The morning dawned quietly, without the usual noise of the waking city. In the luxurious dining room of the Arakawa house, everything was calm — except for him. Yamato was already awake, neatly shaved, hair carefully slicked back, white shirt ironed to perfection, dark blue blazer, and the watch he wore only on "important occasions. "He poured himself coffee, then glanced at his reflection in the glass cabinet beside the table. "For whom?" he asked quietly, mockingly. "For Amara? Or should I just lie to myself that it's not? "He shook his head and sipped the black coffee. "You're crazy, Yamato. And even older than you think."
At that moment, his mother entered the room, scanning him from head to toe. "Good morning, son. You've really… put in effort today. Meeting with an investor, or is there perhaps…" she paused dramatically, "…a little danger in the next room? "He flinched. "Mom…""What? I'm just noting that you haven't dressed like this even when the mayor came for dinner." "Coincidence," Yamato said dryly. "Of course it is," she muttered and sipped her tea, a satisfied smile never leaving her face.
Then came the soft sound of footsteps from the hallway, and Amara appeared — her hair messy, tied in a bun, wearing a light dress, no makeup, and with that natural glow that made Yamato momentarily forget to breathe. "Good morning!" she said cheerfully. "Hope I'm not late for breakfast!" "Never with you," his mother replied, already making room for her in the kitchen. They began preparing eggs, toast, tea — two women, like two generations that understand each other without words. Laughter and the soft clinking of dishes filled the room.
Yamato watched them from the side, arms crossed, silent. His world — closed off and cold for years — was now changing, filling with color, sound, and a strange warmth. Thanks to her. He sat at the table when breakfast was served, and Amara looked at him from beneath her lashes, smiling gently, warmly, as if she knew what was on his mind — and maybe she did. "I have to eat quickly," she said, taking a bite, "I have an important exam today." "What subject?" his mother asked. "Japanese literature. The professor is strict, but… I like the challenge," Amara said with passion. Yamato nodded, then quietly added, "I can drive you. "Amara looked at him. "Really?" "Of course. You'll get there faster and… it's safer. "Without a hint of hesitation, she smiled and nodded. "Deal. I didn't feel like taking the subway anyway. "His mother looked at them both, holding a fork as if she might throw it. "And no one offers me a ride!" "Mom…" Yamato sighed. "I'm joking. Just…" she looked at Amara, "if you get cold in the car, ask him to give you his blazer."
Yamato stood next to his black Lexus, seemingly calm, hands clasped behind his back, as if he were welcoming a government delegation, not a student. "She's probably changing. Maybe something with buttons. Or sleeves. Maybe even pants. Yes, pants would be… a smart choice. "He nodded to himself. "Not because I mind, but… it's cold. Maybe it's cold. No? No. Never mind, not important."
The front door opened, and Amara came down the steps — in the same short, flowy dress, with that all-too-loose neckline, bare legs, and that same messy bun that had messed with his nerves all night. Yamato's mouth dropped open, then quickly closed. "You're… you're going like that?" he blurted out before he could bite his tongue. Amara stopped and placed a hand on her hip. "Like what, exactly? "Yamato bit his lip, feeling his face warm. "I just… I don't know. I thought maybe you'd wear something… else. For university. Literature… serious subject." "Ahaaa," she said, a smile spreading. "So, the issue isn't the university but the fact that my dress doesn't reach the floor." "No… it's not… I mean… just get in the car. "Amara got in and buckled up, with that mischievous smile that threw him off balance. He cleared his throat, started the engine, and the drive began. Silence. Tense.
Yamato, in his head: "How do I tell her she looks too… feminine. Or… provocative? No, stupid. I can't tell her what to wear. Who am I? But… does she have to dress like this? Professors… they have eyes. And hands. And classmates. Especially those horny twenty-year- olds with sideburns and crossbody bags."
He glanced in the rearview mirror — the dress had ridden up a bit more, her knees glistening in the morning sun."God help me. If that dress slides another millimeter, I'm going to crash this car. Or throw her in the trunk. Or both."
They arrived at the university. Amara unbuckled her seatbelt and got out with a, "Thanks for the ride! "Her hips swayed like she knew exactly what she was doing. Yamato waved… and then saw HIM.
A classmate. Some skinny, bearded guy with a scarf and a hipster bag. He walked up to Amara and hugged her. And not a quick hug. Nooo. A Nobel Prize-worthy hug. Long. Comfortable. Intimate. The kind you have to pull away from — it doesn't just end.
Yamato sat back in the car, tightened his seatbelt like he was about to drive a Formula 1 lap. The engine roared. He gripped the wheel.
Yamato (aloud, to himself): "What kind of classmate hugs like that? At eight in the morning! Those hugs are for soulmates, not Japanese literature! "He turned on the wipers. No rain. He hadn't even noticed. He turned them off.
"That dress. That dress. She could've worn a swimsuit and it would've covered more. Is that the academic dress code now, huh? No! And now she's laughing. With him. With… Him!" The car jolted as he took the curve too fast. "Damn it! Am I really jealous? Of course I'm not! I'm just… responsible! I care! I'm protective! You can't just walk around the world like that when you have legs like Amara! "He stopped at a red light. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. "Yamato… calm down. This isn't jealousy. This is… strategy. Tactical protection of vital resources. Period."
But still, when he opened his eyes, the first thing that came to mind was: "What's his name, that… hugger?"
The day passed unusually quietly. Sunlight played through the windows of the large house, and Yamato sat alone on the terrace with a coffee long since gone cold, still holding the cup as if drawing some meaning from it. No calls from the warehouse, no bloody news, nothing requiring him to become the other Yamato — the one who breaks bones and gives silent orders. Today he was just… a man. And a jealous one. And that irritated him more than any criminal plan ever could.
"What am I doing?" he said aloud. "Sitting here like… a husband waiting for his wife to come home from work. Am I normal? What does it matter what she wears? Who hugs her? What if they're just friends? What if they're not?! "He kicked the chair in front of him. It scraped and hit the terrace railing.
"No, no… I have to be rational. Mature. Smart. Approach. Yes. Approach! Conversation. I should tell her — calmly. Say something like… 'You know, maybe it would be wiser to choose something… more discreet for university, because… you know, the climate… and… fabric radiation.' No. Stupid. Or I could say: 'Your dress is lovely, but… maybe more for after 6 p.m.?' Horrible. "He already had three versions of the talk in his head, all equally ridiculous, all ending the same — he looked like an idiot.
Just as he was about to come up with a fourth, the gate creaked and a voice called out: "Hellooo hoooome!" Amara. She skipped down the path toward the house, books under one arm, bag bouncing at her side, almost dancing. Hair down, eyes shining, and a smile that could melt asphalt. "I passed! A nine! In Japanese literature! Told you that professor melts when you smile!"
His mother ran out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Bravo, my child! You've earned a whole cake for yourself!" Amara hugged her tightly, then looked at Yamato, who was still sitting stiffly, as if someone had frozen his emotions. "Yamato!" she said cheerfully. "Were you waiting for me?" He flinched, stood up. "You passed?" "Yes! And with a smile!" She shook her head. "That classmate you were eyeing so kindly — he's been quizzing me for days, really helped me out! "Yamato opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead of delivering a full monologue about dresses, hugs, and "fabric radiation" — he forgot everything. He watched her laugh, leaning on the kitchen counter, with sunlight in her eyes and spring in her voice. His mother glanced at him sideways, smiling as she sliced the cake. "Forgot what you were going to say?" she murmured quietly, so only he could hear. He just shrugged and took a plate of cake.
Amara nibbled a bite of cake while Yamato stood leaning against the wall, still silent. Her eyes watched him from the side — how his jaw tightened, his gaze turned rigid. The change was subtle, but for someone who looked at him every day, more than obvious. Something was brewing again. He stood up, brushed crumbs off his pants, and walked toward the exit without a word. Amara immediately put down her plate and followed him.
"Yamato?" she called as he was putting on his blazer. "Going somewhere again to come back like you spent the night in a lion's cage? "He turned at that, ready to come up with a quick lie, but there was no need — she was already in front of him. Leaning against the doorway, carelessly beautiful, full of energy, with a smile that could melt granite. "Just so you know…" she said softly, adjusting his blazer and gently patting his chest. "Tonight you're not coming back like last night. No blood. No shredded suit. No sweat and hatred in your eyes. Understand?" He stared, confused, heart thumping harder when she added:"…or… do come back like that, if you want me to take care of you again." She finished with a mischievous smile and half-closed eyes.
He was speechless. Nothing, not a word. He just blinked, as if trying to reboot his brain. Amara waved her fingers at him and went back inside, satisfied with her small triumph. Yamato stood frozen for a few more seconds, then shook his head and got into the car. "God… where is this leading me?" he muttered, starting the engine.
It didn't take long before he stepped into the grim coldness of the warehouse. The smell of metal, sweat, and blood was the welcome. His men stood against the walls, like shadows. In the middle of the room, tied to a chair, sat the one — the same one who had pulled the trigger, now with a swollen face, dried blood on his eyebrows and temples. He was breathing heavily, but awake. When Yamato stepped in, everyone stepped aside. He didn't yell. Didn't curse. He just walked slowly, the sound of his shoes echoing through the warehouse like a death metronome.
He stopped in front of the man. Looked at him. Said nothing. Raised his hand and slapped him across the face with full force. It sounded like a gunshot.
"Good morning," Yamato finally said, voice cold as a blade's edge. "Glad you could join us. You made an… interesting attempt. "The man mumbled something, but Yamato didn't listen. A second hit — this time a punch to the stomach. The man bent over, choking.
"Who sent you?" Silence. Another blow. This time to the ribs. "Who." Still silence. Yamato bent down, grabbed his hair, and lifted his head.
"You see, I have no problem doing this all day. You will." The man finally spoke, voice fragile. "I don't know the name… they only call him Shiro. They said… he's from your past…"Yamato froze. His eyes flickered.
"Shiro?" He hadn't heard that name in years. He looked at his men. "Take him to the basement. We'll go deeper tomorrow." He turned and walked over to the sink on the warehouse wall. Hands bloody, shirt stained. He washed his hands, his face — but couldn't scrub away what had started to stir inside him. A name he had buried. A face he had forgotten.
Shiro. Something would have to end. Once and for all.
The night was deeper than usual, sky without stars, as if even it had gone dark in anticipation of what was coming. Yamato wasn't driving fast — this wasn't rage, but focus. His thoughts were too dangerous to rush past with speed.
Destination: a villa on a hilltop, overlooking the city. Once, it was a place of laughter, cigars, and friendly jokes over sake. Today — a minefield. The tall concrete gates opened only when the camera scanned his face. As soon as he parked, two large guards approached. They said nothing, just escorted him. They knew who he was. They knew why he had come.
In a room of dark wood and glass, under the glow of lamps that looked like museum pieces, sat Takeshi Genda — once an ally in the days when the young and reckless shaped the underworld. Now… the relationship had boiled down to brittle politeness.
"Yamato," Takeshi said without a smile, just a nod. "What brings you?"Yamato sat down, looking him straight in the eyes. "A name. One name. Shiro."Pause.Takeshi's brow lifted slightly. "Shiro, you say…""Don't play games with me," Yamato cut him off. "I know you know where he is. Or at least more than I do."
Takeshi exhaled slowly and stood, walking to the liquor cabinet. "You know…" he said, pouring whiskey, "…I thought he was dead. "Yamato clenched his jaw. Takeshi walked over, offered a glass — Yamato didn't take it.
"You used to be brothers. You didn't even flinch when you nearly killed him." "He used to be a brother, then he sold me out. To me. To the police. To enemies. He was greedy and weak. I just gave him what he deserved."
"Then why does it surprise you that he's back? People like us don't forget."
Yamato stood up. "Do you know where he is?" Takeshi looked at him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes." If I did, I wouldn't tell you. Not because I like him — but because I don't believe you know when to stop. And the less blood spilled, the better."
Yamato stepped closer. Just enough to raise the tension. "If you know and don't tell me… then you're just like him." Takeshi didn't move.
"And you're the same kid who thinks he can save the world with his fists.Grow up, Yamato. Or you'll bury everyone you love."
Silence.Stares. A cold war.
Yamato turned and left without a word. But in his mind — a storm.
Shiro. Once a brother. Now — a ghost from the past, returning to bring everything down.