The Golden Cage & The Rusted Chains.

Chapter 32 : The Golden Cage & The Rusted Chains.

The chandelier above the grand dining hall was imported from France-pure crystal, refracting light into thousands of tiny prisms. The marble floors shone like mirrors, polished to perfection. At the center of the vast table, untouched plates of carefully arranged cuisine sat beneath the glow of candlelight. The air smelled of saffron, truffle oil, and red wine.

Ryo sat at the far end of the table, posture straight, shoulders squared. Across from her, her father, Harate Yamamichi, methodically cut into his steak, chewing in silence. The only sound in the room was the clinking of silverware against porcelain.

A perfectly manufactured moment. A scene of wealth, power, and control.

She hated it.

Her mother had died years ago. A long-forgotten portrait on the wall, a name people whispered about but never said aloud. And in her absence, the Yamamichi household had become nothing more than a battlefield disguised as civility.

Her father had no love for her-only expectations. Only rules.

"Ryo," Harate finally spoke, placing his utensils down with calculated precision. "I spoke with the headmaster of Roward today."

Ryo barely blinked. 'Here it comes.'

"He says you've been avoiding your social duties. Refusing invitations. Rejecting potential connections."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His words carried weight without force-sharp, calculated, suffocating.

Ryo reached for her glass of water, swirling it absently. "I didn't realize existing was a performance."

Harate didn't react. He never did. He only studied her, expression unreadable. "You're Yamamichi blood. Every move you make reflects on this family."

This family.

As if she were merely a piece in a grand game. Not a daughter. Not a person. Just an asset.

Ryo set her glass down, meeting his gaze head-on. "Then maybe you should start treating me like one."

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of something passed through his eyes-annoyance? Amusement?

Then it was gone.

"Finish your dinner," was all he said.

Ryo didn't move.

Harate returned to his meal as if the conversation had never happened.

A golden cage.

Beautiful. Perfect.

And utterly inescapable.

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The silence stretched, pressing down on her, heavier than the weight of the entire house itself. Ryo's fork hovered above her plate, the food untouched. She stared at it, but it felt like she was staring through it-through everything.

The delicate surface of the food, the crystal of the chandelier, the polished silverware, the perfect facade of her family... it was all so flawless, and yet, all so empty.

She swallowed hard, and in the same motion, slid her fork back onto her plate.

Enough.

The thought was sudden, sharp, a small spark of rebellion that felt almost ridiculous to hold onto in this place, in this moment. She wasn't a doll to be dressed in expectation. She wasn't a commodity to be traded for social advantage.

Her chest tightened as she felt the weight of her father's gaze even though he no longer looked at her. The air thickened. She wanted to scream, to throw something, to make a noise loud enough to shatter the silence that stifled her. But she couldn't.

Her fingers trembled at her sides, the sharp edge of frustration cutting deeper and deeper.

Ryo's breath came in shallow bursts as she let her eyes drift toward the window. The storm was still raging outside, but it was quieter now. The rain had softened, turning the world outside into a murky blur.

How many times had she watched this storm pass by, waiting for something-anything-to change? How many times had she sat in this same room, in this same seat, trapped in the same conversation, the same silence?

Why couldn't it be different?

She clenched her jaw and stared at the empty chair across from her.

It was the chair her mother used to sit in. Before the cancer, before the sickness, before everything fell apart.

Ryo hated the way her father had replaced her mother in this family.

Not literally. Not in any obvious way. But in the silence, in the looks, in the way things were expected to be perfect, expected to be whole. Ryo wasn't a replacement. She was her own person, but sometimes-like tonight-she felt more like a ghost in her own life.

"Finish your dinner," Harate had said.

The words echoed in her head like an insult, a reminder of the expectations placed on her. She wasn't allowed to be weak. She wasn't allowed to be tired. She wasn't allowed to be anything but the perfect, poised daughter of Harate Yamamichi.

But she was tired. So tired of it all.

Her breath hitched, but she quickly forced the tears back, refusing to let them fall. She couldn't cry. She couldn't show weakness. Not here. Not now. Not in this house that demanded she be perfect and always right.

Ryo picked up her glass of water, staring at her reflection in it. She didn't recognize herself anymore. The girl who had once dreamed of breaking free, of finding herself outside the golden cage, felt like a distant memory.

Was it always going to be like this?

Her gaze flicked back to her father. He was absorbed in his meal, just as he always was-consumed by his business, by his own ambitions, by his carefully constructed world. He never looked at her like she mattered. Not truly. He looked at her like a model in a picture frame, something that had to stay in place, untouched, unspoiled.

And she couldn't stand it.

She slammed her glass down onto the table, the water splashing over the rim. The sound shattered the fragile stillness between them.

Harate didn't flinch.

For a moment, Ryo's heart pounded in her chest, her fingers trembling at her sides. She could feel the anger rising, but it wasn't directed at him, not really. It was all the things she couldn't say, all the things she couldn't do, all the pieces of herself she had buried under the weight of his expectations.

Her mind screamed, but her mouth stayed silent. She couldn't find the words. Not the words that would do justice to how suffocated she felt.

She stood up suddenly, pushing her chair back with a scrape that felt too loud, too defiant.

"I'm done," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Harate didn't respond. He never did.

Ryo grabbed her coat from the back of her chair, slipping it on in one swift motion.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice flat, uninterested.

Ryo didn't answer. She didn't need to.

She was done.

She stepped into her room, feeling the cool drops hit her hand, like a cleansing, the only real thing she could feel right now. The world outside was a blur of gray, the darkened cityscape swallowed by the storm's heavy weight.

It felt more real than her house. More honest.

For a second, she just stood there, letting the rain soak through her clothes.

Maybe one day...

She wasn't sure what that "one day" would look like. But maybe it would be a day when she didn't feel like she was holding her breath all the time. A day when the cage she was trapped in didn't feel so suffocating.

Maybe it wouldn't be tonight. But she knew, in that brief moment, she wasn't willing to let it crush her anymore.

Ryo closed her eyes and breathed in the rain-soaked air. It was raw, cold, and real. Just like the world outside her family's walls.

Maybe she wasn't perfect. Maybe she didn't have everything figured out. But for the first time in years, Ryo wasn't sure she cared.

She was done pretending.

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The smell of damp mold clung to the apartment walls.

The wallpaper peeled in the corners, curling like dead leaves. Outside, rain dripped through a crack in the ceiling, tapping against the rusted sink in an uneven rhythm.

Ryuga sat on the edge of his mattress, pulling off his hoodie, shaking out the cold that clung to his bones. The moment he moved, a small, frail voice stirred behind him.

"Ryuu?"

He turned.

His younger sister, Nao, peeked out from under their worn-out blanket, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her hair stuck up in odd directions, messy from rest.

"Did you bring food?" she mumbled, her voice hoarse.

Ryuga reached into his bag, pulling out a convenience store sandwich. Cheap, half-stale, but better than nothing.

Nao sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders, and took it without question.

Ryuga watched as she ate-too fast, too desperate.

His gut twisted.

Not enough. Never enough.

He had spent the entire day working two shifts-one at a warehouse, the other running deliveries for a shady corner store. The money was already gone. Rent. Medicine. More debt to pay off.

His fingers curled into his palms.

"This ain't sustainable," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Nao blinked at him, still chewing. "Huh?"

Ryuga exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"Nothing. Just... eat slow, yeah?"

She nodded, but he knew she wouldn't listen.

Across the room, an envelope sat on the counter. Unopened.

Red ink stamped across the front: FINAL NOTICE.

Rusted chains.

Tightening.

Ryuga could feel them coiling around his chest, tightening with every passing second, suffocating the breath out of him. Debt. Bills. Another collection letter. Another promise broken. Another day spent fighting for scraps just to keep his sick sister alive.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His eyes shifted to the envelope again. The looming reality of it. He couldn't avoid it. Couldn't pretend it wasn't there.

"Fuck..." he muttered under his breath, the words tasting like bitterness on his tongue. He slammed his fist down on the table, causing the dishes to rattle.

The door creaked open. The sound of rain slapping against the concrete outside filled the small room.

Ryuga didn't look up. He couldn't bring himself to. His knuckles were white from the tension running through him.

He stepped outside, the cool, wet air greeting him like an old friend. He didn't care that it was raining, didn't care that the night was dark and the streets were empty. His mind was a storm of its own, a tempest of thoughts swirling around with nowhere to go.

The city was always a mess, always a blur of people chasing their own shadows. He didn't fit here. Never had.

A car screeched past, its tires cutting through the waterlogged streets. Ryuga walked aimlessly, not sure where he was going. The only thing he knew was that he couldn't stay inside, suffocating in that apartment with the letter that wasn't going away.

He turned a corner, his boots splashing in the puddles, and that's when he heard it.

A shout.

"Hey!"

Ryuga didn't stop. He didn't even acknowledge it.

Another shout, this time closer, with the unmistakable sound of someone stumbling after him.

"Oi! You deaf or something?"

Ryuga paused. Slowly turned.

A punk-dirty jeans, a torn jacket, a nasty sneer on his face-stood in front of him, blocking his path. The kid looked about as desperate as Ryuga felt, but there was something in his eyes that sparked anger, like Ryuga was a target to be picked on.

The guy sized him up, puffing out his chest like he was looking for a fight.

"Got a problem, huh?" the punk sneered. "Think you're too good for me, asshole?"

Ryuga didn't flinch. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"Just go away," Ryuga said, his voice low. But the punk wasn't backing down.

"You think you can just ignore me, huh? You're a fucking coward!"

The insult hit Ryuga like a punch to the gut. Coward. His chest tightened even more. He felt like the chains were getting heavier, harder to breathe through.

Without warning, the punk lunged at him. Ryuga barely had time to react before the fist came at his face.

But Ryuga wasn't some helpless kid who could just take it. He snapped. He wasn't going to let this guy walk all over him. He grabbed the guy's wrist, twisting it, throwing him against the wall with a sickening thud.

The punk was on the ground, dazed for a moment, but he quickly scrambled to his feet, spitting blood and cursing.

"Fuck you, man! You think you're tough?!"

Ryuga was done with words. His body moved on its own. The chains were tightening, and there was only one way to break free.

He charged.

Every muscle in his body screamed as he let out all the rage, all the frustration, everything he'd been holding in for so long. He was feral. A animal.

His fists landed hard, over and over again, the sound of flesh hitting flesh mixing with the rain. He didn't stop. He couldn't.

"Fuck!" Ryuga yelled, his voice raw, each curse sharp like a weapon. "Shit! You want to talk to me like that?!"

His hands were slick with sweat and rain as he kept pounding on the punk, his body shaking with anger and adrenaline. "Bitch!" Another punch. "Motherfucker!" Another hit. "Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit!"

The punk tried to fight back, swinging wildly, but Ryuga was faster. Every time the guy thought he could land a blow, Ryuga was already on him again, pushing him down, knocking the wind out of him, just keeping him on the ground, struggling to breathe.

He was losing himself in it. In the chaos, in the violence.

The rusted chains were gone. For a few moments, the world was nothing but him, his fists, and his rage.

And then, finally, he stopped.

Ryuga stood over the punk, panting, his breath ragged in his chest. The guy was lying on the ground, bloodied and bruised, struggling to get up.

Ryuga took a step back. The rain soaked him to the bone, but the fire in his chest was still there, still burning.

"Next time," Ryuga spat, voice thick with rage, "don't fucking talk to me."

The punk didn't say anything. He just staggered up and bolted down the alleyway, disappearing into the dark.

Ryuga stood there for a while, his body trembling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this-alive, but also empty.

He took a deep breath, but it didn't help. The chains were still there. They were still tight, squeezing around his ribs.

But at least, for a moment, he wasn't alone with them.

At least, for a moment, he had felt something real.

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Somewhere, in the heart of the city, Ryo stood by a large window, her hand stretched out, fingers just inches from the wet glass. The cold droplets of rain that ran down the window seemed to match the deep chill inside her, the space between her and the world beyond.

Her fingers slowly soaked in the mist of the storm outside, as if testing the water, but never daring to step into it fully. The rain was beautiful, the way it blurred the outlines of the world, washing away the colors, the edges, the expectations. Yet, she didn't let herself cross the threshold.

The storm had always been her escape. The freedom of the rain, but not the chaos it brought. Just the feeling of it.

She soaked her hand in the rain, feeling the cold seep into her skin. Her fingers twitched, longing for more. But she held herself back, standing in the warmth of the sheltered, gilded world.

The golden cage-polished, elegant-but suffocating.

Somewhere else, Ryuga stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, soaked to the bone, fists still clenched, a rough breath escaping his lips as the fight within him simmered. His knuckles were raw, the punk he had just beaten lying unconscious on the wet pavement. The rain didn't care. It dripped relentlessly down his face, soaking his hair, his clothes. He was drenched, but the fire inside him refused to burn out.

The cold felt like nothing. The rain beat against him, but he didn't flinch.

He didn't have the luxury to retreat.

He couldn't afford to care about the weight of the storm. His hands might have been raw, but his heart still burned, still fought—still moved forward, even in the worst of it all.

The storm outside mirrored the chaos within him, but it didn't break him. It didn't stop him.

His body might have been soaked, but his resolve? It was as sharp as ever.

Two worlds.

One behind glass, unable to touch the rain.

One drowning in it, but still burning.

They didn't know each other, not yet, but their worlds-at that moment-were colliding in ways they couldn't yet understand.