Chapter No.3 I Am 'Good Person'?

Yami left the batting center with his hands tucked inside his pockets. His knuckles still tingled—half from the bat, half from something deeper. Like his body was still adjusting to everything it now knew.

The city had warmed up. The haze had lifted, and with it came the buzz of street chatter, scooter engines, and the constant hum of a place that never fully slept. Yokohama was alive in a way that reminded him of Tokyo—but dirtier, louder, realer.

As he walked, his thoughts trailed behind him.

"Am I just playing along? Or is this really who I am now?"

The morning had felt like a dream. Hidden money. Muscle memory that didn't belong to him. A sponsor who spoke in riddles and didn't sign their name.

"You are free."

Sure. But what did freedom mean?

The streets opened up near a row of vending machines. He stopped in front of one and stared at the glowing buttons, half-reading the kanji.

A little girl tugged at her mother's sleeve nearby. "Mama, look—why does that oni wear sunglasses?"

Yami turned slightly. The mother bowed quickly and hurried the girl away.

He sighed, pulled a coin from his pocket, and dropped it into the slot.

A can clunked down. Lemon soda. Cold.

He cracked it open and leaned against the machine.

"Do I really look like a monster?"

He'd barely been here a day and already drawn attention—first fists, then questions. Everyone seemed to see something in him.

Power. Trouble. Maybe both.

"What the hell am I supposed to be now?"

A shrill voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey! You just gonna stand there drinking, or you actually lost?"

Yami turned his head.

A boy. Couldn't be older than fifteen. Skinny, sunburnt, wearing a baggy school uniform jacket over a tank top. He had a plastic bag in one hand, and a bruised lip that looked a day old.

Yami raised an eyebrow. "You always talk to strangers like that?"

The kid snorted. "Only the ones who stand around lookin' like manga villains."

Yami sipped the soda. "That right."

"You some kind of foreigner?" the kid asked, peering up at him. "You've got that weird bleach anime hair thing going."

Yami didn't answer.

The kid shrugged and looked away. "Tch. Whatever. You from Tokyo?"

"No."

"Good. People from Tokyo think they own everything."

Yami glanced at him. "What's your name?"

The kid hesitated. "Tatsuki."

"You get into a fight, Tatsuki?"

"What's it to you?" the boy snapped, defensive.

Yami gestured to the busted lip.

Tatsuki scoffed. "It's nothin'. Just some guys from school. You wouldn't get it."

"Try me."

The boy stared at him for a moment, then looked down at his shoes. "They said my old man was a drunk. Said I was gonna end up like him."

Yami leaned off the vending machine. "And you tried to prove them wrong by fighting?"

"I hit one of 'em. Real good, too. Then they jumped me after school."

Yami didn't smile. But he didn't scold him either.

"You win?" he asked simply.

Tatsuki looked up, confused. "What?"

"You hit him. Did he stay down?"

A pause. Then a small, reluctant nod. "Yeah."

Yami finished his soda, crushed the can, and dropped it in the bin.

"Then you made your point."

The kid blinked. "That's it?"

"That's it."

Tatsuki watched him walk away. Then called out, "Hey!"

Yami turned.

Yami turned, brow raised.

Tatsuki scratched his head. "You some kinda… vigilante or somethin'? Like in the movies?"

Yami shook his head. "Just someone trying to mind his business."

"You suck at it," Tatsuki muttered. "You got that 'main character' vibe."

Yami huffed a quiet laugh. "Maybe I'm just bad at blending in."

A pause. Then:

"You got a name?" the kid asked.

"Yami."

"Yami, huh… Cool name. Like a manga guy."

Yami shrugged. "It'll do."

Tatsuki stood there for a moment, shifting on his feet. Then he held up the plastic bag. "You want a nikuman or something? My mom packed extra. Said I need to stop eating convenience store crap."

Yami blinked. That… caught him off guard.

"You sure?"

Tatsuki looked away. "Whatever. I'm not hungry."

Yami walked back, took the offered bun, warm through the wrapper. "Thanks."

"Don't make it weird," Tatsuki said quickly.

Yami nodded, unwrapping it. Took a bite.

It was simple. Fluffy. Steaming. Honest.

"Tastes good," he said.

Tatsuki looked almost smug for a second, before stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. "Yeah, well. My mom's pretty serious about food."

The two stood there a moment in silence. Just a man and a boy, chewing on cheap steamed buns while the city buzzed around them.

Then Tatsuki asked, "Hey, Yami… are you a good person?"

Yami stopped mid-chew. Swallowed. Thought for a second.

"You tell me... what do you think?" he asked finally.

Tatsuki furrowed his brow, eyes narrowing slightly like he was trying to solve a math problem he didn't study for.

"I dunno. You don't look like the good guy."

Yami nodded. "That's fair."

"But you didn't laugh when I told you about the fight," Tatsuki added, voice quieter now. "You didn't act like I was stupid."

"Because you're not."

"Yeah, well… most adults don't see it that way."

Yami finished the last bite of his bun and wiped his hands on a napkin from his pocket. "Maybe most adults forgot what it's like to get kicked when you're already down."

Tatsuki tilted his head. "So… you were like me?"

Yami's jaw tensed, his gaze drifting out to the slow-moving street traffic beyond the sidewalk. "Yeah. Worse, maybe."

The kid didn't press. Just nodded.

A silence settled between them again, but it wasn't awkward. It was the kind of silence that hung between people who didn't need to fill the space with noise.

Finally, Tatsuki broke it.

"You ever punch someone that deserved it and still felt like shit after?"

Yami's answer came quick, like muscle memory.

"Every damn time."

Tatsuki looked surprised. "Really?"

"Only people who've lost their soul stop feeling it."

That hung in the air longer than it should've.

The boy gave a small nod, more to himself than anything, and turned like he was about to go. But then he stopped, fiddling with the plastic bag.

"You gonna be around?"

Yami blinked. "Why?"

Tatsuki shrugged. "Dunno. Just… not many people talk straight. Or eat my mom's cooking without makin' a face."

Yami gave him a small smirk. "You need something, you know where to find me."

"Where's that?"

Yami turned his head toward the distant street that curved toward the bar district. "Silver Lotus. Corner of Sakura River Street."

Tatsuki nodded, locking that away. "Cool. Maybe I'll stop by."

Yami gave him a casual wave and started walking again, slipping into the crowd like smoke into the wind.

And as he turned the corner, a thought clung to him:

'You walk alone in the dark long enough, it starts to feel like the light'll never come. You stop wanting to even take the next step. But there's not a person in this world who knows what's waiting down the road. All we can do is choose. Stand still and cry... or make the choice to take the next step. You pick whichever one feels right to you.'

Yami smirked to himself.

"Kiryu was a goddamn philosopher," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Shame he was fictional."

The sun hung higher now, bleeding through the haze in golden streaks that stretched down narrow alleys and across the backs of passing trucks. The kind of morning where sweat started to cling to your neck, but no one complained. Everyone just moved—shoulders low, eyes sharp, hands busy.

He passed a rusted arcade tucked behind a soba shop, its blinking sign buzzing faintly above the shuttered entrance. A pair of middle schoolers sat cross-legged outside, trading candy and talking about Ultraman.

He kept walking.

One block over, a group of salarymen stood around a ramen cart, already smoking and slurping bowls before clock-in. Yami caught a piece of their conversation—something about the Nikkei dropping again, and someone's boss throwing a stapler. No one seemed surprised.

Normal life. Chaotic, messy, loud.

And him? Stuck somewhere between it all.

"Oi! Rumi-chan please let me be your husband~"

"ARGH! I said stop following me, you creep!"

A high-pitched yell cracked through the air like glass.

Yami stopped mid-step.

Across the street, a woman—from extravagant clothes and makeup maybe, a hostess—stormed out of a club doorway, her heels clicking sharp against the pavement. A man in a cheap suit stumbled after her, red in the face and clearly drunk, waving his arms like a puppy who didn't know he'd already been kicked.

"Come on, baby! I bought you drinks last night, didn't I? Don't be like that!"

The woman spun around and jabbed a finger at him. "You also puked on my shoes and tried to fight the manager! Get lost!"

Yami exhaled, debating whether to keep walking.

Then the guy grabbed her wrist.

Wrong move.

The woman froze. The buzz of the street seemed to quiet just a bit.

Yami crossed the street before his brain even gave permission. The body knew what to do. His pace didn't change. Calm. Measured. Just another guy walking by.

Until he reached them.

"Let go," he said, voice flat.

The drunk blinked at him, then scowled. "Huh? Who the hell're you supposed to be, her knight in tight pants?"

Yami ignored the insult. "I said let go."

The man looked down at his hand like he'd just remembered it was attached to her wrist. But instead of backing off, he yanked her closer.

"Buzz off, bleach-head. This ain't your business."

Yami's hand snapped up—not to punch. Not yet. Just to grab the drunk's wrist, right below the thumb. He squeezed.

Hard.

The man yelped and stumbled back, finally letting go.

Yami didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "You touch her again, you're gonna need a new set of fingers."

The man clutched his wrist, face turning a blotchy red. "You think you're tough or something?"

"No. But I know when someone's about to get hurt."

The guy hesitated. Looked at Yami's eyes. Something about the stillness there finally reached whatever part of his brain was still sober.

He muttered something that might've been a curse and shuffled off, muttering to himself and glancing over his shoulder.

The woman let out a breath she'd clearly been holding.

"Thanks," she said, brushing her hair back and adjusting her bag. "Guy's been tailing me since last night. Thought he gave up."

Yami gave her a slight nod. "He won't be back."

"Still, you didn't have to step in. That kind of guy? They love playing victim after they get their ass handed to them."

Yami shrugged. "Better a fake victim than a real one."

She looked at him for a second longer, then grinned. "You always go around playing hero, sunglasses?"

He considered that. "No. Just… couldn't walk past."

"Huh," she said, amused. "Well, I'm Rumi. You're?"

"Yami."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Like… darkness? Damn, your parents had a flair for drama."

Yami chuckled. "Not my parents."

She raised an eyebrow, but didn't press.

"Well, Yami… if you ever get tired of being mysterious and stoic, come by Club Nine Leaves. I owe you a drink."

He nodded once. "Not a club guy."

"Then come for the company," she said, then winked. "We don't bite. Much."

She turned on her heel and walked off, swaying like she knew the whole world was watching.

Yami stood there a beat longer, then started walking again.

The city didn't slow down for anyone. Not for fights, or favors, or even strange women with perfect eyeliner.