Mizuki's POV
The look on Takashi's face was priceless.
Shocked. Confused. A little offended, even.
But I knew.
I had to help him.
Mizuki: "That man in black... he works for my father."
His eyes widened like saucers.
Takashi: "What?!"
He didn't believe me—not fully. Not yet.
But he would.
That's why I brought him here.
Not to show off. Not for some dramatic reveal.
But because this place—this dusty, forgotten shelter—held answers I couldn't put into words.
I turned away, pulled open the heavy door, and gestured for him to follow.
Takashi's POV
We hurried down the stairs into what looked like a forgotten room, buried beneath the ruins of time—or at least, beneath an abandoned government building.
As Mizuki pushed the door open, a thick cloud of dust exploded into the air like it had been saving up for this moment. Before I could even cough, Mizuki pressed her arm against both our mouths, like some sort of tactical ninja mom. Effective, though I could tell she was disgusted.
Concrete walls. Old CRT monitors staring blankly into space. Filing cabinets sealed with layers of dust. The gaps between the columns looked like spider hotels—vacancy signs flashing in every web strand.
Apart from the footprints on the floor—clearly a few days old—it was obvious no one had stepped foot in here in a long time. Well, except one person.
I looked down at Mizuki's shoes. Yeah. The prints matched. She'd been here before.
Was this... her hideout?
Her secret lair? A ninja treehouse for one?
Maybe this was where she stored all her sarcasm when not in use.
Takashi: "So... is this where you bring all the kids you rescue from creepy agents?"
Mizuki: (completely ignoring me) "Don't be dramatic. Sit. I need to show you something."
She pulled out a dusty chair and wiped it half-heartedly with her sleeve before wiping her sleeve on her pants. I was weirdly surprised. I always imagined Mizuki as someone who used sarcasm as mouthwash and disinfected her soul with hand sanitizer.
But maybe... maybe she was human, too?
Without another word, she crouched by a side desk, reached beneath it, and pulled out a locked metal case. Heavy. Scratched. The kind of box you see in spy movies that always contains "the truth."
She slid it toward me across the table.
It clicked open.
Inside: a stack of photographs, aged papers, and—
I stopped breathing.
That photograph.
That one.
But not just that.
There was another.
Faded. Blurry from age. Kids sitting on a worn bench in mismatched uniforms, holding snacks too big for their tiny hands.
And there, on the edge—was me.
Small. Thin. Maybe seven or eight years old. Looking like I'd been dropped there by accident.
And behind me...
A hand on my shoulder.
A boy.
Takashi: "...No. That's not possible. Why do you even have this photo?"
I picked it up. My fingers trembled. My heart was beating like it was trying to escape.
That face. It wasn't fully visible. Partly in shadow. But the eyes—
I knew those eyes.
The same ones I saw days ago. In my grandfather's house. Watching me.
Mizuki: "How I got it isn't important. With some money and time, you can get your hands on almost anything, Takashi. The real question is—do you remember?"
I couldn't speak.
But yes.
My memories were waking up like zombies in a graveyard.
Buried deep—but never dead.
---
[Flashback – Eight Years Ago – Takashi, Age 8]
The orphanage always smelled like boiled cabbage and wet socks.
I wish that was an exaggeration.
Kids ran wild through the halls like stray dogs. Nights were sleepless; the beds creaked, whispered secrets flew across bunks, and nobody really knew when to stop talking—until they just passed out from exhaustion.
And me?
I was the silence cutting through all that noise.
A sharp, invisible thing. A ghost wrapped in a kid's body.
Every day was a battlefield. Kids shoved me. Mocked me. Stole my food. They called me "mistake."
I was like a drop of ink spilled on clean paper—everyone tried to blot me out.
But he was different.
Didn't talk much. Didn't smile either. Maybe he forgot how—like I did.
When he did speak, it was either something eerily deep or just plain weird. His eyes weren't on anyone. They were always lost in some far-off place. Maybe a world only he could see.
One time, some bullies took the little notebook I used to write in—the only place I dared to dream—and threw it out the window, into a tree. I didn't even cry.
He climbed up without a word, got it back, and handed it to me like it meant nothing.
Another time, they tried to lock me in the bathroom. He stood in front of the door. Just stood there. Didn't say a word.
But they stopped laughing.
No one messed with him.
But no one really understood him either.
He was a protector and a nightmare.
A shadow.
Some kids whispered his name like a myth.
"The Shadow."
Sometimes, they said his name was Ren.
I never knew if that was real or just another rumor that grew teeth.
And then—
One day—
He vanished.
After my ninth birthday.
Gone. Like fog at sunrise.
No goodbye.
No note.
No explanation.
Just... gone.
---
[Back in the Present]
The photo still trembled in my hands.
Everything I buried was digging its way out.
That boy in the photo—the shadow from my past—the eyes I saw in my grandfather's house—
They were all the same.
Mizuki: "You're starting to understand now, aren't you?"
I couldn't nod. Couldn't breathe.
But somewhere deep inside, a part of me whispered:
Yes.
I remember.