Rain fell quietly over the city.
Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just enough to blur the neon lights and soften the sharp edges of the world. Streets reflected the glow of traffic signals like broken mirrors, and somewhere far from the training grounds, far from Tobi's awakening, Ren walked alone.
His hood was up, hands buried deep in his pockets.
He hadn't told anyone where he was going.
He hadn't told anyone why.
Ren hated that about himself—that when things got heavy, he disappeared instead of explaining. But habits formed early, and his had been carved into him long before he ever met Tobi.
He stopped beneath a flickering streetlight.
The sound of rain pulled a memory loose.
---
Years ago.
A smaller boy stood in front of a run-down apartment building, clutching a plastic bag filled with groceries. His arms trembled—not from weight, but from fear. The street had been loud back then. Men shouting. Laughter that didn't feel friendly. Footsteps that lingered too long.
"Oi," a voice had called.
Ren froze.
Three men stepped out from the alley, their shadows stretching unnaturally long against the wall. He remembered the smell—cheap alcohol, damp concrete, rust.
"Hand it over," one of them said casually. "We're hungry too."
Ren didn't answer.
He never did.
The first punch came fast. Too fast for a child to react to. The groceries spilled across the ground—apples rolling into the gutter, milk seeping into rainwater.
He remembered curling inward. Remembered the sound of his own breathing, sharp and broken. Remembered thinking, If I don't cry, it'll end faster.
It didn't.
What saved him wasn't strength.
It was noise.
A woman shouting from a window. Someone calling the police. The men fled, laughing as they disappeared, leaving a boy shaking in the rain.
That was the day Ren learned something important.
The world didn't need monsters.
People were enough.
---
The memory faded as Ren blinked rain from his eyes.
He leaned against the railing of a pedestrian bridge, staring down at the river below. The water moved steadily, uncaring. Always forward.
"I should've been stronger," he muttered.
That thought had followed him for years.
He trained because of it. Smiled because of it. Became useful because of it. If he could be dependable, maybe the past would stop reaching for him.
But then Tobi happened.
Tobi, who carried light and darkness like they were a responsibility, not a curse. Tobi, who broke and still stood back up. Tobi, who never looked away when things got ugly.
Ren clenched his jaw.
People like him shouldn't exist, Ren thought bitterly. Because they make people like me feel small.
The rain grew heavier.
Unseen by him, a presence lingered at the edge of the bridge. Not hostile. Not friendly.
Observing.
"You always walk when you're thinking," a calm voice said.
Ren stiffened.
He didn't turn immediately. "You're bad at sneaking," he replied. "I heard you breathing."
A soft chuckle. "You've improved."
Ren finally looked back.
Hideo stood a few steps away, coat darkened by rain, eyes unreadable as ever. He didn't approach. Didn't threaten. He simply existed, like a question Ren hadn't wanted to answer.
"If you're here to drag me back," Ren said, "don't bother."
Hideo shook his head. "No. I came to see if you'd run."
Ren scoffed. "And?"
"You didn't," Hideo replied. "You walked."
That annoyed Ren more than anything else.
"I'm not part of your plans," Ren said. "Not the council's. Not yours. Not his."
Hideo's gaze sharpened slightly. "You care more than you admit."
Ren looked back at the river. "Caring gets people hurt."
"Or saved," Hideo countered.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Ren spoke, quieter. "If I stay… I'll slow him down."
Hideo didn't answer immediately.
Then: "The people who think that way usually matter the most."
Ren laughed softly—once. No humor in it. "You don't know anything about me."
Hideo turned away, rain dripping from his hair. "I know enough. And so does the world."
He took a step back, then paused. "When the time comes, you'll have to choose what you're willing to lose."
With that, he vanished into the rain, leaving nothing behind but silence.
---
Ren stayed there long after.
Eventually, the rain eased.
He exhaled slowly, straightening. His hands still shook—but not from fear this time.
"Idiot," he muttered to himself. "Running won't change anything."
Somewhere far away, Tobi was training. Awakening. Changing.
Ren looked toward the city skyline, eyes hardening with resolve.
"…I won't disappear again," he said.
And for the first time, he turned back toward the path he'd been avoiding.
Unaware that the choices he was about to make would hurt more than any punch—and matter far more than he realized.
The two figures did not move closer.
That alone made it worse.
The smiling one shifted his weight slightly, the streetlight casting uneven shadows across his face. His fingers lowered, hands slipping casually into his pockets, as if this were a conversation he had already grown bored of.
"Hm," he hummed. "He's quieter than I expected."
Tobi said nothing.
Every instinct in his body screamed to move—but something deeper told him that moving first would be a mistake.
The quiet man adjusted his stance by half a step.
Not toward Tobi.
Sideways.
Blocking something unseen.
"Observe," he said flatly.
The word carried weight.
Not a suggestion. A command.
Sumi's breath caught beside Tobi. She could feel it now too—the pressure, subtle but heavy, like standing too close to a cliff edge you couldn't see.
"They're not hiding," she whispered. "They want us to feel them."
Iruka clenched his jaw. "Then why aren't they attacking?"
The smiling man glanced at Iruka, amused. "Because this isn't about you."
His gaze slid back to Tobi.
"Yet."
The quiet man spoke again. "His aura fluctuates when he's watched."
Tobi felt it immediately—
the sword deep inside him responding, restless.
Not awakening.
Resisting.
"That's interesting," the smiling one said. "Fear, maybe?"
"No," the other replied. "Restraint."
That word lingered.
A breeze passed through the street, carrying dust and the faint smell of burned stone. For a moment, the shadows behind the two figures stretched unnaturally long—then snapped back into place.
The smiling man sighed theatrically.
"Well. That answers that."
He straightened, tapping the streetlight once with his knuckle. It flickered but didn't go out.
"We've seen enough for tonight."
Tobi's eyes widened slightly. "That's it?"
The man's smile widened.
"For you?" he said. "Yes."
The quiet one turned away first, already losing interest, already certain.
Before they stepped back into the darkness, the smiling man glanced over his shoulder one last time.
"Hey," he said lightly. "Try not to die before we meet properly."
Then, softer—almost thoughtful—
"It'd be a shame."
The shadows swallowed them.
No explosion.
No ripple.
Just absence.
The street felt colder immediately.
Sumi exhaled shakily. "They… let us go."
Iruka shook his head slowly. "No."
Tobi stared at the empty space where they had stood, his chest tight—not from fear alone, but from something sharper.
"They decided," he said quietly, "that I wasn't worth breaking yet."
The sword inside him pulsed once.
Not in anger.
In warning.
And somewhere far beyond the city lights, something unseen shifted—
as if a countdown had just begun.