●・○・●・○・●
CHAPTER FOUR,
clock's ticking

—

༇ THE sun is high and lazy, pouring golden light across the stretch of lawn behind Usagi and Arisu's house. Everyone's together. There's a table, mismatched chairs pulled close. Drinks in paper cups. Hana and Kaede are kicking at a soccer ball while Kuina and Usagi talk on the porch. Aguni stands a little to the side, his arms crossed but his eyes gentle, watching the kids. Baya sits on a picnic blanket, flipping through a book, her hand resting lightly on Kaoru's shoulder.

Kaoru is buzzing. Absolutely, wildly buzzing. He clutches his deck, its gold trim glinting. He darts from adult to adult, radiant with hope. His clothes are soft, chosen carefully this morning after rejecting three shirts for being too pokey.

"Kuina!" he chirps. "Wanna play? Just one round!"

Kuina's smile tightens. "Ah, maybe later, sweetheart."

"Please? It's a new game I made!"

She glances at Chishiya. "I... I'm not really feeling up for it."

Undeterred, Kaoru wheels around. "Usagi!"

She freezes where she's pouring lemonade, her back tensing just enough to notice. She turns, forces a smile. "Maybe after lunch, Kaoru, okay?"

"But it's really fun. And easy! You just need five cards—"

"Kaoru," Usagi says gently, kneeling so their eyes meet. "Not right now, okay?"

He stares at her for a second too long. Then blinks rapidly, like he's trying to shake something loose from inside his head. He blinks. His face twists briefly with confusion. "Okay," he says quietly, before turning.

"Aguni?" he tries.

The man gives a soft grunt, almost amused. "I don't play cards, kid."

Kaoru's voice is smaller. "You don't even wanna try?"

"It's not really a game for me."

Kaoru frowns again, brows beginning to knit, but he doesn't push. He tries Arisu next.

He gives a laugh that's way too stiff. "Oh, anything but cards. You want to race or something instead?"

"But I brought my best deck," Kaoru says. "Please? Just one game. It's not like... like that kind of game."

Arisu crouches beside him, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. I know, Kaoru. You didn't do anything wrong. It's just... cards are hard for some of us. We've played them too much."

Kaoru presses the box harder to his chest. The velvet edge digs into his collarbone, and the pressure calms him just slightly. "But it's different," he says. "It's not a Borderland game. I promise. You don't even die or anything. I made it safe. Just five cards. I counted."

"I know you did," Arisu says, careful. "You're really good at making games."

"Then why won't anyone play?!" The volume of his voice startles everyone, even him. His face twists, horrified at the sound. He clamps his hands over his ears. "I didn't mean to yell," he whimpers. "I didn't mean it."

"It's okay, Kaoru. Do you—"

But Kaoru is already looking around again. His hands tighten on the velvet box. Every adult is avoiding his eyes. Even Baya.

"Mama?"

She looks up, startled. "What, honey?"

"Will you play cards with me?"

She swallows. The smile she gives him is soft, but her fingers twist nervously in her lap.

"Not today," she says.

"Why?" His voice cracks, a little shrill now. "Why not today?"

"Because..." She hesitates. Her fingers brush his hair. "Because it reminds me of things I don't want to remember. You know that. But it's not your fault, okay?"

He pulls away. Chishiya sees it from across the yard. Kaoru's shoulders slumping. The way his feet drag as he walks. His hands clutching the deck.

Kaoru stops in front of him.

"Papa," he says. "Will you play?"

He has asked this same question every day for weeks. And every time, Chishiya has played. And every time, it chipped away at something inside him, because no matter how much he loves his son, there's only so much he can hold without breaking.

He looks at Kaoru. The soft eyes. The wobbling lip. The hope barely clinging on.

Chishiya shakes his head once. "Not right now."

Kaoru's face crumples. "You always say yes," he whispers.

"Kaoru," Chishiya says, "I've played with you every day for weeks. I love playing with you. But I don't want to today. You need to accept everyone's boundaries."

"But why?" The tears come faster now. "Everyone says no. Everyone's mad at cards! I'm not mad at cards! I love cards!"

"I know," Chishiya says.

"I just wanna play! Why can't anyone play with me?! I didn't do anything wrong!"

Kaoru presses the box to his chest and turns away. He walks to the far end of the yard, sits on the grass alone.

Chishiya watches him. He knows if he goes now, he might say the wrong thing. So he stays where he is. Waiting.

Next to him, Baya sits down without a word. Her hand grazes his.

"He doesn't understand."

"I know," Chishiya murmurs. "If I force myself to play, I might say something cruel. And he'll think it's about him."

"You're doing the right thing."

Chishiya says nothing.

Kaoru starts laying out his cards by himself. The gold edges catch the light. He lines them up in perfect rows, adjusting for millimeters. His lips move silently. He draws. Places. Pauses. Repeats.

He plays alone. And even if the rules are made up and the plays are pretend, he never breaks character. He draws a card. Makes a sound. Plays another. Mumbles something to himself like it's a conversation.

When Hana comes out later with two popsicles, she offers him one. He doesn't smile, but he takes it.

An hour later, he decides to ask again.

"Want to play cards with me?"

"Maybe later, sweetheart."

He turns to Aguni. "Please?"

He looks away, mutters, "Not today, Kaoru."

"Kaede, Hana?"

Kaede shifts. "We're drawing right now, sorry—"

Hana cuts in sharply, not unkind, just tense. "Kaoru, can you stop asking?"

He looks down at his card deck, then up again, more quietly, "Mama?"

"I can't, baby. I'm sorry."

"Why can't anyone ever play—"

"Kaoru," Chishiya says without looking at him.

"I'm not talking to you!" he snaps. "You always say no now, too!"

Everyone quiets. Chishiya leans back slowly, arms folding.

"I just want to play. One round. One game. Why does everyone act like it's gonna kill them?"

"Kaoru—" Baya starts gently.

"No!" His voice rises. "Everyone here's so weird about cards. It's just a game!"

Chishiya finally speaks. "It wasn't just a game for us."

Kaoru glares. "You already told me that. You told me about PTSD and trauma and whatever. That was your life, not mine. I didn't go to that place."

"And thank God you didn't," Chishiya replies evenly.

"So why can't anyone get over it?!"

"I told you to stop asking," Chishiya says, voice low. "I warned you, Kaoru."

"Yeah? So what? You're mad because I want to spend time with you?"

"You've asked nine people. You've asked me six times today. You're not listening."

"Maybe because no one's listening to me!"

"You are not the center of the universe, Kaoru."

"I know that!"

"Then stop acting like it."

Kaoru's eyes flash. "You always do this! You shut down when things aren't perfect, you get cold, you make everyone feel like they're walking on glass—"

"Enough," Chishiya says.

Kaoru doesn't stop. "You act like you're so smart, but you're a coward. You won't even play cards with your own kid—"

Chishiya slams the card box down on the table. Everyone freezes. "Enough, Kaoru Chishiya."

Kaoru's mouth snaps shut.

"You want to disrespect me in front of everyone? You want to ignore what I've told you over and over again? Fine. Since you want to talk big, you can go a day without the thing you're obsessed with. No cards. At all."

Kaoru's face crumples instantly. "What?!"

"You heard me."

"No, no, no, please, Papa, I didn't mean it—"

"A full day. Twenty-four hours. No cards. You're not even looking at them."

"You can't—"

"I can. And I will."

Kaoru's fists ball up. He turns red with frustration. "This is unfair! I just wanted to play! That's not a crime!"

"No, it's not. But harassing people until they're on edge? Throwing tantrums when you don't get your way? That is."

Kaoru looks around, but no one jumps in to save him. Not even Baya. Not even Hana.

"You're so mean," he mumbles. "You're so mean."

"I'd rather be mean than let you grow up thinking people owe you joy at the expense of their pain."

"You're the one who taught me to love cards."

Chishiya looks tired. "I taught you that it's okay to love something. Not to demand it from everyone else."

Kaoru storms off to his room, the box still on the table. No one follows. And for the rest of the day, the sound of cards being shuffled—so constant these past weeks—is gone.

●・○・●・○・●

It only gets worse. And it's no longer just about the cards. 

Kaoru wakes up and immediately screams because the sunlight is too bright. He throws the blankets off like they've insulted him and kicks at the wall when his foot gets caught in the sheets.

Baya appears in the doorway with her hair up in a claw clip, toothbrush still in her mouth. She doesn't flinch when he yells. It's not new anymore.

By the time breakfast ends, Kaoru has cried twice—once because his toast had a burnt edge, and again because Hana walked past him too quickly and it 'felt mean.' Hana would roll her eyes.

Baya kneels beside Kaoru at the table, wiping crumbs from his face with her thumb.

"Can you try to breathe a little?" she asks gently.

"I am breathing!" he screams. "I always breathe! Or I'd be dead!"

Baya flinches this time. Just a little. Then she kisses his forehead and leaves him be.

Later that day, he has a meltdown at the park. They go every Tuesday after school, same bench. It's supposed to be calming. Familiar.

But this time, another kid gets to the slide before him.

He screams. Not just a whine or a yell, but a full scream that silences the entire playground. Parents glance over. Children stare. One mother pulls her daughter away.

Kaoru drops to the grass and begins slamming both fists into the dirt. Baya crouches beside him and rubs his back. He twists away from her.

"Don't touch me!" he shrieks. "You're making it worse!"

"I'm here," she whispers, still kneeling.

"I hate it! I hate everything!"

And he sobs until he hiccups. Until he's red in the face and gasping. Until the ground stains his knees and his fingers are caked with dirt.

She holds his backpack quietly in her lap, waiting for it to pass. He eventually curls into her side.

That night, she doesn't wait for another incident. When Chishiya walks in from his clinic shift, she meets him at the door.

"We need to do something," she says. "This isn't tantrums anymore. He's... overwhelmed by being alive."

"What kind of 'something'?"

"A psychiatrist."

His eyes flicker toward the hallway where Kaoru's door is cracked, soft music playing inside.

"You think this is medical?"

"I think it's emotional. Or neurological. Or something that neither of us knows how to deal with. He's in pain, Shuntarō. Constantly. And I don't think he knows why."

●・○・●・○・●

Kaoru holds Baya's hand tightly. He 'refuses' to look at the toys in the waiting room, even though Baya catches him glancing at a wooden train set in the corner.

Dr. Takeda greets them warmly. She's in her fifties, maybe. Soft sweater, no white coat. Hair pulled back.

Kaoru stares at her with open suspicion.

"Do you know why you're here today?" she asks gently.

Kaoru shrugs.

Dr. Takeda doesn't press. She glances to Baya. "Would you like to stay for the start?"

Baya hesitates. "Maybe for just a few minutes."

Kaoru doesn't argue. But he shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, already defensive. He doesn't say a word for the first ten minutes.

Dr. Takeda speaks casually, not even about him—she talks about her cat. Her love for space movies. Her dislike of cucumbers.

"That's stupid," he mutters. "Cucumbers are great."

She smiles. "Then we'll have to disagree."

Another ten minutes go by. Then she pulls out a tray of mini figurines—animals, people, trees, buildings. She puts it on the floor between them and says, "Pick any three. Make a story."

Kaoru chooses a dragon, a pirate, and a tiny school. He doesn't tell a story. But he lines them up. Then rearranges them. Then knocks them all down with one swipe of his hand.

"It doesn't make sense," he mutters.

"What doesn't?" she asks.

"Anything."

●・○・●・○・●

After Baya steps out, Kaoru finally speaks again. Really speaks.

"She always looks at me like I'm a ticking bomb."

"Your mom?"

"Yeah. And Papa doesn't even look anymore. He just knows I'll mess something up."

Dr. Takeda nods. "That sounds hard."

"I don't wanna be bad. But I can't stop. It's like... it's like my body is too loud. And my head is itchy all the time but from the inside."

She gently offers him a squishy toy. He takes it and clutches it tight.

"Do you feel scared a lot?" she asks.

"No." He frowns. "Yes. I don't know. I just feel wrong."

They talk for almost an hour. Kaoru opens up in bursts, sometimes clear, sometimes muddled. He talks about the cards. About how the grown-ups flinch when he says certain words. About how he hates when people touch him from behind. About the dreams he has where everyone disappears.

When the session ends, she brings Baya back in.

"He's hurting," Dr. Takeda says gently. "A lot of what you're seeing are just the ways he's coping. He's overwhelmed. Constantly. We'll do a full assessment. He might have sensory processing issues. And a big, complicated fear of disappointing you."

Baya's eyes water. "I just want to help him."

"And you're doing the right thing by being here."

Kaoru comes out a few minutes later. His cheeks are flushed, but he's not crying. He grabs Baya's hand again.

In the car, he whispers, "Can I come back next week?"

Baya blinks. "You want to?"

He shrugs.

●・○・●・○・●

It's raining when they return to the clinic three weeks later. Not a gentle drizzle, but a sharp, tapping kind of rain that makes Kaoru hiss the second they step outside.

"It sounds like needles!" he yells, covering his ears with his sleeves.

Baya opens the umbrella fast. "Okay, okay, stay close to me."

Kaoru walks beneath it, one hand gripping her shirt sleeve like a lifeline. The umbrella flutters violently in the wind and he winces at every new gust.

Inside Dr. Takeda's office, Kaoru slumps onto the couch without speaking. He knows the routine now. Knows she won't push him. Knows she might offer him a soft toy or let him choose between sitting at the little table or staying on the couch. He always chooses the couch. Always pulls his sleeves over his hands and tucks his feet up, small and defensive.

"Bad morning?" Dr. Takeda asks gently.

"I hate the rain," Kaoru mutters. "It screams."

"That makes sense," she says simply.

Chishiya came with them this time, sitting next to Baya with a furrow in his brow, hair damp from the rain. His knee bounces once, stops. Bounces again.

Dr. Takeda clears her throat softly and slides a folder onto the table between them.

"We've finished diagnosing."

Baya swallows. Her fingers tighten on the fabric of her skirt. "And?"

Dr. Takeda opens the folder and speaks calmly. "Kaoru meets the criteria for Sensory Processing Disorder. Specifically, he demonstrates significant sensory responses, meaning his brain reacts too intensely to sensory input."

"Too intensely?"

"Imagine this," Dr. Takeda says. "You hear a clock ticking. You notice it, then tune it out. For Kaoru, that same sound might feel like a hammer pounding on his skull. Or a flashing light in your vision. Mildly annoying to most, might feel to him like someone's shining a flashlight into his eyes nonstop. The food textures. The tags in his clothing. The way light bounces off glass. His nervous system is in a constant state of threat detection."

Baya stares at the file. "So what do we do?"

"The diagnosis helps us build support. We get him into occupational therapy with a sensory integration specialist. We teach him self regulation strategies. We adjust his environment instead of punishing his reactions."

"Adjust how?"

"Think in terms of filters," she says. "Noise-canceling headphones at school. Sunglasses for harsh light. Clothing without tags. Visual schedules. Predictable transitions. Fidget tools that help him."

"He's had this his whole life," Chishiya says. "Hasn't he?"

Dr. Takeda nods. "Yes. SPD doesn't suddenly appear. It's neurological. It's how his brain is wired."

"Then why now?" he asks. "Why is it only coming out like this? Why was he fine for seven years?"

"He wasn't fine," she says gently. "He was coping. Children with SPD—especially bright, verbal ones like Kaoru—often learn to mask their symptoms when they're very young. They try to fit in. They push themselves through situations that feel awful or confusing. Sometimes they can manage that for years. They hit their limit."

Dr. Takeda pauses, then continues more softly. "Masking takes a tremendous emotional toll. It's like constantly pretending to be comfortable in a room that's on fire. Eventually, the nervous system can't keep up. Something tips the balance and the coping strategies stop working."

Baya whispers, "So the meltdowns..."

"Are his body's way of screaming for help," the psychiatrist finishes. "And he's getting older. His brain's developing rapidly. Kids at this age start to become more self-aware, but also more frustrated. They notice they're different, but don't know why. They want control, but their bodies won't cooperate. And if no one around them can explain what's happening, they blame themselves. Or they explode."

●・○・●・○・●

Kaoru clutches the squishy toy Dr. Takeda gave him after the session: a blue dolphin. His legs bounce slightly, but he doesn't speak.

Baya glances back at him from the passenger seat. "Kaoru?"

He looks up, wary.

"You know how we said your brain feels too loud sometimes?"

He nods slowly.

"Well... we found out why."

"Is it bad?"

"No, baby. It's just different."

Chishiya, driving, speaks calmly. "It's called Sensory Processing Disorder."

Kaoru makes a face. "That's stupid."

"It just means your brain notices everything more than most people," Baya explains. "Sounds. Lights. Touch. That's why things feel too much sometimes. But it doesn't mean you're wrong. It just means you need different things to feel okay."

He squeezes the dolphin harder. "I'm not crazy?"

"No. You're not."

"And we're going to help you," Baya adds. "We're going to make the world quieter. A better fit for you."

"You're not mad?"

Baya reaches back and holds out her hand. "No. We're proud."

He takes it. And for the first time in a long time, his grip isn't desperate. It's just safe.

●・○・●・○・●

Once the school is aware of Kaoru's disorder and they've gone through everything he needs and what to do when, everything seems calmer. Kaoru was always a calm kid, and he still is. Now that he knows how to adjust properly, he's no longer at his limit.

So the morning is ordinary. The scent of tea drifts through the kitchen. Hana's small footsteps echo upstairs as she chases one of her dolls from room to room, singing as she plays. Kaoru is at school. Chishiya left for the hospital.

It's just Baya and Hana home. Baya, who is thinking of getting a job once Hana goes to elementary school, and six-year-old Hana.

The doorbell rings. Baya stops, her hand hovering over a ceramic cup. The feeling is immediate. Cold, crawling up her spine.

She takes a peek through the peephole. Her heart drops.

She steps into the hallway and calls up the stairs, voice calm, but urgent. "Hana?"

"Yeah?"

"Go into the closet in my room and hide. Close the door. Stay silent. No matter what, don't come out unless it's me. Do you understand?"

A pause. "Mama...?"

"Go. Now."

Tiny footsteps run. A door shuts.

Baya turns back toward the door, reaching beneath the cupboard where a small blade is taped. It's an old instinct. One she hoped she'd never need again.

She opens the door. Three men. Faces she hoped were ghosts by now.

"Yuzuki Baya. Finally found you."

She doesn't flinch. "You have no right—"

"We have every right," the man cuts in. "You think you can vanish from the black market and it just... goes away?"

"I let it go. I thought you would too."

"You fled with unpaid debt, skipped out on deals, and ran off playing happy housewife." He steps forward. "You owe us."

She glares at him. "How much?"

"With eight years of interest... approximately one hundred sixty-three million yen."

She barely chokes out the words. "That's... insane."

"That's what it costs when you abandon your crew and burn our money on your way out."

"I don't have that," she hisses. "I can't give you that. I don't even have access to—"

"You live in this palace. Married a doctor. You've got kids. We know what he makes. Eighty million yen a year, give or take? Don't insult us."

She stiffens. "You leave my kids out of this."

He doesn't answer. Just looks past her, toward the stairs.

"You touch her," Baya says, stepping between them, "and I'll—"

One of the other men chuckles darkly. Before she can blink, the leader lunges. Grabs her by the throat. Slams her against the doorframe.

The knife clatters to the floor.

"You think we care about your new life?" he snarls. "We're here for payment. One way or another."

Her head spins. Her cheek is bleeding where it hit the wooden frame of the shoe rack. Blood trickles down her jawline.

"Stop," Baya gasps, her throat dry. "We can talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," the leader hisses. "We've waited eight years."

The others fan out, stepping deeper into the house. One heads toward the kitchen. Another scans the photos on the wall, pausing at a frame with Hana and Kaoru.

Baya's heart lodges in her throat. She straightens slowly, still trembling, but she meets the leader's eyes. "I'll pay. Just give me a second. I have money."

The man watches her carefully. "You have millions of yen sitting around in your cookie jar?"

"I can get some. Now. Just... wait."

"Clock's ticking."

She stumbles further into the house. Her fingers shake as she pulls open drawers, slamming papers aside. Inside a hidden compartment beneath old folders, she finds envelopes. Stacks of yen: emergency money, tucked away over the years.

She counts quickly. It's maybe two million yen.  She races to her own wallet, then to her bedroom. Her personal bank card. Her savings. She checks the balance through her phone. She can't even get it out all at once. Daily limits. Transfer holds.

She's suffocating. She doesn't have access to Chishiya's account— luckily. She runs back to the men and dumps the stack of cash on the table. It looks pathetic.

"This is all I have right now." Her voice is rough. "I can get more. Please. Just don't touch my family."

The leader crouches in front of the cash. He doesn't even touch it. He spits next to it instead.

"Lady," he says, "you're over one hundred sixty million short. Do I look like I'm here for a charity drive?"

One of the men calls from the kitchen. "She's got nothing in jewelry. Cheap watches. No gold. No IDs lying around. The kid's closet is full of toys and dresses. Nothing we can flip."

"I can get more," Baya repeats. She's trying not to cry. "You can come back. I swear, I won't run. I'll find a way. I'll talk to my husband. Just give me time."

The man laughs under his breath. "You think I trust you? The one who skipped out eight years ago?"

She doesn't answer. Her legs are trembling.

He leans in, voice low. "If you won't pay the money, maybe your little girl will pay in time."

Baya grabs the closest thing on the table—a lp ceramic bowl—and hurls it straight at his face.

It shatters against his shoulder. He stumbles back, swearing.

She bolts for the stairs. He grabs her by the arm and slams her against the wall again, this time twisting her wrist until she screams. Upstairs, there's a creak. The faint sound of wood under small feet.

"Hana, don't come out!" Baya yells.

She lies there on the floor, one arm twisted, a cut on her forehead, blood pooling at the edge of her mouth. Her ribs ache from a boot to the side she didn't see coming.

Blood trickles from her nose. Her mouth is full of iron. She tries to speak but coughs instead, spitting red.

The leader squats beside her. "You should've stayed where you belonged, Baya. The market was your family. You were useful. You vanished and acted like you could just build a new life. Kids, a doctor husband, a cute house in the suburbs."

She glares up at him, breathing hard. "I don't have the money right now."

He reaches out and taps her cheek with mock affection. "You're bargaining like you're in charge."

Another man leans over the stair railing. "She's crying in there. Should I bring her down?"

Baya freezes. The air is sucked from the room. "No," she whispers.

"Could use the leverage," the man offers, like it's nothing.

The moment he turns to head back upstairs, something inside Baya snaps. She hurls her body sideways, breaking free from the man gripping her wrist. Her shoulder dislocates from the force, but she doesn't feel it.

She lunges across the living room, grabs a shattered ceramic shard from the floor, and charges the stairs.

The man heading toward Hana turns too slow. She's on him in seconds. The shard plunges into his shoulder. Again. Again. His scream is sharp, wet. He stumbles back down the stairs, blood pouring down his jacket.

She turns to the others, eyes wild. "I'll kill the next one who even looks at her—"

The leader lunges. She catches his knee. She's a mother now. The kind that protects with her body, with her teeth, with every scar she's ever earned.

But it's not enough. There are still three of them. One punches her in the ribs. Another yanks her hair back so violently that she drops the shard.
Her knees buckle. But she doesn't stop fighting. Even with blood in her eyes. Even with a dislocated arm. Even knowing no one is coming to save her.

Upstairs, Hana crouches inside the dark closet, wrapped in her mother's long coat. Her knees are pulled to her chest, little fingers clutching a plush rabbit with a torn ear.

She hears everything. The shouting. The thud of fists. Her mother screaming. She's scared. Her whole body trembles. But she doesn't cry. She listens. And she thinks.

Her father once told her—'If you're scared, stay quiet. Then look for the part they didn't think about.'

So, she breathes slowly. Forces herself to stop shaking. She slides out of the closet. Her bare feet make no sound as she tiptoes down the hallway toward her parents' bedroom.

She grabs the firecrackers from Kaoru's old science project in the desk drawer. He never cleaned up. Her mother kept yelling at him to.

She wraps the firecrackers in one of her dad's old shirts, ties them with a cord, and moves to the top of the staircase. Her hands shake, but her grip is firm. From below, she sees one man bleeding, leaning against the wall. Her mom is on the floor.

The others are yelling at her. One is heading up. Now or never.

She lights the firecrackers with her mother's lighter, the one she always hides in the laundry basket. And she throws.

The boom is deafening. Sparks erupt in the hallway. The staircase lights up in smoke and flame. Men scream.

Someone yells, "She has a bomb!"

Chaos explodes. Hana runs back to the closet and locks herself in.

From inside, she hears everything change. Panic. Scrambling footsteps. One man curses loudly. Another shouts, "Grab the cash, we're leaving!"

The door slams.

More footsteps. A car engine screeches outside.

Silence. She waits. She doesn't come out until her mother calls her name.

"Mama?" Hana's voice breaks. "Mama. Mama, I didn't know, I didn't mean to... I thought they were far... I didn't know it would hit you—"

Her whole right thigh is scorched raw. Skin blistered, fabric fused to flesh. She's breathing in short, jagged gasps. Baya tries to sit up but slumps hard against the wall, her teeth clenched, sweat pouring down her face. Her hand reaches out and catches Hana's wrist just before the girl grabs a phone.

"No, no," she rasps.

"But, Mama, we need an ambulance, you need help, your leg—" Hana is crying so hard now that her voice cracks apart. "Papa needs to come—"

"No." Baya's grip tightens. "You don't tell him. You don't tell anyone."

"But you're bleeding and your skin is all... it's all wrong and it smells bad and I didn't mean to—"

"Hana," she says sharply.

The little girl goes silent.

Baya swallows, hard. Blood coats her tongue. She closes her eyes, forcing herself upright with one arm braced against the wall.

"Hana," she says again, quieter now. "Look at me."

Her daughter's wide, wet eyes lock on hers.

"You're not in trouble," Baya says. "You were brave. You saved me. You did everything right."

Hana sniffles. "But I hurt you."

"You saved me," Baya repeats. "But we can't tell Papa. Not about this."

"Why?" Hana whispers.

"If he finds out, he'll never let it go. He'll find them. He'll do things you can't take back. And we'll lose him. Understand?"

Baya's hand trembles as it cups the back of Hana's head, pulling her closer into the curve of her ribs. The pain is spreading like fire through her leg, but she pushes it down.

"Hana," she whispers. "You have to promise me. That you won't tell anyone about this. Not your friends. Not your teacher. Not Kaoru. Not Papa."

"Mama, you're hurt. You're really hurt—"

Baya shakes her head, hard. "No. No hospitals. No reports. No police. No one."

Hana starts to cry again, quietly now, shaking all over.

"You don't understand—" Baya's voice cracks. She reaches for Hana's hand. "You must promise me, baby. Promise me you'll never tell."

"I—" Hana shakes her head helplessly. "What if—what if it happens again?"

"It won't," Baya says fiercely. "I'll handle it. I swear to you."

"But you're hurt—"

"I'll still handle it."

Baya grabs her daughter's chin gently but firmly and lifts her gaze. "I need your word."

Hana nods slowly.

"Say it," Baya says. "Say you promise."

"I—I promise..."

"Louder."

"I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Again."

"I promise I won't tell anyone. Not Kaoru. Not Papa."

"Again."

"I promise." Hana's voice is breaking. "I promise I won't tell anyone."

Baya finally lets go. She slumps back against the wall, spent, the fight leaking out of her. Hana wraps her small arms around her mother's waist, her cheek pressed to her chest, still sobbing.

Baya closes her eyes. She knows this secret won't stay buried forever.

She pulls Hana gently away and kisses her forehead. "Go to your room," she says hoarsely. "You're going to hear some noises, okay? Don't come out. I mean it."

Hana stares at her, eyes full of guilt and fear, but nods. She obeys. When she's gone, Baya finally lets out a long, shaking breath. Every step on her ruined leg is agony. But she drags herself to the bathroom. Opens the cabinet under the sink and dumps out the first-aid kit. She finds burn cream. Gauze. Painkillers. Tape.

She bites down on a washcloth and cleans the burn with shaking hands, wiping away fabric, dead skin, and blood. Her vision goes white more than once. She almost vomits. But she keeps going.

She wraps the leg tight in gauze and bandages. Then she takes two of the strongest pills in the kit. Chishiya keeps them for emergencies. She counts the number left and makes a note to replace them. Later.

Then she resets her own shoulder. She uses the towel bar on the wall as leverage. Bites down again. Wrenches hard. The pop is sickening. She blacks out for two seconds. Comes to with tears streaming down her face and blood in her mouth.

Baya drags herself back to the hallway. The blood on the floor is already drying. She gets to work; she'll starts by wiping down every surface with bleach wipes. She vacuums the floor to suck up bits of broken ceramic and dried blood. Then she mops. Twice. Scrubs harder over every dark smear.

She doesn't stop until everything looks normal again. Until no one—not even Chishiya—could walk in and guess what happened. By the time it's done, her hands are shaking. Her bandage is leaking. Her head is foggy from blood loss and medication.

●・○・●・○・●

Chishiya walks in quietly after a long shift, still in his white coat. He stands in the hallway for a moment, eyes scanning the floor. His eyes flick to the hallway. The rug is shifted three centimeters to the left. The door to the laundry room is ajar.

He steps into the living room. Couch cushions have been rearranged.

Something happened.

He finds Baya in the kitchen. Her hair's tied back. She's doing the dishes, humming. But her dominant arm isn't moving. She's using only her left.

"Rough day?" she asks without looking.

"Mm," he says casually. "Bit slow. Uneventful. What about here?"

She glances over her shoulder. "Same. Kaoru broke a plate. I cleaned up."

He nods once.

"Good to know."

He walks past her.

Ten minutes later, he's standing at Hana's bedroom door.

He knocks gently.

"Come in," she says.

She's sitting on the bed, surrounded by her plush toys, drawing in her sketchpad.

Chishiya steps inside. "Hey."

"Hi, Papa."

He sits at the foot of the bed. "Can I see what you're working on?"

She tilts the sketchpad toward him. It's a drawing of a fox. Sharp eyes. Blood on its nose.

Chishiya studies it. "Nice detail."

She beams. "Thank you."

He sets the pad aside. "You know," he says softly, "I was walking around just now, and something felt off."

"Off how?"

"The house smells like bleach. The rug's out of place. The pillows have been moved. And your mother's injured." A pause. "She lied."

Hana's expression barely changes. "She's not injured."

"Mm," he hums. "That's not true."

Hana frowns. "You always say people lie when they're scared."

"Yes. And she is." He leans closer. "And I think you know why."

Silence.

"Don't you?"

"I don't know anything," she says firmly.

Chishiya smiles. He tilts his head slightly. "Hana... do you remember what I told you about secrets?"

She doesn't answer.

"I said they grow teeth. Hide under your bed. They whisper things at night."

"I'm not scared of whispers."

"You should be. Because they're not just whispers. They're warnings. And you're too smart not to understand that."

Hana grips her plush. "I didn't do anything."

"But you know something. And if you don't tell me... something worse might happen next time. Something permanent."

Her jaw tightens.

"Imagine if something happened again... but this time, it was Kaoru who was home. Would you let him be hurt because you were too scared to talk?"

"I'm not scared."

"Then prove it."

Her eyes fill, but she blinks fast, swallowing it down. "You're trying to trick me."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"No, you're trying to scare me," she says. "You always say fear is power, but it's also poison. Right?"

Chishiya's face is unreadable. Then he chuckles. "Clever girl." He gets up slowly. Begins to walk out. But he stops at the door. "I'll ask you one more time. Because you're smart. Smarter than your age, smarter than most adults I know. So you know what this means."

Silence.

"If someone hurt your mother and you protect them... then you are helping them."

Her breath catches.

"That makes you an accomplice, Hana."

She whispers, "I didn't—"

"It makes you part of it. It makes you responsible."

He turns.

"So what do you want to be?"

Her lower lip quivers. "I want to be good," she chokes.

He steps forward. Crouches. Looks her in the eye. "Then be good."

And so the secret unravels.