The police officers nodded their thanks as Takemichi offered a final, polite bow and stepped away.
He exhaled—quietly, deeply—and made his way back to the chair he'd been occupying for the past hour, the cheap vinyl creaking beneath him as he sat. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly. Everything smelled like disinfectant and floor polish.
They hadn't pried too hard, thankfully. He'd kept his answers vague—two guys, a wrench, a scuffle, a robbery gone wrong. His Intuition had screamed not to say more. Names, faces—they'd come back later. In a bigger way.
Now wasn't the time.
Takemichi leaned back and stared at the scuffed tiles. His fingers, still faintly warm from using his flames and covered in blood, curled over the edge of the plastic seat.
He was stable when he left him.
The surgery would take time, they said. And even though Takemichi already knew what the other man had: a minor head trauma, dislocation of the shoulder and some internal bruising. He knew the man would live.
The flames had helped enough.
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
He looked up just as a man turned the corner, led in by one of the officers. He was older with a slight slouched posture, work-worn hands, hair gray and thinning but not frail. He had the kind of presence Takemichi recognized instantly—a martial artist and also someone who'd been carrying other people's weight longer than most lived.
Behind him were two teens.
The officer who had asked him questions before moved to stop them gently. "Excuse me, sir. Are you family of the patient?"
"I'm Sano Mansaku," the man said calmly, voice rough but kind. "Shinichiro's grandfather. These two are his siblings."
Takemichi sat up a little straighter, something cold curling in his stomach. The kids stepped forward, only to be held back by the man's outstretched arm.
"Is he okay?" the teen asked quickly. His voice was sharp, clipped—but not panicked. More like… furious at being left out. The girl beside him clutched the hem of the older man's coat. Her eyes were wide, cheeks flushed with anxious color. She was smaller—maybe Takemichi's age, maybe younger.
"Manjiro—"
"We deserve to know what's going on with our brother, grandpa," the teen, Manjiro, snapped.
Takemichi's breath caught.
"Take care of Emma for a while, okay?"
The names settled like dust over Takemichi's shoulders.
Emma. Manjiro.
He blinked, really seeing them now.
The female—Emma—had tear-glossed eyes and a too-big jacket. Her shoulders curled inward, like she was trying to shrink into the silence, but there still was steel in her eyes, a quiet strength.
And the male—Manjiro—stood rigid, like a match about to strike. He was shorter than Takemichi had expected, though still taller than Takemichi. Not by much, but enough to notice. Maybe fifteen. Maybe older. His face was unreadable, but there was heat in his gaze. A kind of pressure.
Takemichi's Hyper Intuition pulsed again—low, steady, insistent.
These two matter.
More than they know.
More than he does.
The old man put a firm hand on each of their shoulders. "You'll hear everything soon. Let's wait for Shinichiro's doctor, alright?"
Manjiro didn't argue again, but Takemichi could feel him vibrating with the effort of holding still. From across the hall, Takemichi sat frozen, heart pounding with something that wasn't fear. Not exactly.
It felt like gravity.
Like something in the world had just shifted—again—and he'd barely caught his balance.
He didn't know these people.
But he would.
.
The corridor was too quiet, the hum of the overhead lights the only thing breaking the stillness as the three of them waited just outside the surgery room.
Takemichi sat in his chair again, hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes trained on the door. A small red light above it blinked in rhythm with his thoughts. Still in surgery. Still alive.
On the farthest side from him, near the surgery door, the two teens—Emma and Manjiro—stood near the wall. Emma's hands were clenched at her sides. Her chin quivered every so often, like she was fighting back a wave she didn't want to show. Manjiro stood stiff and still beside her, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
His eyes, though—Takemichi noticed—were empty.
Completely devoid of life.
When their gazes met, Manjiro didn't look away.
"What are you doing here?" he asked flatly.
Emma turned to him with a start, sniffling. "Mikey!" she scolded, tugging at his sleeve. "Don't be rude…"
Takemichi blinked, surprised by the directness, but not offended. He reached into his bag and quietly pulled out a folded napkin—the kind you only packed because someone back home always reminded you to.
He stood, stepping over, and gently offered it to Emma. She stared at it for a moment, then took it with a soft, whispered, "Thank you…"
"I was the one who found him," Takemichi said, voice low and steady. "Called the ambulance. He—uh—was outside the shop when it happened."
Emma's breath hitched, and she looked down at the napkin clutched in her hands. Manjiro, or Mikey, meanwhile, straightened slightly.
A flicker. There it was.
Something shifted in his eyes—still dull, but no longer lifeless. A spark of presence.
In two quick steps, he crossed the distance and grabbed Takemichi by the shoulders, his fingers tight, too tight.
"What happened?" he demanded, voice suddenly sharp, like someone who hadn't meant to yell but couldn't help it.
Takemichi winced, traitorous tears already forming. "O-Oi, easy—"
Emma rushed in, hands on her brother's arms. "Mikey, you're hurting him! Your grip's like a monster's—let go!"
He let go instantly, a little too fast, like he hadn't realized it himself.
Takemichi rubbed his shoulders with a dry chuckle. "Thanks," he said to Emma, glancing at her with a crooked smile and teary eyes. "I was gonna say something, but you said it better."
Manjiro looked away, muttering something under his breath that might have been an apology. Might.
Takemichi didn't push. Instead, he glanced between them, then back at the still-closed door.
"I don't know exactly what happened," he said finally. "But I was walking home when… I went down a side street and saw your brother—Shinichiro-san—arguing with this teen. Looked like he'd been caught trying to steal a bike or something."
Emma's breath caught. Manjiro said nothing.
"I didn't get a good look. It happened fast. Shinichiro-san tried to talk the kid down… then another one showed up. He hit him with something. A wrench, I think."
He paused, the memory flaring bright and sharp behind his eyes. The noise. The blood.
"I shouted. Got Shinichiro to move a little before the blow landed. It saved his life."
Emma's eyes were wide now, shining with unshed tears while Manjiro's fists were clenched at his sides again, knuckles pale.
Takemichi's voice softened. "I didn't see where they went. Sorry."
There was silence after that. Just the soft, persistent hum of the hospital and the quiet weight of a moment none of them could escape from yet.
"…Thanks," Manjiro said finally. The word sounded like it had to claw its way out of his chest.
Takemichi didn't say anything at first. Just gave a small nod and sat back down. After a beat, the two Sano siblings joined him—Emma to Manjiro's left, while Manjiro himself sat next to him with that stillness of someone trying not to fall apart.
The red light above the surgery door was still on. Still red. Still waiting.
Takemichi didn't realize how much time had passed until he heard the soft shuffle of familiar shoes approaching again.
The old man moved slower now, weariness on every step—but not weakness. His gaze landed on Takemichi almost immediately, thoughtful, quiet. Then he offered a small nod of acknowledgment before coming to stand in front of him.
"You're the one who called the ambulance?" he asked, though his voice made it clear he already knew.
Takemichi stood, bowing politely. "Yes, sir."
"Thank you," Mansaku said with quiet sincerity. "The officers told me what you said. You probably saved Shinichiro's life."
"I just… did what anyone would've done," Takemichi replied, a little too quickly.
The old man gave a small hum, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"Do your parents know where you are?"
That made Takemichi freeze.
Then he blinked.
"Ah… crap."
He fumbled for his phone, flipping it open and clicking out a message with the speed of someone used to late check-ins and overprotective family members. But this time, he wasn't texting his Dad. No, his Dad would lose his mind. He needed someone slightly less dramatic.
So he messaged his Papà.
Takemichi: Sorry for not checking in earlier. I got caught up in something. I'm safe. At the hospital for now. Will explain later. Don't tell Dad.
The moment he hit send, he let out a long breath and slid the phone back into his pocket.
"Your folks on their way?" Mansaku asked.
Takemichi hesitated. "No. They're… on a business trip. Overseas. Won't be back for a while."
That made the older man frown. "It's past midnight, son."
"I can get home on my own. I'm used to it," Takemichi said quickly, already sensing the direction of the conversation.
But Mansaku shook his head. "I'll drive you."
"You really don't have to—"
"I insist."
Takemichi opened his mouth to argue, then caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Manjiro.
The older boy was watching him. Still standing near the wall with Emma, arms crossed, eyes like dead coals. But there was a spark in that look. Not gratitude.
More like... irritation. Or judgment. Like you're making my grandpa worry more than he already is.
Takemichi sighed softly, lowering his eyes.
"...Alright. Thank you," he said finally.
The Sano patriarch just gave a small nod and lowered himself slowly into the chair across from Takemichi, sighing like someone who hadn't sat all day. Emma leaned gently into his side. Manjiro didn't move.
Time passed.
The hospital hummed on around them, quiet and sterile and slow. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two. The red light above the door still blinked, steady and soft like a second heartbeat.
Takemichi started to doze in the chair, only half-awake, his mind drifting in and out of half-formed thoughts and guilt-laced what-ifs.
Until finally—
Click.
The red light above the door turned off.
The hallway snapped into alertness as a doctor stepped out, pulling off their gloves with practiced ease and looking around for someone to speak to.
Sano Mansaku stood first.
"Shinichiro?" he asked, voice calm but tight at the edges.
The doctor nodded.
"He's stable. Surgery went well. He'll need rest, and the shoulder's going to take time to heal, but the head trauma wasn't as bad as it could've been."
Relief hit Takemichi like a wave. Not loud or dramatic—just real. It sank into his bones. Beside him, Emma gasped softly. Manjiro still hadn't moved, but his shoulders—so tight before—finally dropped just an inch.
The old man let out a long breath and turned to the kids. "You'll be able to see him soon."
Then he looked to Takemichi, his gaze gentler now. Grateful. Respectful.
"You too."