The Ex Boyfriend

Thirdteen years ago

"Miroku."

Hisashi's voice was tentative, the word hanging in the air like a delicate thread. Miroku glanced up from his phone, his expression unreadable as his dark eyes settled on her. "What's up?" he asked, his tone even, giving nothing away.

She hesitated, nerves fluttering in her chest. "Aiko and I were planning a girls' night this weekend," she began, carefully gauging his reaction. "I wanted to check if you were okay with that."

Miroku's brows knitted slightly, his expression hardening just enough to set her on edge. He leaned back, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Girls' night, huh?" he echoed, his voice laced with skepticism. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that."

Hisashi's heart sank. She tried to keep her voice steady as she replied, "It's just one night, Miroku. Aiko and I haven't spent time together in ages, and I miss her."

Miroku shook his head, his tone firm but laced with feigned concern. "It's not about you, Hisashi. It's about the world out there. What if something happens? I wouldn't be able to forgive myself."

Frustration bubbled beneath the surface, but Hisashi fought to remain calm. "Miroku, we're going to a café, not some wild party," she countered, trying to reason with him. "You know I can handle myself."

Miroku's sigh was heavy, and he ran a hand through his hair. "I trust you, but I worry. You know that. It's just how I am."

Hisashi's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I get that you care, but this feels more like control than love," she said, her voice shaking slightly with suppressed emotion. "I don't want to feel like I'm in a cage."

Miroku's eyes softened momentarily, but his stance remained unyielding. "I'm doing this for us, Hisashi. I don't want to lose you to some stupid mistake or reckless situation."

She took a deep breath, her frustration giving way to a quiet sadness. "I need space to live my life, Miroku. You can't protect me from everything."

Miroku stood abruptly, towering over her. His presence was imposing, his dark gaze bearing down on her as he reached out, his hand wrapping possessively around her wrist. "Where you go, I go," he declared, his voice low and commanding. His lips brushed against her neck, the gesture meant to be reassuring but feeling more like a claim.

Hisashi stiffened, her heart pounding as she fought back the urge to pull away. "Okay," she whispered, the word barely audible. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

"Good," Miroku murmured, his grip tightening slightly as his breath warmed her skin. "That's how it should be."

The weight of his possessiveness pressed down on her, and though she forced a weak smile, her mind churned with unease. She felt trapped, suffocated by his need to control her every move.

Deep inside, a quiet defiance stirred. She buried it for now, unwilling to risk the confrontation, but the seed of doubt had been planted. How long could she continue to suppress her own desires and needs for the sake of appeasing Miroku's insecurities?

As he pulled her closer, Hisashi's thoughts drifted to the life she wanted—the freedom to make her own choices, to live without constant supervision or second-guessing. The question lingered in her mind: how much more of herself was she willing to sacrifice before she reached her breaking point?

__________

The sight of the crimson Supra, a sleek predator in the fading light, sent a jolt of raw, visceral fear through Hisashi. And then, he emerged. Miroku.

Her breath hitched, a strangled gasp caught in her throat. He was a ghost, a specter from a past she had desperately tried to bury. Time had sculpted him, refined his edges, but the core remained unchanged. His hair, now longer, cascaded in loose, dark waves, framing his chiseled features. His blue eyes, sharp and predatory, gleamed against his dark skin, a stark contrast that sent shivers down her spine. He was a vision of polished elegance, a model plucked from the pages of a magazine, yet the wicked glint in his eyes spoke of a darkness that time had only deepened.

Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms, a desperate attempt to anchor herself against the storm of emotions raging within her. Anger, a white-hot fury, warred with a primal fear, a terror that whispered of past traumas. The sight of him, here, defiling her father's legacy, the car that was a tangible piece of her past, twisted the knife already buried deep within her. It was a violation, a cruel mockery of the sanctuary she had built for herself.

Get a grip, she told herself, the words a silent mantra against the rising panic. It's been nine years. You've moved on.

But Miroku's smug expression, a cruel twist of his lips, fueled the fire within her. This wasn't just about the car. It was about everything he represented—the manipulation, the control, the emotional wreckage he had left in his wake. Her father's car, a symbol of her strength, of the life she had rebuilt, was now a battleground. And she would not yield.

She reached for the half-empty bottle of iced tea, the cold glass a stark contrast to the burning rage in her veins. Hen Akoto's sharp gaze, ever watchful, shifted from the damaged car to her. He saw the storm brewing within her, the raw, untamed fury that threatened to erupt. He didn't know the details, but he recognized the signs—the clenched jaw, the rigid posture, the haunted look in her eyes.

Miroku's smirk faltered as his eyes locked on Hisashi. A flicker of genuine shock, quickly replaced by a predatory gleam, crossed his face. "Hisashi?" he breathed, her name a question, a taunt.

Hen Akoto saw the change in her, the fierce determination that settled over her like a battle cloak. He moved to intervene, but she was too fast. Hisashi swung the bottle, the amber liquid arcing through the air, splashing across Miroku's pristine shirt. The bottle hit his chest with a dull thud, the final act of defiance.

"How—dare—you do this to my car!" Each word was a weapon, a sharpened edge of her fury. She advanced on him, her knuckles white, her eyes blazing.

The final word was punctuated by a solid punch, a blow that landed squarely on Miroku's lips. His head snapped back, a thin trickle of blood staining his skin. The silence that followed was thick with tension, the air crackling with unspoken emotions.

"Hisashi?" Miroku repeated, disbelief coloring his voice.

Hen Akoto stepped between them, his presence a solid barrier. "Hey, hey," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Let's not do this here."

"You're the Black Panther?" Miroku asked, his voice laced with incredulity.

Hisashi's glare didn't waver. "So this is what you do now?" she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. "Sabotage your competition because you can't win on the track?"

"There's a misunderstanding—" Miroku began, but she cut him off.

"This isn't a misunderstanding," she hissed, her voice like ice. "You can't stop screwing with my life."

Miroku's gaze softened, a flicker of something that might have been guilt in his eyes. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive murmur. "Shi, if I—"

"Don't call me that!" she snapped, the pet name a cruel reminder of a past she wanted to forget.

Hen Akoto intervened, his voice cold and unwavering. "Clearly, this was your team," he said, gesturing toward the vandalized car.

Miroku's irritation flared. "Stay out of this, Takawara. It's not your business."

"Hisashi is part of my team," Hen replied, his voice firm. "That makes it my business."

Miroku's sneer deepened. "Is this for real?" he asked, his eyes flicking between Hen and Hisashi.

"Real as hell," Hisashi replied, her voice unwavering.

Miroku reached for her wrist, his grip firm. "Let's just put this behind us, Shi. Restart things."

"Let. Me. Go," she demanded, her voice a low growl.

Hen Akoto's hand shot out, forcing Miroku to release her. "Back off," he said, his voice a warning.

Miroku shoved Hen, his anger boiling over. "What's your problem?"

"My problem is you grabbing her," Hen replied, his voice steady. "Let her make her own damn choices."

"And yet, her choices don't seem to improve," Miroku sneered. "This guy? Doesn't even know what loyalty means."

Hisashi shoved past Hen, confronting Miroku directly. "What do you care?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "Whether I'm into him or not, what does it matter to you?"

"You're too good for someone like him," Miroku whispered, his voice laced with a possessive undertone. "You're just another fling to him. You deserve better."

"So what? You had your chance with me, and you threw it away!" Hisashi shot back, her voice thick with emotion.

Hen Akoto's breath caught at her words. They were together? The revelation hit him like a freight train. Hisashi had mentioned possessive exes before, but he hadn't imagined this. Miroku Romulus—her ex-boyfriend?

Hen's thoughts were interrupted as Hisashi swatted his hand away when he tried to steady her. "Get the hell out of here, Miroku," she hissed, her voice cold and unyielding.

Miroku's eyes narrowed, his frustration boiling over. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he muttered, his tone heavy with unspoken threats. "My loyalty stands. Not sure about his."

For a long moment, silence hung heavy in the air, the tension between them thick and suffocating. Finally, Miroku turned on his heel, gesturing sharply for his team to follow. "Let's go," he barked, venom lacing his words.

As the red Supra disappeared into the night, Hen Akoto turned to Hisashi. "You okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded, her trembling hand betraying her composure. "Yeah," she said, her voice steady but strained. "Thanks."

Hen hesitated, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the retreating Supra. "You don't owe him anything," he said quietly, his voice firm with conviction.

"I know," Hisashi replied, her eyes meeting his. "But I needed to make sure he knows it too."

From behind them, Alexander broke the heavy silence with a dry chuckle. "You sure know how to keep things interesting, Hisashi," he remarked. "You dated *him*?"

Hisashi groaned, rubbing her temples. "Don't remind me."

____________

Hisashi's uncle stepped out of the house, his pajama pants and slippers a stark contrast to the tension in the air. His unkempt hair and slightly groggy expression belied the sharp focus that came over him as his eyes locked onto the tow truck pulling her damaged S13. The sight of the vandalized car made his jaw tighten, though he quickly shifted his focus to Hisashi, who stood by the truck, looking visibly shaken.

Quickly stepping out of the car, Hisashi approached her uncle with a heavy heart. Her posture was tense, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The weight of the night's events pressed down on her, and her guilt was evident in every step she took.

"I'm sorry," Hisashi said softly, her voice trembling as she gestured toward the damaged car. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at her uncle, ashamed of what had happened to the car that held so much sentimental value for both of them.

Her uncle's gaze softened as he looked at her, his initial shock giving way to concern. Without a word, he wrapped her in a firm embrace, his silent support steadying her trembling frame.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently, his voice carrying the weight of his worry.

Hisashi nodded against his chest, though her voice wavered. "I'm fine. I'm just… sorry," she whispered, her words barely audible.

He pulled back slightly, placing his hands on her shoulders as he looked her in the eye. "That's nothing, Hisashi. The car can be fixed. You? You're irreplaceable," he said with a small, reassuring smile.

Hisashi's lip trembled as she nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude for his unwavering support. He leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, a gesture that spoke volumes of his love and concern. "Go inside and get some rest. We'll deal with this tomorrow."

She hesitated but eventually nodded, glancing back at the S13 one last time before heading toward the house. Her uncle's gaze followed her briefly before shifting to the other figure present.

Hen Akoto sat in his white S14, the dim light from the porch casting shadows across his face. The soft ticking of the cooling engine filled the silence, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him. His window was rolled down, and the night air seeped in, cool and biting. Gone was his usual relaxed demeanor; in its place was a grim seriousness that etched deep lines into his face.

As Kumoku approached, the older man's slipper-clad feet crunched against the gravel driveway. His disheveled appearance—a simple shirt and pajama pants—did little to diminish the commanding presence he exuded. His brows knitted tightly, his eyes locking with Hen's as if trying to read the younger man's thoughts before a word was spoken.

"What happened?" Kumoku asked, leaning against the car window, his voice low but edged with unease.

Hen hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as he searched for the right words. The weight of the night clung to him, every detail a fresh wound. His eyes dropped for a brief moment, then met Kumoku's again.

"Miroku happened," Hen finally said, the name leaving his lips like a curse.

The single word hit Kumoku like a physical blow. His grip on the car's window tightened, his knuckles turning white as his jaw set with a tension that seemed almost audible. His eyes darkened, a flash of raw anger cutting through his usually composed demeanor.

"Did the twat try anything with her?" Kumoku's voice dropped lower, a dangerous calm replacing the initial shock. The words carried an undercurrent of barely restrained fury.

Hen shook his head firmly, his voice steady but edged with determination. "Didn't let him."

For a moment, Kumoku didn't reply, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. His fingers loosened slightly on the window frame, though his eyes remained sharp, scanning Hen for any sign of hesitation. "Was it that bad?" Hen asked cautiously, sensing there was more to Miroku than he'd ever realized.

Kumoku's expression hardened, his gaze distant as if dredging up memories he'd rather forget. His voice, when it came, was laced with bitterness. "Jail was in the picture once," he said, each word deliberate. "Sexual assault. Grooming a minor. And more."

The words landed like a thunderclap, the implications sending a chill through Hen. His head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock and revulsion. "Motherfucker," he breathed, the curse escaping him like a hiss.

Kumoku nodded grimly. "His father's influence is strong. Money, connections—they erased the charges like they were nothing. The bastard walked free."

The fury simmering beneath Hen's calm exterior flared visibly. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles paling. "I'll make sure he doesn't come near her again," he said, his voice cold and resolute.

Kumoku's sharp eyes studied Hen, assessing the sincerity in his words. After a long pause, he gave a single nod, the weight of his trust evident in the gesture. "See that you don't," he said, his tone softer but no less serious.

As Kumoku straightened and stepped back, his gaze fell on the S13, its vandalized exterior illuminated under the faint glow of the porch light. His expression flickered with sadness and restrained rage.