didn't walk out at all.
His breathing was slow.
Controlled.
Then—
A smirk.
And in a voice colder than death itself—
"Come."
Hiroki didn't wait.
He charged.
The three thugs braced themselves. They saw his fist pull back, ready to swing.
A mistake.
Hiroki's real attack was his legs.
At the last second, he dropped low—
SWEEP.
His leg cut through the air like a blade—
CRACK.
Three bodies hit the ground hard.
A sharp exhale from them.
A smirk from Hiroki.
But he wasn't done.
One of them barely had time to gasp before his leg was grabbed.
Hiroki spun—
Faster.
Faster.
The man's body became a weapon.
"HRAAH!!"
BOOM!
Like a human wrecking ball, Hiroki hurled him into the crowd.
Several thugs toppled over, crashing into each other like dominoes.
Hiroki let out a small mocking chuckle.
And then—
He raised his hand.
A slow, taunting wave.
"Come at me."
They did.
Five at once.
From different angles.
But Hiroki was calm.
The first thug from the left swung for his shoulder—
Hiroki ducked.
BOOM!
A brutal uppercut.
The man's jaw snapped, his head whipping backward violently before his body crashed to the floor.
One down.
The second attacker came from behind, swinging a bat.
Hiroki didn't dodge.
He let the hit land on his torso.
The thug froze in shock.
He didn't even flinch.
Hiroki grabbed the bat mid-swing—
Ripped it out of the guy's grip—
And yanked him forward.
A firm grasp on his collar—
BOOM!
Slammed him into the ground.
The man didn't move.
Two down.
A third thug rushed from the front.
Hiroki took quick steps backward—
Then suddenly lunged forward.
A shin strike.
CRACK!
The thug's head whipped sideways, body stumbling—
Before he collapsed.
Three down.
The fourth guy took his chance.
A clean hit to Hiroki's stomach.
Hiroki staggered back a step.
But when he looked up—
His cold, piercing gaze froze the thug's blood.
And then—
That smirk.
Hiroki: "Strong… but weak to defeat me."
He grabbed the man by the shirt—
And drove a devastating punch into his face.
The spikes of his gloves ripped into the thug's skin.
Blood splattered.
Several teeth flew across the floor.
Four down.
The last one?
He was frozen.
Eyes wide.
Terrified.
Hiroki dashed toward him.
In desperation, the thug swung his metal bat.
Hiroki jumped.
Spinning.
BOOM!
A spinning kick to the side of his skull.
The man's body flew, slamming into the corner of the room.
He lay motionless.
Five down.
Hiroki stood tall, blood dripping from his eyebrow.
The room fell into silence.
But this was far from over.
This was just the beginning.
A Dance of Blood and Broken Bones
The air in the room grew thick with rage and fear.
The remaining thugs, nearly thirty-five men strong, saw their fallen comrades and rushed Hiroki all at once.
A swarm of bodies.
A violent storm.
But Hiroki?
He stood still.
His bloodied glove flexed.
His heartbeat remained calm.
And then—
A single man darted ahead of the pack.
This one was different.
Bigger. Stronger. More refined.
The others might have been thugs—
But this man was a fighter.
He moved with precision, unlike the others.
His kick came fast.
A high roundhouse—aiming for Hiroki's temple.
WHOOSH!
A strike that could knock a normal man unconscious.
But Hiroki?
He merely lowered his head.
Smooth. Effortless.
The wind from the kick barely ruffled his hoodie.
And as Hiroki lifted his head again, his cold eyes met the man's.
It was like a ghost staring into his soul.
The thug growled and lunged again.
Push kick!
His foot aimed straight for Hiroki's chest—
A blow that could send him flying.
But—
Hiroki simply shifted his body sideways, letting the kick pass through empty air.
Like water slipping past a rock.
And then—
He caught the thug's leg.
A vice grip.
The thug's eyes widened.
He panicked.
Desperation.
He raised his other leg to strike Hiroki's head.
A last-ditch effort—
But he was too slow.
CRACK!
Hiroki dropped his elbow onto the trapped leg—
Right at the knee joint.
SNAP.
The leg bent backward at a sickening 140-degree angle—
The sound echoed like a breaking branch.
The thug's body froze for a second.
His mind registering what just happened.
And then—
"AAAAAARRGHHHHH!!!!"
He collapsed to the floor, clutching his mangled leg, screaming in pure agony.
His face twisted in pain and shock.
His hands gripped his knee, trying desperately to fix what was already destroyed.
He looked up at Hiroki—
Tears in his eyes.
A silent plea for mercy.
But Hiroki?
His expression didn't change.
He didn't feel pity.
He didn't feel remorse.
All he felt—
Was the rising bloodlust inside him.
This was just the beginning.
He turned his head slowly—
The rest of the gang had stopped in their tracks.
Their weapons gripped tight.
Their bodies trembling.
They had just witnessed a monster.
And that monster was looking at them.
Hiroki slowly raised his bloodied glove.
And with a smirk, he curled two fingers.
A simple gesture.
Come.
The gang hesitated—
But one of them—
"KILL HIM!!!"
And like that—
The real war began.
Blood in the Shadows
The fight was over.
The war had left its mark.
The once-hidden Yakuza hideout—A place of crime.A place of darkness.A place of evil.
—was now painted in something far worse.
Blood.
The walls. The floors. The very air itself.
Everything reeked of it.
Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, limbs twisted at unnatural angles.Some still groaning, barely conscious.Some didn't move at all.
Forty men.Forty thugs.
Not a single one left standing.
And in the middle of it all—
Hiroki.
Standing there like a reaper, his body bathed in crimson.
His gloves—dripping.His hands—painted.His breath—slow and deep.
His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, his mind replaying every blow, every scream, every bone he had shattered.
He lifted his bloodstained gloves and stared at them.
This wasn't just a victory.
This was punishment.
This was justice.
And yet…
He felt nothing.
No satisfaction.No guilt.
Just—
Silence.
Hiroki exhaled, feeling the sting of his wounds.
A deep gash on his left eyebrow, blood trickling down his cheek.A small scar near his right eye—fresh, but not deep.His knuckles—bruised and raw, some skin torn from repeated impact.
His whole body ached.
But he stood tall.
Because he wasn't just some kid anymore.
He wasn't a victim.
He wasn't weak.
He was a warrior.
A killing machine.
He clenched his fists.
And this… was only the beginning.
As the dust settled, the dim moonlight from the small window above cast down upon him—
Illuminating the carnage he had left behind.
The faint sounds of broken men groaning in pain filled the silence.
Some whimpered, their spirits crushed.Some didn't dare move, their bodies shattered.
Hiroki had followed Peter's orders perfectly:
"Put them in the hospital bed."
And he did.
Broken fingers.Shattered ribs.Dislocated arms.Crushed legs.
They would never forget this night.
They would never forget him.
But this fight…
This was only the first of a million more battles Hiroki would face.
And he knew—
The real war… was still ahead.
He took one last glance at the scene before him.
Then, without a word, he turned toward the chained girl in the corner.
Her eyes were wide, filled with both fear and awe.
She had never seen anything like this before.
A demon in human skin.
A savior cloaked in blood.
And as Hiroki stepped toward her, his cold gaze meeting hers—
She finally realized.
She was looking at the man who would decide the fate of monsters.
Hiroki exhaled slowly.
The scent of blood and sweat still hung in the air, mixing with the stench of rot that had festered in this hellhole for who knows how long.
He lifted his hand to his eyebrow wound, wiping away the blood before it could reach his eye. It stung. But right now, there was something far more important.
He reached up, grabbing the hoodie that clung to his bloodied body.
Slowly, he pulled it off. The fabric was heavy, drenched in both his own sweat and his enemies' suffering.
He turned to her.
The girl.
Chained. Broken. Scarred.
But most of all—silent.
His stomach twisted when he realized she wasn't moving.
His breath hitched.
His cold, calculating mindset—the one that had guided him through the battle, that had made him a monster among monsters—wavered for a moment.
No.
Not like this.
He rushed to her side, dropping to his knees.
His hands—hands that had just shattered bones, crushed limbs, and painted the walls in blood—now moved gently.
He placed them on her shoulders, his touch soft, careful.
Hiroki: "Hey, are you okay? Hey, don't die yet—stay with me!"
His voice, still deep and cold, now carried a hint of urgency.
His fingers trembled slightly as he gently shook her, hoping—no, praying—that she was still alive.
For a moment, she didn't respond.
His heart pounded.
Then—
A small shift.
A faint breath.
Her eyelids fluttered, and with a soft, almost ghost-like voice, she whispered—
Girl: "I'm not dead… I'm just tired."
A small, weak smile curled on her lips.
Hiroki exhaled, tension leaving his body.
She was still here.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
He placed a hand on her head, brushing aside the strands of hair that had fallen over her face.
Her skin was cold.
Her body frail.
She had been through hell.
But she was still fighting.
She deserved to live.
Hiroki: "Then close your eyes."
His voice was firm, but this time, gentle.
Hiroki: "We'll go to the hospital."
She stared at him, her tired eyes searching his face—searching for something.
Was he real?
Was this another cruel dream?
But there was no malice in his gaze. No cruelty. No mockery.
Only cold, unwavering determination.
Slowly, she let her eyelids fall.
Her body, which had been tense for so long, finally relaxed.
And Hiroki—
He wasn't going to let her die here.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Hiroki's hands trembled as he gently unchained the girl, her fragile body shuddering slightly under his touch.
Her skin was cold, her breathing shallow, but she was alive. That was all that mattered right now.
He slid the hoodie over her frail shoulders, wrapping her in its warmth. His hands were careful, almost tender as he moved her, trying not to cause her any more pain.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Hiroki scooped her up into his arms, cradling her like she was the only thing that mattered in this world.
Her head rested against his chest, her small body limp in his arms. The weight of her suffering pressed down on him like a thousand tons, but he wouldn't let it break him.
He wasn't going to let anyone else harm her. Not tonight.
Hiroki walked toward the door, each step feeling heavier than the last, his mind focused solely on getting her to safety.
But just as he reached for the handle, a sudden click of a door opening stopped him in his tracks.
He froze.
The leader—bloodied, beaten, and covered in scars—staggered into the doorway. His body barely held itself together, but his eyes, filled with pure rage, fixed on Hiroki.
Leader: "You think I'll let you go?!"
His voice was raw, venomous, barely recognizable.
Hiroki's heart skipped a beat. This wasn't over.
The leader's hands shook as he slowly pulled a Glock from his pocket, pointing it directly at Hiroki.
Leader: "I'LL FCKING KILL YOU!!!"*
The words felt like a final verdict, a declaration that no one—not even Hiroki—could escape.
Hiroki's eyes locked onto the barrel of the gun.
His mind raced, calculating, thinking, but there was no escape. The room was too small, the distance too short. He couldn't dodge the bullet or hide fast enough.
Without hesitation, Hiroki shifted his body, using his back as a shield to protect the girl. He knew if the bullet came, it would hit him first. But that didn't matter. She needed to be safe.
For the briefest of moments, Hiroki closed his eyes, preparing for the inevitable.
The air grew thick with the tension. The moment stretched on, heavy, suffocating.
And then—the leader pulled the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot shattered the silence, echoing in Hiroki's ears like a thunderclap. The world slowed.
But it never came.
The Reckoning
The world stood still for a heartbeat.
The sound of the bullet fired—loud, deafening, a sound that Hiroki knew would bring him unimaginable pain—but then... nothing.
Nothing but silence.
Hiroki kept his eyes shut, bracing for the agony, his body tense, waiting for the pain to rip through him.
But it never came.
Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Then, without warning, the stillness shattered as the leader's voice broke through.
Leader: "Hey, let go of me!"
Hiroki's eyes snapped open, his heart racing. And when he turned around, his eyes locked onto Peter—standing there, effortlessly holding the leader's arm that had been aimed at Hiroki, now twisted at an unnatural angle.
Peter was there. He'd saved them.
Peter: "You guys okay?"
Hiroki's breath caught in his chest. He could only nod, his voice failing him. The girl in his arms was still unconscious, and the rush of adrenaline began to wear off, leaving him feeling light-headed.
But then, something changed. Peter's calm, controlled demeanor—the one Hiroki had come to rely on—fractured.
For the first time, Hiroki saw it.
Peter's face twisted in rage, a fury that was pure, unfiltered, and terrifying.
It was like something inside Peter had snapped.
Before Hiroki could even process what was happening, Peter's fist collided with the leader's side with a sickening crack—like the sound of brittle bone breaking under pressure. The thug's scream echoed through the room, but it was cut short as Peter's hand slammed down onto the leader's broken arm with enough force to rip it from its socket.
CRACK.
The thug screamed, a blood-curdling wail of agony that would haunt anyone who heard it. His legs buckled, but Peter wasn't done yet.
With a single, savage yank, Peter twisted the thug's body around, slamming his face into the cold, hard floor with a force that left a trail of blood on the ground. The leader's skull cracked against the concrete with an audible pop, sending a spray of blood and fragments of teeth flying across the room.
The thug's body went limp, twitching as Peter's hands tightened around his throat, lifting his body with a sickening strength.
Peter's eyes were wild, burning with fury, and for the first time, Hiroki felt a chill run down his spine. The man before him was no longer the calm, calculated mentor Hiroki had come to know. This was something else entirely. Something darker. Something dangerous.
Peter slammed the leader's face into the floor again, and the thug's body went completely still, his breath shallow and ragged.
Finally, Peter turned to Hiroki, his eyes still filled with that terrifying fury.
Peter: "Hiroki... go outside and wait for me."
Hiroki didn't question it. His body was moving on instinct, the girl still cradled in his arms. He didn't even look back as he made his way to the door, stepping into the hallway with a sense of urgency. His feet moved quickly, his mind still reeling from the brutal display of violence that had just unfolded before him.
The world outside the room felt... quieter, almost peaceful compared to what he had just witnessed.
But even as Hiroki stepped into the darkness, he couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.
Peter was still in there, and the door had been closed.
The sound of pounding fists, a sickening crack, and the leader's final scream echoed from inside the room.
Hiroki stood in the hallway, waiting for Peter to come out.
Taste of His Own Medicine
Hiroki stood in the hallway, his body tense, the weight of the recent events crashing over him. The silence that hung in the air was unnerving—unnatural. He hadn't seen Peter come out yet, and the screams from inside continued to echo.
At first, it sounded like the leader's screams, muffled and distant, but soon... it was clear. The voice had changed. The shrill tone, the desperation—it was the punk who had pointed the gun at Hiroki.
Hiroki clenched his fists, a familiar unease creeping into his chest. His mind raced. What the hell was going on in there?
He didn't want to believe it, but the thought gnawed at him. He hoped Peter wasn't going too far, but... the reality of their situation weighed heavily. Hiroki had seen Peter snap before, but this... this was different. It felt like the storm was intensifying.
The screams grew louder, more frantic. Hiroki's nerves frayed as he waited, hoping that it would end soon, that Peter would finish whatever brutal justice he was dishing out. But then, something that made Hiroki's blood run cold reached his ears.
The unmistakable crack of metal striking flesh.
The sound of a metal bat connecting with something—someone—with terrifying force. It wasn't a regular thud; this was bone-crushing. The unmistakable sound of a blunt object colliding with fragile, human form.
Hiroki froze, his breath catching in his throat. He couldn't believe it. Peter… was using a metal bat? Was that how far it had gone?
His stomach twisted in knots. He wanted to rush back into the room, to stop whatever Peter was doing, but something held him back—fear, uncertainty. He wasn't sure he could stop Peter if he wanted to.
For what felt like an eternity, the screams continued, punctuated by the rhythmic sound of metal striking bone over and over again. Each blow felt like a hammer on Hiroki's chest, and a part of him wondered how much longer it would go on.
But then, finally, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway. The door to the room opened with a slow creak, and Peter stepped out.
His jacket and clothes were soaked in blood. Dark red stains coated his shirt, dripping down his pants, his face almost unreadable as he stepped into the dim light. His breathing was steady, controlled, but there was an unsettling calmness to it.
Hiroki didn't speak. He couldn't find the words. His mind was still trying to process what had just transpired. His eyes met Peter's, but he couldn't quite bring himself to ask anything. The sight of Peter—his mentor, the person Hiroki had looked up to—now standing there covered in blood, was enough to send a chill down his spine.
Hiroki followed Peter silently as they walked down the hallway, the sound of their footsteps the only thing that could be heard. The air felt thick, heavy with tension, the weight of the recent violence hanging over them like a dark cloud.
Minutes passed in silence before Hiroki's nerves finally caught up with him. He had to know.
Hiroki: "Um... Mr. Rasel? Did... did you really hit that guy with a metal bat?"
There was a long pause before Peter responded, his voice low but steady.
Peter: "I just gave him the taste of his own medicine, Hiroki."
The words hit Hiroki like a slap across the face. A taste of his own medicine. The realization settled in slowly, a pit forming in Hiroki's stomach.
Peter's gaze didn't falter as he spoke again, his tone carrying a weight of experience Hiroki hadn't understood before.
Peter: "On the other days, I saw him hitting a guy with a metal bat. So, I returned him a favor."
Hiroki's heart pounded in his chest. The shock was overwhelming. This wasn't the Peter he had known, the mentor who had trained him with patience and wisdom. No, this was something... darker, something far more unforgiving. Peter was far heartless when it came to his opponents. There was no room for mercy, no hesitation. The same viciousness that had been used against others had been turned back on the thug—and now, Hiroki saw it with his own eyes.
Hiroki's mind was reeling, struggling to understand what Peter had become. He had always respected Peter's strength, his abilities, but now, there was a part of him that feared it. Peter wasn't just a mentor. He was a force of nature—an unstoppable monster when provoked.
For the first time, Hiroki wondered just how much of this violence Peter had buried inside him. How far would he go when pushed?
Hiroki couldn't bring himself to speak again. He was too stunned, too shaken by what he had just witnessed. Peter was no longer just a man who saved lives. He was a killer.
Hiroki just hoped—prayed, really—that Peter hadn't gone too far with the thug. He wasn't sure if the man would live or die, but something told him it wouldn't matter to Peter. If he was a threat, Peter would deal with him—no matter the cost.
Vengeance on the Weak
Hiroki's grip on the girl in his arms tightened as they walked through the alley. His eyes remained sharp, scanning the surroundings, the weight of his earlier actions still heavy on his mind. Despite the gnawing unease, he felt a responsibility to protect her, to get her to safety. But as they turned the corner, what they saw made Hiroki's blood run cold.
A group of six men, their presence unmistakable, were gathered around a girl—a girl who appeared to be struggling. She was surrounded by them, outnumbered and obviously frightened. The sight made Hiroki's blood boil, his heart racing with anger. He instinctively tightened his hold on the girl he was carrying, but his hands shook with suppressed rage.
The girl being assaulted looked like she was trying to escape, her body jerking as she fought back. But then, Hiroki saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
There was a couple nearby—at least, they looked like one. The man had his arm draped casually over the girl's shoulders, a smug smirk on his face. The girl he was with didn't seem phased at all. Instead, she wore a twisted, almost amused expression as she watched the chaos unfold, as if she found it all entertaining.
Hiroki's fists clenched tightly, his pulse quickening. His mind screamed at him to do something—anything—but he couldn't act. Not while the girl in his arms was still so vulnerable. He couldn't risk her getting hurt.
But that rage? It didn't disappear. No, it burned brighter with every passing second, until it finally erupted in a way Hiroki couldn't have predicted.
Before he could take another step, Peter was already there, like a storm. The air around him seemed to crackle as he closed the distance in an instant, moving with brutal efficiency. Without hesitation, Peter grabbed one of the men by the arm. His grip was like iron, his strength overpowering. With a swift, violent elbow strike, the thug's teeth were sent flying, some hitting the ground with a sickening clink. The thug cried out in agony, but Peter didn't care. With a move that was almost too fast to follow, Peter grabbed his assailant's face and slammed him down onto the pavement with bone-crushing force. The thug's body went limp, his mouth gaping open in shock as the pavement kissed his skull.
Peter barely broke a sweat as he stood tall, his cold eyes scanning the other men. They weren't prepared for what came next.
Peter raised his foot and stomped on the man's chest with terrifying precision. The sound of air being forcibly pushed out of his lungs was deafening. The thug gasped, his face contorting in pain as his body spasmed. He tried to roll out of the way, to dodge, but Peter was relentless. Each of his kicks landed with a sickening thud, each one pushing the thug further toward oblivion.
The thug tried to scramble back to his feet, but it was too late.
Before Peter could finish the job, something unexpected happened. The other five men, seeing their companion being torn apart with such precision and coldness, fled in a panic. They didn't even think to put up a fight. They simply turned tail and bolted, disappearing into the night.
The scene was over almost as quickly as it began. The alley, once filled with chaos, now lay still. The remaining thug, a pathetic heap of mangled flesh and broken bones, lay at Peter's feet.
Peter, never breaking a sweat, turned his attention back to the man he had just destroyed. His movements were smooth, his expression unreadable. He grabbed the thug by the neck with one hand, lifting him off the ground like he was a ragdoll, his feet dangling uselessly in the air.
The thug gurgled, his attempts to speak failing as Peter squeezed tighter. He wasn't done yet. No mercy. No second chances.
With a snarl, Peter threw the thug away like a discarded trash bag, sending him crashing against the nearest wall. The thug hit with a sickening thud, his body crumpling to the floor, and then… silence.
Peter turned to Hiroki, his gaze sharp, intense. No words were exchanged; there was no need for them. Hiroki knew exactly what Peter was capable of, what he had just done.
But Hiroki couldn't deny that he was shaken by the violence. Peter was something else entirely—a force of nature. He had saved them, yes, but Hiroki couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that this kind of violence was just a taste of what Peter was capable of.
Peter looked at Hiroki, his face still void of emotion, though there was something darker in his eyes now. The kind of look that showed no remorse, no hesitation.
Peter turned his back to the thug, walking past him without a glance. Hiroki followed, his heart pounding in his chest. But it wasn't fear. It was something else—a strange mixture of awe and disgust, confusion and clarity.
Hiroki had seen the darkness in Peter, and now... he understood it better than ever.
The Unmasking
The night air was thick with tension as Peter rushed towards the retreating figures, ready to end what he had started. But in a split second, his attention was caught by something—someone. Hiroki, still holding the injured girl, was now standing still, his gaze locked on the ground ahead.
Peter froze in his tracks, his instincts immediately on alert. It wasn't the girl's body that caught his attention—it was the figure on the ground. His focus shifted from anger to concern, his heart racing. The girl, who had been a mere victim of the assault moments ago, was now lying unconscious, panting with visible pain. The blood that stained her clothes and the bruises that marred her face told a story far darker than Peter had anticipated.
Peter's cold expression softened for a brief moment, his protective instinct taking over. He swiftly walked over to her and dropped to his knees beside her, his heart heavy with sympathy. "Hey, can you hear me?" Peter whispered, his voice softer than usual. He gently placed a hand on her battered body, lifting her from the cold ground.
Her face was swollen—her right eye blackened from the blow, and her cheeks puffed up with the remnants of a vicious punch. Her skin was bruised, her clothes barely clinging to her battered form, and there was a dark, sickly wound on her left arm, as if it had been broken or crushed.
Peter could feel his stomach churn with frustration. The boy—no, the girl—was barely clinging to life. What happened to you?
He shook her lightly, trying to rouse her, but when he looked closer, something didn't sit right. There was a subtle, unexpected detail that caught Peter off guard—a detail that shook him to his core.
For the first time, Peter's breath hitched as he realized the truth: The girl wasn't a girl at all.
His sharp eyes scanned the shape of the body, and a subtle, unmistakable bulge on the lower part of the unconscious figure's body made everything click in place. Peter's shock mirrored the sudden realization. This wasn't a girl. This was a boy.
Peter took a moment to process, his face clouded with confusion and disbelief. The truth was right there in front of him, but it felt like a betrayal, a deception—why was this boy dressed like this, why was he pretending? And why had he been put through this hell?
Peter's voice broke through the shock, trying to shake the boy into reality. "Hey! Answer me! What happened to you?!" Peter's usually steady voice now sounded more urgent, more human than ever before. His hands trembled slightly as he touched boy's skin, feeling the coldness, the weight of the pain etched into the boy's body.
Ayato's eyelids fluttered for a moment, struggling to open. His breathing was labored, his words coming out in a low, almost inaudible murmur, as though every syllable he spoke took all his remaining strength.
"My... my name is..." Ayato barely managed to cough between his words. "A-a-... Ayato... Haruno..." With that final whisper, his body gave out completely, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed against Peter's chest.
Peter, completely shaken, found himself holding Ayato Haruno in his arms, the boy's fragile form limp in his embrace. There was no time for hesitation—no time to understand it all. Peter shook him lightly, shouting in a voice laced with both desperation and confusion: "Open your eyes... HEY!!!"
But Ayato's body gave no response.
Peter could feel the boy's heartbeat growing faint, each pulse weaker than the last. The rage that had once burned so brightly within him, ready to tear through anyone in his way, was now replaced with something softer. He stared down at the boy, the weight of what had happened overwhelming him. For the first time in a long while, Peter's armor cracked, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.
What had they done to him?
Peter gently adjusted his position, holding Ayato more carefully. The fight, the violence, it all seemed so distant now. He couldn't let this boy die—not here, not now.
Without another word, Peter stood, lifting Ayato in his arms with a tenderness that belied the violence he had just unleashed. He turned towards Hiroki, his eyes still filled with the chaos of the past few moments, and simply nodded. It was time to leave—there was no turning back now.
As they made their way out of the alley, with the faint sounds of distant sirens growing louder, Peter felt a surge of protectiveness wash over him. He would make sure Ayato survived this night—he would make sure no one would ever hurt him again.
To Be Continue...