After two weeks, Buffy was discharged from the hospital, her body still wrapped in bandages that covered her arms, neck, and patches of skin visible beneath her clothes. The family sat around the dining table for breakfast. No one spoke. The only sounds were the sharp *clink* of forks against ceramic plates and the wet, mechanical sounds of chewing.
Aoto lifted his fork halfway to his mouth, then paused. His jaw closed slowly, deliberately. He set his utensils down with careful precision.
"The bank is collapsing," he let a shaky breath out . "Things will be very difficult financially now."
Redacted's chopsticks stopped mid-air. Yuzu's hand trembled slightly as she set down her teacup. Both their expressions twisted—sour, sad.
"So, Buffy..." Aoto continued, his gaze fixed somewhere between his plate and his daughter's helmeted face. "Re-chan... your mother and I have talked." He paused, his jaw tightening. The muscles in his face worked to maintain control. "We would like for you two to live with relatives for now. Until... until everything is sorted." His voice cracked, just barely. "I am so sor—"
"Hahahahahaha!"
The sound cut through the room. Buffy doubled over, her shoulders shaking, the laughter spilling out of her so violently she started coughing, choking on her own mirth. The astronaut helmet tilted forward with the force of it.
Redacted stared. Aoto's mouth hung slightly open. Yuzu's hand covered her lips.
When Buffy finally straightened, catching her breath in ragged gasps, her voice came out different—serious, calm, soft.
"I am the one who is supposed to be sorry." She paused, and through the visor, they could see the reflection of the morning light catching on something wet. "Ha-ha... I guess I am really bad luck."
A single tear dripped from beneath the helmet, landing on the table with a soft plip
"Don't say that," Redacted cut in, her voice harder than she intended. "You are not—"
"I AM "
The shout rang through the house. Plates rattled. Everyone sat frozen.
She had never raised her voice. Not once. Not ever.
"Buffy..." Redacted's voice came out barely audible.
Buffy let out a long, trembling breath that fogged the inside of her visor. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to something quieter, more fragile.
"I am sorry. I know I am being a burden, leeching off you all." Her hands, still bandaged, twisted together in her lap. "But if you would allow me to be a part of this family... I never want us to part."
The helmet tilted to the side.
Yuzu's face crumpled. A sob broke from her throat as she pushed back from the table, chair scraping against wood, and crossed to Buffy. She wrapped her arms around her daughter, pulling her close despite the bandages, despite the pain it might cause. Her body shook with sobs she'd been holding back for weeks.
Aoto watched them for a long moment. Then he let out a breath—slow, controlled—and the ghost of a smile touched his lips.
TWO YEARS AFTER THE GREAT DEPRESSION
The Yu family's assets had been liquidated piece by piece—furniture sold, jewelry pawned, the house mortgage foreclosed. What remained of their wealth dissolved, swallowed by debts and the collapsing economy. They ended up with nothing but a small ramen shop in a part of town where the streets smelled of sewage and desperation.
The shop was cramped, with mismatched tables and chairs salvaged from somewhere, walls stained with years of smoke and grease. Redacted moved through the space with mechanical efficiency, her tentacles occasionally brushing against customers as she maneuvered between tables.
She approached a table where four men sat hunched over their bowls, shoveling ramen and cheap meat into their mouths with the graceless urgency of people who didn't know when their next meal would come. Grease shone on their chins. One of them had bits of green onion stuck in his teeth.
Redacted's face remained blank as she reached for the empty cups and bowls, stacking them on her tray. The smell of sake and body odor wafted up from the table.
"Well, aren't you fine wine, Miss Octo?" one of them said, his voice slurred and thick.
Redacted said nothing. Her hands continued their work.
The men around the table burst into laughter—loud, braying sounds that cut through the ambient noise of the bar. The man who'd spoken felt his face flush, embarrassment mixing with alcohol-fueled bravado.
His hand shot out and grabbed Redacted's arm, fingers digging into her skin. "Hey, I'm talking to you, damn octo bitch."
Without looking at him, Redacted picked up the last cup with her free hand and placed it on the tray, the motion smooth and unhurried despite his grip.
She turned to walk away.
He yanked on her arm, trying to pull her back toward him.
She didn't stop. Didn't even slow down.
His eyes widened. "What the—she won't budge."
His body jerked forward as Redacted continued walking. He scrambled to keep his footing,He hit the floor hard, his back scraping against the wooden planks as he was dragged along behind her.
The entire bar fell silent. Conversations died mid-sentence. Chopsticks paused halfway to mouths.
The man tried to let go, his fingers fumbling at her arm, but then Redacted glanced back at him.
Just a glance. Nothing more.
But something in her eyes—cold, empty—made his spine go rigid.
Redacted stopped at the counter and set the tray down with a soft *clack*. Then, almost as an afterthought, she reached down, grabbed the man by his collar, and lifted him off the ground with one hand.
His feet kicked uselessly in the air. "You bitch!" He swung a wild punch at her face.
It connected. His knuckles met her cheek with a meaty *thwack*.
He smirked, triumphant.
Redacted's head hadn't even moved. She looked at him the way someone might look at a fly that had landed on their arm—mildly annoyed, nothing more.
She tossed him. Not with any great effort or dramatic wind-up—just a flick of her wrist.
He sailed through the air and crashed through the doorway, landing sprawled across the table outside where his companions sat. Wood splintered. Dishes shattered. Bodies went tumbling.
The door to the kitchen burst open. Aoto emerged, his apron dusted with flour, hair disheveled, eyes wide with panic. "What was that?"
He looked around, taking in the scene—Redacted standing by the counter, expression neutral, and the man-shaped hole in the doorway leading to the chaos outside.
He let out a long, weary sigh and pressed his palm against his forehead. "This happens every time."
From the kitchen, Yuzu's voice rang out, light with amusement as she worked the noodles, steam rising around her. "What did you expect?" A soft chuckle followed.
Then came Buffy's laugh—loud, unrestrained, absolutely delighted. "Hahahahahaha!" She pointed at the man with both hands, her helmet bobbing wildly as her whole body shook with laughter.
Outside, the man pushed himself up from the wreckage, his face twisted with humiliation and rage. His eyes locked onto Buffy—this weird girl in her ridiculous helmet, laughing at him.
"Ekkk!" Buffy squealed, her laughter cutting off abruptly.
Redacted's eyes slid to the side. Casual. Lazy almost.
That look alone was enough. The man's expression drained from fury to terror in the span of a heartbeat. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself, and ran down the street without looking back.
The shop remained frozen for a beat longer.
Then, slowly, conversations resumed. Chopsticks began moving again. Someone coughed. Life continued.
*Clank.*
The last customer had left. Chairs were being stacked on tables. Yuzu wiped down the counter while Aoto counted the day's meager earnings in the back.
The door exploded inward.
Not opened. Exploded. The hinges shrieked as the door slammed against the wall hard enough to crack plaster.
Six men strode in, silhouettes backlit by the street lamps outside. They moved with the casual confidence of predators. Guns hung visible at their sides—some in holsters, others held openly. Bats. Knives. Brass knuckles that caught the light.
Aoto emerged from the back room. Yuzu froze, rag in hand. Buffy, who had been sweeping near the counter, went still. Redacted's hand tightened around the handle of the broom she was holding.
A man stepped forward from the group—different from the others. He wore a tailored suit that looked expensive even in the dim light, his hair buzzed military-short. He moved with an economy of motion, each step deliberate, calculated. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a silver lighter, and took a long drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the air.
"Who is the owner here?" His voice was quiet, conversational, which somehow made it more menacing.
Silence.
His eyes scanned the room and landed on Buffy. She stood there, helmet reflecting the light, completely, unnaturally still. Their gazes met—his sharp and predatory, hers hidden behind the visor but somehow felt all the same.
His eyes narrowed.
Redacted's eyes darted, counting. Six men. All armed. Her hand moved slowly, subtly, reaching for a wooden stick leaning against the wall—a practice sword Aoto used for exercise.
"My wife and I are the owners of this shop." Aoto stepped forward, his voice steady, projecting a confidence his body language betrayed with the slight tension in his shoulders. "Is there a problem?"
"How dare you talk to the boss that way, you prick!" One of the men behind the boss snarled, taking a half-step forward.
The boss raised one hand , a small gesture barely noticeable. The man fell silent immediately, shrinking back.
The boss walked toward Aoto with slow, measured steps. Each footfall echoed in the quiet room. He stopped directly in front of Aoto, close enough that Aoto could smell the cigarette smoke and expensive cologne, and looked him in the eyes.
The tension in the room became physical, pressing down on everyone.
The boss took another drag and blew the smoke directly into Aoto's face.
"You are going to have to pay," he said softly with a smile , "for roughing up one of my men."
The man from earlier stepped forward from the group, a bandage on his head, a smug smirk plastered across his face.
Aoto's jaw tightened. "Your... person was harassing my daughter. He got what he deserved. I don't see why that is a problem, so if you have no b—"
The boss's hand landed on Aoto's shoulder.
The movement was so fast, so smooth, that it seemed to happen between blinks. One moment his hand was at his side, the next it was clamped down on Aoto's shoulder.
Aoto's eyes widened. "Huh?"
*He's fast,* Redacted thought, her eyes narrowing, every muscle in her body coiling.
The boss's expression remained calm, almost pleasant, but his eyes held something cold. His smile was all teeth. "Ten million."
"Huh?" Aoto couldn't process what he'd heard.
"Pay ten million yen, and I will let it slide." The boss's voice was as casual as if he were discussing the weather.
"Don't be unreasonable. That doesn't make any sense..." Aoto tried to pull away from the grip on his shoulder. His body strained, muscles tensing.
The hand didn't move. Not even a millimeter.
*I can't move him,* Aoto realized.
Redacted didn't think. She grabbed the wooden stick and lunged, swinging it downward in an overhead strike aimed at the boss's head.
The boss's other hand shot up, palm open.
He caught the wooden sword mid-swing. The impact made a sharp *crack* that echoed through the room. The stick stopped dead, but his palm remained steady, unmarred.
Redacted's eyes went wide. "What the "
His foot came up in a blur—a simple front kick, nothing fancy, just brutal efficiency.
It connected with Redacted's sternum. The air exploded from her lungs. Her body lifted off the ground and flew backwards, crashing into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. She crumpled to the floor in a heap, gasping.
His men cheered—whoops and hollers and crude laughter. The boss allowed himself a small grin as he looked down at Aoto, still held in place by that iron grip.
Aoto glared up at him, anger and helplessness warring in his eyes.
A shadow fell across his vision.
He looked up. Buffy stood between him and the boss, her back to her father, that ridiculous helmet catching the light.
One of the men in the back squinted at her. "Who is that weirdo?"
"Hahaha! This isn't Halloween! Who wears an astronaut helmet? Hahaha!" The laughter spread through the group, cruel and mocking.
Buffy's voice came out small, quiet, almost swallowed by the noise.
"Leave "
The laughter died.
Aoto's breath caught. Yuzu's hand covered her mouth. Redacted, still struggling to push herself up from the floor, froze.
The boss stared at Buffy. His head tilted slightly, studying her.
"What did you say?" His voice had dropped lower, dangerous.
Buffy's helmet lifted. Though they couldn't see her face, something in her posture changed—her spine straightened, her shoulders squared.
"I SAID LEAVE DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?!"
The words hit. The boss's men shifted uncomfortably. One of them took a half-step back.
The boss held Buffy's gaze or where he assumed her gaze was behind that visor for a long, tense moment.
Then he released Aoto's shoulder, turned on his heel, and walked toward the door. "We're done here."
His men stood frozen, confused, looking at each other for confirmation that they'd heard correctly. When the boss reached the door, he glanced back once.
"Move," he said quietly.
They scrambled to follow him, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to leave. The door swung shut behind them, and the sound of their footsteps faded down the street.
Silence filled the shop.
"What... just happened?" Redacted wheezed from the floor, one hand pressed against her bruised ribs.
Aoto spun Buffy around to face him, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes scanning her frantically. "Are you alright, Buffy? Did he hurt you? Are you—"
Buffy's helmet tilted up, and though he couldn't see her face, Aoto saw his own reflection in the visor—his eyes wide, genuinely terrified, not for himself but for her.
After a moment, Aoto seemed to collect himself. He took Buffy's hand—gentle, careful. "Let's finish closing up."
Redacted, still clutching her bruised arm, watched the empty doorway where the men had retreated. Her eyes moved to Buffy as she disappeared into the kitchen with Aoto.
A small, soft smile touched Redacted's lips.
Days passed.
One afternoon, the ramen shop was in its usual rhythm. Redacted stood behind the counter, working the noodles—lifting them from the boiling water in the sieve, shaking off the excess water in practiced motions that sent small clouds of steam into the air.
"Buffy!" she called toward the back. "Deliver this to the address on the note. It's just around the corner."
No response.
Redacted plated the ramen—the noodles arranged just so, the sliced pork fanned across the top, green onions and soft-boiled egg placed with the precision of routine. She wiped the rim of the bowl and opened the door to the front. "Buffy!"
The shop was empty.
"Buf—fy..." Redacted moved to the back door and pushed it open.
The words died on her lips.
Buffy sat on the wooden bench they kept outside, next to someone. They were talking, their heads tilted toward each other in easy conversation, Buffy's hands moving animatedly as she spoke.
Redacted's footsteps on the ground made them both look up.
The person sitting with Buffy was a boy, probably around their age. His hair was styled in a full afro that framed his face, his skin a deep, rich brown that caught the night light. His eyes were an unusual shadesilver-black and his expression was calm, measured. He wore a suit that looked slightly too large for him, the sleeves just a bit too long.
"Re-ne!" Buffy's voice was bright, almost sing-song. "How do you like my new friend?"
Redacted blinked. "Your new friend?"
The boy stood, and Redacted realized with slight surprise that he was taller than her. He extended his hand. "I'm Nile. Nwajei Nile. Nice to meet you."
His handshake was firm, confident. His palm was rough , the kind of calluses that come from manual labor.
"Likewise," Redacted replied, some of her usual coolness returning. "My name is Yu Redacted."
As they shook hands, Nile turned to Buffy with a small, apologetic smile. "So, Buffy, I'll be going right now. I'm a bit late for my shift at work." He laughed—a quiet, genuine sound. "So I'll be seeing you two later."
He walked away with an easy, unhurried gait, hands in his pockets.
Buffy hopped off the bench, her helmet turning toward Redacted. "Isn't he cute?" She nudged Redacted with her elbow, voice teasing.
Redacted looked at her awkwardly, a faint color touching her cheeks. "Anyways... how did you meet him?"
"Oh!" Buffy's voice brightened. "I was jumped by some neighborhood losers who wanted to rob me, and he came to my rescue." She clasped her hands together dramatically. "Isn't he the cutest?"
Redacted's eye twitched slightly. "Okay, that's enough. You've said that two times now."
"Why are you counting?" Buffy's helmet tilted, and even without seeing her face, Redacted could hear the grin in her voice. "Wait... no way... you li—Ow!!!"
Redacted's hand came down on top of Buffy's helmet with a solid *thunk*. "Shut up."
"Ahh, you fucking bitch," Buffy said in that absurdly cute voice of hers, the curse somehow sounding affectionate.
"What was that?"
"Nothing! Hehehe!" Buffy took off running toward the shop, her laughter trailing behind her.
Redacted chased after her, calling threats that neither of them took seriously.
At the curb, Nile paused before getting into the taxi. He glanced back at the shop—at the sound of laughter and running footsteps, at the faint image of two figures visible through the window.
A small smirk touched his lips. He scoffed quietly to himself. "What an interesting girl."
He slid into the taxi and gave the driver an address. As the car pulled away, his expression settled back into that calm, measured look—but his eyes remained thoughtful, almost calculating, as they reflected the passing streetlights.