Farewell Father

Eri's words lingered in the room long after she left, like the faint scent of incense after a prayer. Akira sat alone, his gaze fixed on the closed door, his mind a storm of doubt and suspicion.

"I can't just trust her," He thought, his jaw tightening. "She says she was close to my father, but I don't know her. What if this is just another ploy to use me—or worse, to exploit my father's legacy?"

The weight of his father's absence pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He needed answers, and there was only one person he could turn to. Resolute, he picked up his phone and dialed Hiroshi's number. The call connected quickly.

"Hiroshi-san,"Akira began without preamble, his voice low and urgent. 

"I need to ask you something. What do you know about someone named Eri Kashiro? She also an A-Rank Star."

There was a brief pause on the other end before Hiroshi responded, his tone calm but thoughtful. "Not much," he admitted. "But I do know one thing—your father saved her life once. Ever since then, she's been... close to him."

Akira absorbed the words in silence, the pieces of a puzzle coming together. His father had always been a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. If he had trusted Eri,Akira could too.

"That's all I know," Hiroshi added. "But if your father trusted her, so can you."

"Alright," Akira replied, ending the call. He set the phone down, his mind heavy with the weight of unanswered questions—but for now, he decided to trust in his father's judgment.

After a while

The sun hung low in the sky, its orange light stretching long shadows across the hills. Akira stood motionless alongside Eri on a distant ridge, his body rigid and immovable. Below, the funeral ceremony unfolded like a somber play on an open stage.

The crowd was massive. People from all walks of life had gathered to pay their respects to Shiro Shoto, the man whose brilliance had touched so many. Dignitaries, corporate executives, and STARS of all ranks mingled with somber faces, offering flowers and tributes that rang hollow from afar.

At the center was his father's funeral pyre—a towering, intricately carved structure adorned with white lilies and golden ribbons, its beauty belied by the sorrow it symbolized. Seeing it struck Akira like a knife to the heart.

"He deserved better than this," Akira whispered, his voice heavy with emotion.

Eri stood beside him, arms folded, her presence still but reassuring. "He deserved peace," she said softly. "Not the conflict that tore him from you."

Akira's fists clenched tightly at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He could barely breathe as the fire was ignited, its orange flames reaching up to caress the base of the pyre. The blaze spread quickly, its roar claiming the stillness—and his father.

Akira watched as the fire consumed the body of the man who had been everything to him. The sight depressed and infuriated him. His eyes welled with tears, but he refused to shed them. His chest rose and fell as he steeled himself to remain strong, his gaze locked on the flames.

"I should be down there," he said through gritted teeth. 

"I should be standing by his side, sending him off like a son should. Instead, I'm up here... hiding."

"You're not hiding," Eri whispered, her tone resolute. 

"You're surviving. And survival is the first step toward justice."

Akira shook his head, his voice bitter. "Strong? I'm not strong, Eri. I'm weak. I couldn't stop any of this from happening. Now all I can do is stand here and watch them burn his body."

His voice cracked, but he forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat.

Eri placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Her touch was steady, grounding. 

"You couldn't have prevented it, Akira. But you can ensure it doesn't end here."

Her words resonated within him, turning his rage into a blazing fire. Akira's eyes hardened as he watched the flames consume the last remnants of his father's body. His grief crystallized into something sharper, more precise—a resolve forged from pain and fury.

"I vow," he breathed, his voice trembling but unwavering, "I will bring them down. Every last one of them."

Eri nodded, her expression one of quiet understanding. "Then hold onto that resolve, Akira. Let it guide you, but don't let it consume you. Your father wouldn't want you to lose yourself in the fire."

Akira said nothing. He stared into the flames, his heart pounding with the weight of his vow. As the fire consumed the last vestiges of his father's existence, Akira felt something within him shift—a transformation from grief to unyielding determination.

He had a plan now, a path to avenge his family, and a trusted ally to guide him through the dangers ahead.

Akira found himself at the hospital once more, standing beside the glass window of his mother's room. His eyes were fixed on her frail form, stretched out on the cold white sheets. The monotonous beep of the heart monitor was the only sound, a cruel reminder that she was still here, yet so far removed from the vibrant woman she had once been.

His chest tightened, and he bit down on his lip, trying to suppress the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"This is my fault," Akira thought, his hands trembling at his sides. "If I had been faster, smarter, stronger... none of this would have happened."

Memories of her warmth flooded his mind—her smile that could light up their home, her gentle touch when she brushed his hair from his face, her unwavering support on the days when the world felt like it was crushing him. All of that was gone now, replaced by this cold, fragile silence.

His knees buckled, and he fell to the floor, his forehead pressed against the glass. The tears came before he could stop them—hot and bitter, streaming down his face in an unbroken torrent.

"I failed you," he choked out, his voice breaking into a sob. "I failed Dad. I failed everyone."

The crushing weight of his helplessness bore down on him, and he cried like a child—like the boy who had once believed his parents were invincible. Beneath the grief, there was anger, a smoldering volcano of rage directed at the world, at those who had done this to him, and most of all, at himself.

Akira continued to cry, but with every passing second, his resolve hardened. His anger became a tool, a weapon he would wield against those who had taken everything from him. He looked at his mother through the glass, watching her frail chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm, and he swore again.

"I'll make it right, Mom," he whispered, his voice a rasp but filled with determination. "No matter what it takes."

The tears kept flowing, but they were no longer just tears of despair. They were a vow.

There was no going back now.