DAICHI SATO
Big brother, I'm hungry.
Daichi looked down at his youngest sister, Mari, who was pulling at his jacket with one small hand while wiping her nose with the other. Nine years old and already too thin, too tired, too aware that their next meal depended on him figuring something out.
"I know, Mari-chan," he said, ruffling her hair with a gentleness that would surprise anyone at his school. At school, Daichi Sato was known as "The Demon"—a delinquent with bleached hair, a permanent scowl, and a reputation for brutal fights. "Kenji and Yuka are waiting at the apartment. Let's go get dinner."
"Can we have hamburgers?"
"Sure thing."
A lie. They'd be having cup noodles again. But Mari didn't need to know that yet.
At nineteen, Daichi had been raising his three younger siblings for almost two years. Their parents had died in a car accident—the kind that made the news for one day then was forgotten by everyone except the family left behind. Daichi had been seventeen, technically too young for guardianship, but the alternative was foster care and splitting up the kids.
So he'd lied about his age, forged some documents with help from a sympathetic yakuza contact, and taken legal responsibility for three children while he was still in high school himself.
He'd dropped out, of course. Got a job at a construction site, then a second job at a warehouse, then picked up whatever odd jobs he could find. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
They made their way through the darkening streets toward their apartment—a tiny two-room space in the worst part of town. The kind of place where sirens were white noise and you learned not to ask questions about the stains in the hallway.
"Daichi!" Mari suddenly pointed. "Look, a wallet!"
Sure enough, there was a wallet on the ground near an alley entrance. Daichi's first instinct was to grab it—they needed the money desperately. His second instinct, the one he listened to, was to check if anyone nearby had dropped it.
"Hello?" he called into the alley. "Someone lose a wallet?"
"Yeah, that's mine."
Three men emerged from the alley. Not concerned citizens. Daichi recognized their type immediately—the same type who'd come for his parents' "debt" after the funeral. Loan sharks. Yakuza adjacent. Predators.
He pushed Mari behind him. "Sorry for the confusion. We're leaving."
"Not so fast." The leader—a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—smiled without warmth. "You know, little girls should be more careful at night. Dangerous neighborhood."
Every protective instinct Daichi had developed over nineteen years of hard living went into overdrive.
"Touch her and I'll kill you."
His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. Not a threat. A promise.
The scarred man laughed. "Tough guy, huh? I like that. Tell you what—we're recruiting. Strong kid like you could make good money working for us. Better than whatever poverty wage you're scraping together now."
"Not interested."
"Think about it. You got siblings to feed, right? We know about you, Daichi Sato. Construction worker by day, taking care of three kids, behind on rent. We could help with that. All you gotta do is a few jobs for us."
"I said no."
The man's smile vanished. "Wrong answer, kid."
The attack came fast—one man lunging from the left while another came from the right. Daichi had been in enough fights to recognize a coordinated assault. He shoved Mari away hard.
"Run! Get Kenji and Yuka and go to Mrs. Tanaka's apartment! NOW!"
Mari fled, sobbing. Smart girl. She'd survive this.
Daichi turned back to face the three men. He'd been holding back at school, not wanting to seriously hurt anyone. But these weren't students. These were killers who threatened his sister.
He didn't hold back.
The first man got Daichi's elbow in his throat. The second took a knee to the groin. But the third—the scarred leader—was faster than he looked. A knife appeared in his hand, flashing under the streetlight.
"Told you," the man said. "Wrong answer."
The blade came in fast and low, professional, aimed for the kidney. Daichi tried to dodge, but in the confined space of the alley entrance, there was nowhere to go. He felt the steel punch through his jacket, through his shirt, through skin and muscle.
Pain. Immediate and overwhelming.
He stumbled back, hand going to his side. Blood—too much blood—leaked between his fingers.
"Should have taken the job, kid."
The scarred man raised the knife for another strike. Daichi tried to raise his hands to defend, but his body wasn't responding right. The world was going fuzzy at the edges.
No, he thought desperately. I can't die. The kids need me. Who'll take care of them? Who'll—
The knife came down.
This time it found his chest.
Daichi fell to his knees, still trying to understand what had happened. This wasn't fair. He'd done everything right. Worked hard. Stayed away from crime. Protected his siblings. This wasn't supposed to happen to people who played by the rules.
"Search him," the scarred man ordered, wiping his blade clean. "Then let's go. Someone might have heard."
Daichi watched them rifle through his pockets, taking the pathetic amount of cash he'd had left. Rent money. Food money. Mari's birthday present fund.
"Thirty thousand yen? That's it? Pathetic."
They left him bleeding out in the alley entrance.
Daichi lay there, staring up at the narrow strip of sky visible between buildings. The stars were out. He'd promised to take the kids stargazing once he saved enough for a car. Promised to take them to the beach. Promised so many things.
I'm sorry, he thought as his vision darkened. I'm sorry, Mari. Kenji. Yuka. I tried. I really tried.
He thought about calling for help but couldn't make his voice work. Thought about crawling but couldn't make his body move. All he could do was lie there and bleed and hope his siblings would forgive him for breaking his promise to always be there.
Find a good family, he prayed to whatever god might be listening. Let them stay together. Please.
Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, cold and absolute.
Daichi Sato died in an alley at 9:23 PM on a Monday in April. His body was discovered three hours later by a homeless man who called the police anonymously. His three siblings were placed in foster care—separately, despite Daichi's final prayer. They never found the men who killed him.
At his funeral, attended by exactly seven people, the priest spoke about senseless tragedy and young lives cut short. He was right, but it didn't matter. Dead was dead, regardless of how senseless it was.
HIMARI NAKAMURA
The karaoke machine's screen displayed her stats: Perfect x 127. Score: 99.8%
Himari Nakamura bowed to the camera as the livestream chat exploded with hearts and excited comments.
XxSakuraFanxX: AMAZING AS ALWAYS!! 💖💖
IdolDreamer88: How is your voice even real??
MusicLover42: Himari-chan! Will you perform at the festival?
She smiled brightly, holding the smile until her cheeks ached. "Thank you everyone! That's all for tonight. Remember to take care of yourselves and chase your dreams!"
The stream ended. The smile dropped instantly.
Himari set down the microphone and stared at her reflection in the black screen. Seventeen years old, often called "the angel of song" by her modest online following. Pretty enough, talented enough, young enough to maybe—maybe—make it as a professional idol.
If only she could actually attend auditions.
Her phone buzzed: Mom's hospital.
She answered immediately. "Hello?"
"Miss Nakamura? This is Nurse Ito. Your mother is asking for you again."
"I'll be right there."
She grabbed her bag and headed out of her tiny apartment—the one she'd rented to be closer to the hospital, paid for with her meager streaming income and part-time jobs. The idol dream was dead. Had been for two years, since the car accident that left her mother in a coma.
Himari couldn't pursue her dreams while her mother lay sleeping, trapped in her own mind. What kind of daughter would she be? What kind of person?
So she sang for free on the internet, worked three jobs, and visited the hospital every day to sit beside a woman who couldn't hear her anymore.
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of machines. Her mother lay still, face peaceful, gray threading through her dark hair. She'd been beautiful once. Himari remembered her singing while cooking, teaching her daughter every song she knew.
Now she just breathed, artificially sustained, technically alive but fundamentally absent.
"Hi, Mom," Himari said softly, settling into the chair beside the bed. "I did another stream tonight. Got up to five thousand viewers. Not huge, but growing."
No response. There never was.
"They keep asking when I'll do a live performance. I keep making excuses." She took her mother's hand, cold and limp. "I got another audition offer. Real label, real chance. But the first round is next month and it's in Tokyo. I can't leave you that long."
The machines beeped their indifferent rhythm.
"I know you'd tell me to go," Himari continued, tears burning behind her eyes. "You always said I should chase my dreams. But you're my dream too, Mom. You're the one who taught me to sing. How can I become an idol without you there to see it?"
She'd been having this one-sided conversation for two years now. The doctors said there was almost no brain activity. That her mother would never wake up. That Himari should consider... other options.
Letting go. That's what they meant.
But how could she? How could she be the one to decide her mother's life was over?
A doctor entered—Dr. Sato, the one who'd always been straight with her. "Himari-san. Do you have a moment?"
She nodded, following him into the hallway.
"I'll be direct," he said, and Himari's stomach dropped. "Your mother's condition is deteriorating. Her organs are starting to fail. Without intervention, she has perhaps weeks left."
"Then intervene," Himari said immediately.
"We can. But it's expensive. Very expensive. And it would only prolong things, not improve them. She's still not going to wake up."
"I don't care. Do whatever you need to do."
Dr. Sato sighed. "Himari-san, I know this is hard. But you need to think about yourself too. You're seventeen. You have your whole life ahead of you. Your mother wouldn't want you to sacrifice everything for—"
"She's my MOM!" Himari's voice cracked. "She's all I have! Please, just... just keep her alive. I'll find the money. I'll work more jobs. I'll—"
"The treatment would cost approximately eight million yen."
The number hit her like a physical blow. Eight million yen. She made maybe 300,000 yen a month total from all her jobs. It would take her two years to save that much, and that was if she spent nothing on rent or food.
Impossible.
"There is another option," Dr. Sato said quietly. "If you agreed to take her off life support, if you gave consent for organ donation... her organs could save multiple lives. It's not nothing, Himari-san. It's a kind of legacy."
"She's not dead yet."
"I know. I'm just saying—"
"I need to think about it."
Himari fled back to her mother's room, closing the door behind her. She sank into the chair and buried her face in her hands.
Eight million yen. Impossible. But giving up? Also impossible.
"What do I do?" she whispered. "Mom, what do I do?"
No answer. There never was.
She stayed there for hours, holding her mother's hand, singing softly—all the songs her mother had taught her. Lullabies and folk songs and pop hits from when her mother was young. She sang until her voice grew hoarse, until visiting hours ended and the night nurse gently told her she needed to leave.
Himari walked home through empty streets, tears streaming down her face, trying to figure out which pieces of her life she could sacrifice to save her mother.
The idol dream was already gone. What else did she have?
The answer, she realized with dull horror, was: nothing else.
She'd given up friends, school, her future—all for someone who might never wake up. And she'd do it again. Every time.
Because that's what love meant, wasn't it? Sacrifice. Choosing someone else's life over your own dreams.
Back in her apartment, Himari stared at her computer screen—at the audition email that had come yesterday. The one that could change everything. The one she'd have to decline.
She started typing her refusal, apologizing, explaining that personal circumstances prevented her from attending.
Then she stopped.
What if she went? What if she auditioned, got signed, made enough money to save her mother? It was a fantasy, but it was the only fantasy she had left.
She deleted the refusal and started over: Thank you for this opportunity. I would be honored to audition.
It felt like betrayal. Leaving her mother for even a few days.
But it also felt like the only choice left.
Himari hit send before she could reconsider.
Then she went to bed, exhausted and guilty and desperately hopeful.
She didn't know that she'd never make that audition.
Three days later, the hospital called at 2:47 AM. Himari answered with shaking hands, already knowing.
"Your mother is in critical condition. You should come now."
She ran the entire way, arriving breathless and terrified to find doctors and nurses crowded around her mother's bed. Machines screaming. Someone performing chest compressions.
"What happened?" Himari gasped.
"Cardiac arrest. We're doing everything we can."
But Himari could see it in their faces. They were going through the motions. Her mother was already gone.
"Let me see her," she said. "Please."
They hesitated, then stepped aside. Himari pushed through to her mother's bedside, taking her hand—still warm, but cooling.
"Mom," she whispered. "I'm here. I'm here."
The machines flatlined with a sound Himari would hear in nightmares for the rest of her life.
"Time of death," the doctor said quietly. "3:04 AM."
"No," Himari said. "No, no, no—"
"Himari-san, I'm so sorry."
"I was going to save her. I had a plan. I was going to—"
But plans didn't matter now. Money didn't matter. The audition didn't matter.
Her mother was dead.
Himari collapsed beside the bed, still holding that cooling hand, and screamed—a raw, broken sound that carried every bit of grief and guilt and love she'd been holding back for two years.
The doctors left her there for a long time, understanding that some pain needed space to exist.
Eventually, they came back with paperwork.
Someone mentioned organ donation. Himari, numb and hollow, signed everything they put in front of her. If her mother's death could save someone else, fine. Whatever. Nothing mattered anymore.
The funeral was small. Himari sang—her voice breaking, tears streaming down her face—all her mother's favorite songs. No one commented on her performance. It wasn't a performance. It was goodbye.
After the funeral, after the condolences from distant relatives who'd never visited the hospital, after everyone left, Himari stood alone at the grave.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough."
She stayed until dark, then walked home through empty streets.
Back in her apartment, she opened her computer, planning to cancel the audition that no longer mattered.
Instead, she found an email from the hospital, sent two hours before her mother's cardiac arrest:
Miss Nakamura, there's been a complication with your mother's case. Please contact us immediately.
Himari stared at it, rage and grief burning through her numbness.
A complication. They'd known something was wrong. They'd sent an email instead of calling. And now her mother was dead.
She wanted to scream. To break something. To hurt someone the way she was hurting.
Instead, she carefully closed the laptop, walked to her bathroom, and made a decision.
She'd been holding sleeping pills left over from when she'd needed help with anxiety. The bottle was nearly full.
If I take all of these, she thought with strange clarity, I won't have to feel this anymore.
She poured the pills into her hand, counting. Thirty-seven. Probably enough.
"I'm coming, Mom," she whispered.
Then she swallowed them, all at once, washing them down with water from the tap.
Himari Nakamura was found three days later by her landlord, investigating the missed rent payment. The autopsy listed cause of death as "intentional overdose." Her funeral was even smaller than her mother's. The newspaper mentioned it in a brief paragraph: Promising young singer dies in apparent suicide.
Her unfinished songs remained on her computer, her dreams of becoming an idol died with her, and the world continued spinning as if she'd never existed at all.
But death, as she was about to discover, was not the end.