Chapter 5

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO...

The sterile white of the hospital walls hummed under flickering fluorescent lights. A slow, mechanical beep kept time like a heartbeat. The smell of disinfectant clung to the air like regret.

Then—crying.

A newborn's wail cracked the stillness like thunder through glass. Loud. Alive. Defiant.

In Aya Himura's trembling arms, the baby squirmed, her skin flushed pink and slick with afterbirth. She had a wild crown of black hair, and when her eyes finally opened, they weren't the dull gray-blue of most infants. They were deep, storm-touched—eyes that looked like they remembered something.

Aya sobbed. Not out of fear or pain, but something deeper. Relief. Love. A quiet terror.

"She's... beautiful," she whispered, kissing the baby's forehead.

Her mother sat beside her, brushing strands of sweat-damp hair from Aya's face, offering a tired smile. The grandfather stood stiffly by the window, his silence respectful, his pride buried under a stoic gaze.

Then came the fourth presence.

Daigo Himura.

He stood in the far corner of the room, arms crossed, posture rigid, jaw tight. His face was carved from shadow and stone—emotionless, except for a flicker of something cold behind his eyes. He didn't approach. Didn't speak. Didn't blink.

"Have you thought of a name?" the grandmother asked softly.

Aya cradled the baby closer, as if shielding her from the very air.

"Midori," she said, breath catching. "Midori Himura."

There was a pause.

Daigo scoffed. "Tch. Do whatever you want."

The room felt colder after that.

⸻

The room was dimly lit. A single bulb swayed above, its chain clicking softly with every gust of wind rattling through the cracked window. Dust floated lazily in the air.

Midori sat cross-legged on the faded tatami mat, cradling a wooden doll in her arms. Chiyo, she called her. Chiyo had a missing eye and a yellow yarn dress stitched by trembling hands. Her hair had thinned from years of love.

Midori was humming.

"Chiyo doesn't like the dark," she whispered. "She gets scared. But it's okay. I'll hold her."

Then—a floorboard creaked.

She froze.

The air shifted. Her heartbeat stuttered. A shadow fell across the wall beside her, long and monstrous.

She turned slowly.

Daigo was standing in the hallway, watching her. His shirt was unbuttoned. He smelled of cigarettes and stale beer. His face wasn't angry. It was worse—blank. Empty.

Midori's hands tightened around the doll. "P-Papa?"

He didn't answer.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His boots thudded softly on the wood.

Then—his hand came down.

Not a slap. Not a push.

A strike. Full force.

Midori flew sideways, crashing into the floor. Chiyo slipped from her grip, her yarn hair tangled in splinters.

Silence.

Her tiny hands clutched her cheek. It was already swelling. Warm blood filled her mouth.

She didn't cry.

She just stared at the ceiling. Motionless. Numb.

⸻

The walls of their home had stopped being walls long ago. They were just... containers for fear. Rooms for screaming. Hallways for hiding.

Aya tried. God, she tried. She'd usher Midori into closets. Whisper lullabies through trembling lips. Leave food in little plastic boxes when Daigo was home early.

But nothing stopped the storm.

One night, Midori dropped a cup. Just a cheap porcelain one. It shattered on the kitchen floor. For a second, she thought—maybe he didn't hear it.

Then the door creaked open.

Daigo's shadow filled the frame.

"You little shit."

She turned to run, but he grabbed her by the collar. Lifted her off the ground. Her feet kicked wildly in the air. She couldn't breathe.

Then—a fist to the ribs. Then another.

She hit the floor like a ragdoll, breathless. The tiles were cold against her cheek. Blood trickled from her nose.

Aya screamed, ran in. But it was too late.

That night, she made the call.

⸻

Aya's father came. He didn't speak. Didn't yell. Just walked into the room where Daigo sat drinking, and broke three of his ribs. Midori remembered the sound—wet, sharp, final. No anger. Just precision.

Divorce came next. A courtroom. Papers. A name torn from the man who gave it.

Aya and Midori disappeared into the city like dust on the wind.

They moved in with Aya's parents, seeking refuge—but peace was a temporary thing.

Midori tried to smile again. She tried to pretend everything was okay. But trauma doesn't fade like scars—it burrows. And Midori became withdrawn, cold, difficult to approach. She refused to help with chores. Refused to go to school. She screamed at her grandparents. Pushed her mother away.

The grandparents, in time, gave up.

"She's lazy," they said. "Unfixable. Useless. Let us take her and straighten her out."

But Aya clung to Midori like her life depended on it.

"She's my daughter," she said. "She stays with me."

And with that, they were cast out again.

No home. No support. Just the streets and the cold wind.

⸻

They lived under bridges. In train stations. Sometimes shelters, sometimes alleys. Aya worked three jobs when she could find them. Waitressing, cleaning, anything that paid.

They ate instant noodles. Shared blankets. Laughed at bad TV shows on display through store windows.

Midori never asked for toys. She only kept Chiyo, even when one of her arms fell off.

Aya stitched her back together with thread from a sewing kit they found in a lost-and-found box.

Every night, Midori whispered into the doll's ear, "Mama says we're okay now."

She started to believe it.

⸻

It was raining.

The kind of rain that tapped on windows like fingers, like warnings.

Dinner had been rice and egg—cheap, but warm. Aya had combed Midori's hair while she hummed. Chiyo sat in her lap, newly patched.

"One day," Aya said, "we'll have a real home. With locks that work. And a garden."

Midori smiled. "Can Chiyo have her own bed?"

"Of course."

Then—there was a knock at the door.

Sharp. Repetitive. Measured.

Aya froze.

Midori, who was humming to herself, paused mid-tune.

Another knock.

Aya's eyes hardened. She stood up, wordlessly, and went into the kitchen. Her hand reached for the drawer.

A kitchen knife.

She returned to the living room with the blade hidden behind her back and turned to Midori. "Baby, go hide. In the closet. Don't come out. No matter what you hear."

Midori blinked. "Mom? What's—"

"Please."

Her mother kissed her forehead, gave her one last smile—and gently pushed her toward the bedroom.

Then, silence.

Midori crouched in the dark, heart hammering.

The door didn't open.

It shattered.

Voices. Male. Cold.

Aya screamed something—then the sound of footsteps. A scuffle. A grunt.

Steel on flesh.

Midori burst out of the closet before she could stop herself.

She dropped her doll, Chiyo, but that didn't matter to her. The only thing that mattered was her mother—the only one who had ever been there for her, who had wiped away her tears, who had shielded her even in the coldest rains and the darkest nights.

Her mother was on the ground, blood pouring from her chest.

"A-Ah..." Aya's eyes fluttered open as Midori fell beside her.

"M-Mom! Mom!!"

Aya's trembling hand cupped Midori's cheek. Her thumb wiped away a tear.

"don't cry it's gonna be all right I promise."

"Live... my beautiful... baby girl..."

Then her hand fell limp.

Midori screamed.

Not just a scream, but a howl. A sound torn from the deepest part of her soul. One that would echo in nightmares for years.

One of the masked men stepped forward, raising a blade. "Kill the witness."

"Wait." Another voice—firm. Strong. "She's just a child. Are you insane?"

He stepped into the light—tall, broad-shouldered, face half in shadow. His eyes caught the dim glow—one a cold ocean blue, the other a piercing green. Unnatural. Unforgettable.

Heterochromia.

"Ronin," the first man growled. "You know the protocol. No witnesses. Even children."

"I don't care," Ronin barked. "I'm not going to let you kill a child."

"Then you're committing treason against the Legion."

The man reached for his blade.

Before he could even draw it—

SHUNK.

His body dropped, head lolling to the side. Blood sprayed against the peeling wallpaper.

Midori turned to run—

CRACK.

The hilt of Ronin's blade struck the back of her head.

Her vision blurred.

Her knees collapsed.

And as the world dimmed, she saw her mother's hand still reaching for her.

Still reaching—

Even in death.