Shadows That Follows

Chapter 7: Shadows That Follows

"Let's see how far you can run, Daiki."

The words left Zen's lips in a quiet murmur, almost lost to the wind. But their weight remained, lingering like the scent of blood that still clung to the alley. He stood motionless, watching as the cab sped into the night, its taillights shrinking with every passing second.

He rolled his shoulders, tilting his head slightly, as though shaking off an old ache. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the blade in his hand—Daiki's blade.

The weapon carried no resistance, no warmth—it was merely an object, stripped of its master. Zen traced his thumb along the edge, feeling the faint imperfections on the metal, the small nicks left behind by countless battles. It had been wielded with purpose.

Daiki had once believed that purpose was his to control.

Zen smirked. How foolish.

A sharp inhale. A slow exhale.

The rain had started again, light at first, misting against his skin, then heavier, drowning the quiet hum of the city. The scent of wet asphalt mixed with the coppery tang of blood, was a reminder that tonight had only been the beginning.

Zen turned on his heel, his steps echoing against the rain-slick pavement. The Asakusa Group had always been meticulous, and he was no exception. There was no need for unnecessary bloodshed, not yet. But he had planted the seed.

Daiki would run, as expected. But shadows had a way of catching up.

And Zen had always been very, very good at following.

The city passed by in blurred streaks of neon and shadow, their reflections dancing across the rain-speckled windows. The cab moved smoothly, but inside, the air was thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

Daiki sat rigid, his hand pressed to his knee as he stared out at the flashing lights, his mind replaying the events of the past hour in brutal detail. 

Every step.

Every breath.

Every shift of Zen's blade.

He could still feel Zen's presence, the ghost of him lingering in the space between his ribs.

He had been careless.

The driver stole quick, nervous glances at him through the rearview mirror. The man's hands were gripping the wheel too tightly, his knuckles pale from the strain. The fear in his eyes was evident, darting between the stained sleeve of Daiki's jacket and the quiet tension that filled the car like smoke.

"Sir," he croaked, his voice was tight with fear. "I need to know what's going on. I don't want any trouble. If I'm gonna get dragged into something—"

"Just drive," Daiki cut in. His voice was sharp, cold, carrying a finality that silenced any further protest.

The driver swallowed hard and nodded, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the wheel. His breathing was uneven, shallow. The tension in the cab was suffocating, pressing in from all sides. He kept his eyes locked on the road, but every so often, his gaze flickered to the rearview mirror—searching, dreading.

Daiki closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. The rhythmic hum of the tyres against the wet pavement did little to loosen the tight coil in his chest. His pulse still thundered in his ears, each beat a lingering echo of the confrontation he had barely escaped.

Outside, the city stretched endlessly, bathed in the dim, murky hues of early dawn. The neon lights had begun to fade, swallowed by the creeping light of morning, yet the streets remained eerily silent—too silent. It felt unnatural, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to emerge from the shadows.

He shifted in his seat, muscles stiff with tension, his every instinct on high alert. His fingers twitched against his knee, his body unwilling to believe it was over. But as the car growled steadily through the deserted roads, his shoulders sagged, just slightly.

Zen was not behind them.

There were no distant headlights in the rearview mirror, no silhouettes lurking in the periphery. No sharp edge of a blade waiting to sink into his back.

Still, doubt gnawed at him. He had learnt long ago that true predators didn't chase their prey in the open—they waited, patient and unseen, striking only when escape was no longer an option.

But for now, at least for this fleeting moment, they had made it out.

Daiki let out a slow breath and sank deeper into the seat, willing the tension from his limbs. It wasn't peace—he doubted he would ever have that again—but it was enough. Enough to remind him that he was still alive.

For now.

Aiko sat beside Daiki, hands curled into trembling fists against her lap. She was terrified.

She had seen Daiki in fights before. Small, insignificant brawls with their next-door neighbour, Kai—scuffles that, in hindsight, seemed almost childish compared to the chaos they had just escaped. Back then, Daiki's temper had been a storm contained within the walls of their home, reckless but never truly dangerous. But tonight had been different.

The scent of blood still clung to the air, thick and metallic, a sickening reminder of what they had left behind. Aiko squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to forget, to erase the image of Zen standing there, unshaken, blade in hand. There had been something terrifyingly calm about him, as if he had already decided how the game would play out.

And then there was Daiki.

Aiko had never seen him like that—pushed to the edge, stripped of the quiet life he had built, staring into the abyss of a past he had fought so desperately to escape. He had always been her strong, steady, loving husband, the one who walked her to their little cafe across the streets, the one who scolded her for staying out too late. He was the man who made her laugh with quiet jokes, who held her hand when the world felt too big and uncertain. The man who kissed her forehead every morning before leaving for work, as if sealing a quiet promise that he would always come home to her. But tonight, he had been something else entirely.

The Daiki who sat beside her now wasn't the man she had married, the man she had built a life with. He was something older, something raw—an echo of a past she had only ever glimpsed in scars and whispers. The set of his jaw, the cold stillness in his gaze, the way his fingers flexed and curled against his knee as if they still remembered the weight of a blade.

Aiko's stomach twisted.

She just never thought they would catch up.

She wanted to reach for him, to touch his hand, to remind him that he wasn't alone. That he wasn't that man anymore. But the distance between them felt too vast, like a canyon carved by years of secrets he had never shared.

The cab rumbled through the near-empty streets, the city behind them fading into the early morning quiet. Inside, the air was thick with tension, the silence suffocating. Aiko swallowed hard and stared out the window, pressing her palm flat against her lap to steady herself. Daiki exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing just enough for her to see it—that flicker of exhaustion beneath the tension, the man she knew buried under the one he had tried to leave behind.

Aiko and Koushirou sat in the back, exhaustion slowly pulling them under. Koushirou's head rested against her shoulder, his small, steady breaths a fragile comfort. Aiko held him close, brushing damp strands of hair from his face, whispering a silent prayer that it was just a nightmare they would soon wake from.

Daiki, however, remained rigid, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. His fingers tapped against his knee, a habit he had when he was deep in thought. But tonight, it wasn't just thought—it was calculation, strategy. His instincts prickled, a lingering unease clawing at him.

Something felt wrong.

The tires screeched.

The car lurched violently as the driver yanked the wheel, sending them skidding around a corner. Aiko barely had time to react before Koushirou was flung forward, his face slamming against the reinforced window with a sickening thud.

"Koushirou!" Aiko gasped, panic tightening around her throat like a vice.

Daiki moved in an instant, his arms catching Koushirou before he could fall forward again. His hands were steady, but his grip was tight—too tight. His heartbeat was a relentless drum in his chest.

"What the hell are you doing?" Daiki's voice was low, sharp, laced with a dangerous edge. They hadn't reached their destination yet—Atami Train Station was still several kilometers away.

The driver was shaking, his knuckles white as they gripped the wheel. His erratic breathing filled the silence. "I—I had to—"

Daiki's gaze snapped to the rearview mirror, and his stomach turned to ice.

Headlights.

A second pair of lights had appeared behind them, too close, their glow menacing. The car behind them wasn't just driving. It was chasing.

Aiko saw it too. Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening protectively around Koushirou. "Daiki…"

He didn't respond. His hand had already moved beneath his jacket, fingers brushing against the familiar weight of cold steel. He had hoped—foolishly—that he wouldn't need it. That they had truly escaped.

But shadows always followed.

The air inside the car was thick with panic, every second stretching out unbearably long, suffocating the passengers with a sense of impending doom. Daiki's mind was a storm of calculations, adrenaline coursing through his veins as the world outside blurred into chaotic streaks of neon and shadow. He had been careful—so damn careful. He had covered every angle, taken every precaution.

No one should have known where he was. No one.

Except… Zen.

That bastard. Patient, meticulous Zen. Always calculating, always waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And now, that moment had arrived. Zen had set the hunt in motion, and Daiki was already feeling the weight of his mistake pressing in from every side.

Daiki's eyes darted to the shattered rear windshield, his pulse quickening. The chill of the night air bit at his skin as he peered into the darkened alley. The cold glow of headlights sliced through the rain, casting eerie, jagged shadows that danced like ghosts across the pavement. Daiki's gaze hardened as he saw the figures in the pursuing car—new faces. Fresh blood. But it didn't matter. He knew the one person standing in that car far too well.

Kyoji.

His presence hit Daiki like a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. There was no mistaking him—Daiki could see the glint of the rifle barrel in Kyoji's hands, the way he leaned casually out the window as if this were just another assignment, another target. But Daiki knew better. He knew the truth of Kyoji's craft. The man was an artist of violence; each bullet fired with the cold precision of a master. Every shot had purpose. And this one, this one was meant to kill.

Kyoji's auburn hair, usually neat and controlled, was whipped about by the wind, strands hanging across his face in chaotic disarray. The calmness in his expression sent a chill through Daiki. Kyoji wasn't rushing. He wasn't in a hurry. He was savoring this moment, knowing full well that the fear was already settling into Daiki's bones.

The rifle raised. Daiki's stomach twisted in an instinctive knot. His breath caught in his throat.

Bang.

The gunshot cracked through the air, deafening in its violence. Daiki's heart stopped as the bullet tore through the trunk of the cab, grazing the air around them with a sharpness that made his skin prickle. The driver's eyes went wide, terror-stricken, and the car veered violently to one side. Tires screeched against the wet pavement, skidding dangerously close to the curb. Daiki saw the panic rip through the driver like a visible wound, his hands shaking violently on the wheel.

Aiko's gasp was strangled, a sound that lodged itself deep in Daiki's chest. His heart clenched painfully as her arms instinctively tightened around Koushirou. The sharp, tight grip she had on him was as much a shield for herself as it was for their son. Koushirou's whimper broke through the tension, his fragile form shuddering in Aiko's arms.

Daiki's pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but the pounding rhythm of his own heartbeat. He felt the desperate rush of blood to his head, the weight of fear dragging at him from every direction.

"Aiko, hold Koushirou. Keep your head down," he managed to bark, his voice cutting through the rising panic.

Her response was frantic, barely audible over the chaos. "Daiki!" Aiko's voice cracked, raw with fear, torn between disbelief and terror.

Daiki didn't answer. His mind was already working faster than his body could follow. There was no time for hesitation. Not now.

His gaze fixed on Kyoji, eyes narrowing as their gazes locked through the shattered glass of the rear window. For a split second, there was a flicker of recognition, a dangerous gleam of amusement in Kyoji's eyes. He knew Daiki would react. He knew Daiki's instincts. And it made Daiki's blood boil.

Bastard, Daiki thought, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms.

Another shot rang out, louder than the last. This time, the glass shattered in a deafening explosion. Jagged shards sprayed across the backseat, raining down around them like deadly confetti.

Aiko's scream tore through the silence, a raw, animalistic cry of terror as she shielded Koushirou with her own body, curling herself protectively around their son. Daiki's heart ripped in half at the sight. He could feel the weight of her fear press against him like a vice, but he couldn't give in to it.

The driver screamed in panic, his voice cracking. "They're shooting at us! Oh god—oh god—" His voice was rising, spiraling into hysteria as the reality of their situation set in.

Another shot.

This one hit too close. The left-side mirror exploded into fragments of glass that spun into the night like a deadly storm. The car jerked violently, swerving uncontrollably as the driver panicked even more.

Daiki's grip on his blade tightened. Years of hiding from this world, years of running, had been for nothing. The past had found them. It had tracked them down and dragged them back into the darkness. And now, there was no more running. No more hiding.

There was only survival.

"Drive," Daiki commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade of its own. His words were steady, low, but there was something raw beneath them. The weight of the situation, the knowledge that this was only the beginning, pressed down on him harder than any bullet ever could.

The driver's voice broke through in a panicked, wild laugh. "Lose them?! Are you insane?! They've got guns!"

Daiki's gaze never left the rearview mirror. "I don't give a damn," he snapped. "Drive."

Another shot.

The driver ducked instinctively, letting out a strangled cry as the rearview mirror exploded in a shower of glass. "Shit, shit, shit—"

Daiki's mind was already whirling, his thoughts spinning as rapidly as the wheels on the cab. Kyoji wasn't rushing. He wasn't in a hurry. He wasn't trying to kill them outright—no, this was something far worse. Kyoji was toying with him. Playing with him, knowing full well that the moment he fired the next bullet, it could be the end. But it was the psychological game that hurt the most.

Daiki's body screamed at him to act. His hands were shaking. His heart was racing. He was a man caught between two worlds—one that wanted to fight, and the other that wanted to protect.

He needed to level the playing field. And quickly.

His fingers brushed the blade hidden within his coat, his mind already mapping the chaos that would follow.

Kyoji smirked, lifting the rifle again with unhurried precision, taking his time. There was no panic in the way he moved—just the cold, calculating calm of a predator. He was lining up his shot, a momentary pause before the inevitable. Daiki could see the shift in Kyoji's body, the subtle way his finger tightened around the trigger, the way his eyes narrowed, focusing solely on the target. The calmness in Kyoji's posture was maddening, like a death sentence hanging in the air. It was like he knew Daiki would react, knew Daiki was already planning his next move.

Time seemed to stretch impossibly thin, like a taut string ready to snap.

Aiko's shallow, frantic breaths were all Daiki could hear beside him. Her arms were wrapped tightly around Koushirou, holding him down, both of them trying to shield themselves from the violence that was crashing down on them. His son's little whimpers, barely audible, made Daiki's heart twist in a way that only a father could understand.

Koushirou is too young for this, Daiki thought bitterly. I swore I would protect you both, keep you safe from all of this.

But the past had come crashing back in. And now it was too late to run.

Daiki's muscles tightened. His instincts screamed at him, every nerve in his body begging him to act, to move, to stop the inevitable.

Bang.

The shot rang out. The sound deafened Daiki's senses, sharp and final. The bullet whizzed past them, the wind of its passage almost palpable. For a split second, Daiki's world blurred into white noise, a sensation of weightlessness as the air seemed to suck all the oxygen from his lungs.

Aiko screamed again, a desperate, piercing cry that ripped through Daiki's concentration like a knife. She was trying to protect Koushirou, trying to shield him from the horror, but Daiki knew they weren't safe.

The bullet had missed them by inches. It had been a warning.

Another shot followed, and the car swerved violently. The driver was on the edge of hysteria now, his eyes wide with terror, his hands trembling so badly that the steering wheel was shaking in his grip. Daiki could feel the car's movements, its jerky motions as they sped through the streets, a racing heart with no end in sight.

The city outside blurred in a whirl of neon and shadow. Daiki couldn't focus on anything but the immediate danger—the sound of Kyoji's calm breath as he aimed again, the tremble of Aiko's hand as she clutched Koushirou closer, her silent plea for him to make this stop.

It wasn't just the physical threat, though. It was the weight of it all—the years of effort to build something good, something normal, and how easily it could be shattered in a single moment.

He had worked so hard to bury the ghosts of his past, to keep Aiko and Koushirou away from this world, away from violence. But now, the past was clawing its way back, and Daiki couldn't stop it. He was powerless.

"Daiki, please…" Aiko's voice cracked through the tension. Her words were torn, filled with a rawness that hit Daiki harder than any bullet. She was trembling, unable to hide the fear that had seeped into her bones.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Hold on," was all he could say.

He barely had time to react when Kyoji fired again, this time aiming straight for the backseat. The blast of the gun was deafening, and Daiki's whole body instinctively flinched. The bullet sliced through the air, but Daiki managed to shove Aiko and Koushirou down again, just in time.

The impact of the bullet on the car's frame reverberated through Daiki's bones, sending a shockwave of dread through him. Glass shattered in all directions, the shards cutting through the air like a hailstorm of deadly pieces. Daiki's heart pounded harder, louder. Each beat felt like a countdown, a drum to the death that was chasing them.

Koushirou gasped in fright, and Aiko whimpered, but Daiki could hear the faint sound of her trying to comfort their son through her own fear. "We're going to be okay," she whispered, though her voice cracked with uncertainty. She was trying to be strong, for him, for Koushirou, but Daiki could hear the fear in her words. It mirrored the fear in his own chest, a fear that threatened to swallow them all.

The car swerved again, this time barely avoiding a light post. Daiki's hand shot out, grabbing the edge of the seat, holding on as if it would steady the world.

"Lose them," Daiki barked, his voice laced with steel, but underneath, there was a tremor of fear, of desperation. The driver's panicked gasps were the only response.

The vehicle lurched forward as the man hit the gas, and they tore through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic. The alleyways passed by in a blur, the lights flickering with the speed of their flight, and yet it wasn't enough. They couldn't outrun the bullet. They couldn't outrun Kyoji.

Another shot. This time, it grazed the side of the car, ripping through the metal, sparking against the rain-soaked road. The car shook, but the driver kept his foot pressed to the pedal, urging the vehicle to go faster.

Daiki's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Kyoji was too skilled, too patient, to just let them escape. Every shot was a calculated move. The man wasn't rushing, wasn't careless. He was playing a long game.

But Daiki wasn't about to be a pawn.

His hand tightened around his knife, the cool steel almost comforting against his skin. He needed to do something. He needed to level the field. The fight was coming to him whether he wanted it or not.

Kyoji's face flickered in Daiki's mind, the smirk on his lips, the casual way he held that rifle. It sickened him. Kyoji was testing him, waiting for him to make a mistake. But Daiki wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

The decision was made. There would be no more running. Not this time.

Daiki twisted in his seat, his fingers brushing against Aiko's trembling hand. Her touch was a silent promise. They would survive this. Together.

"I won't let them take us," he whispered, his voice steady but thick with the weight of what he had to do.

He turned to the driver, locking eyes with him. "Lose them. Now."

The driver didn't respond, but his fear was palpable. Yet, despite the panic in his eyes, the car shot forward with a renewed urgency.

Daiki didn't wait. He didn't hesitate.

He gripped the door handle with the kind of certainty that only came in moments like this.

And then, without a second thought, he jumped.