The first time you met Manjiro Sano, he was just a boy.

Not the leader of Tokyo's most feared criminal empire. Not the shadow lurking in the city's underbelly, spoken of in hushed voices, feared by even the most ruthless men.

Back then, he was just Mikey.

A boy with a lazy grin and sharp, knowing eyes, eyes that saw too much, that carried the weight of burdens far beyond his years.

Yet somehow, despite it all, he still found time to tease you, to make you laugh, to look at you like you were something precious. Something worth protecting.

And you had loved him for it.

You loved him through the bloodied fists and whispered threats, through the way his knuckles always seemed bruised and his uniform smelled faintly of smoke.

You loved him even when you knew, deep down, that Mikey belonged to a world you had no place in. You loved him even when that world began to consume him.

When his smiles became rarer, dimming like a flame deprived of oxygen. When his hands trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of grief pressing against his chest, suffocating, relentless.

You loved him until the day you couldn't anymore.

Until the day you ran.

But love does not disappear, it lingers, it haunts, it leaves behind remnants of what once was. And your greatest remnant, your most undeniable scar, stood before you every morning, staring up at you with his eyes.

Your son.

-

The air between you was heavy, thick with unspoken words, with everything left unsaid for far too long.

The apartment was dimly lit, a single bulb casting a pale, flickering glow over the room.

Rain tapped against the windowpane in a steady rhythm, a distant siren wailing somewhere in the city.

The scent of old cigarette smoke and motor oil lingered in the space, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood.

Mikey stood across from you with his fists clenched and his shoulders tense. He looked as if he were preparing for a fight, though this wasn't the kind of battle he knew how to win.

"Stay."

The word wasn't a command, nor was it a plea. It was something in between, raw, desperate, like he was holding on by a thread.

Your heart clenched at the sound of it.

He knew.

Maybe he didn't know everything, but he knew enough. Knew that you had been pulling away. Knew that your hands shook when he touched you now, that your eyes held something close to fear whenever he came home covered in blood.

Mikey wasn't stupid.

"I can't."

The words felt like acid on your tongue, burning as they left your mouth.

His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. The air between you grew heavier, suffocating, thick with tension. Then, his voice cut through it, sharp and demanding.

"Why?"

There it was. The question you had been dreading. The question you had no idea how to answer.

Because Toman was gone.

Because Draken was dead.

Because the boy you loved was slipping further and further into the darkness, and no matter how hard you tried, no matter how many times you reached for him, you couldn't bring him back.

Because you were scared.

Because you were pregnant.

Your fingers curled around the fabric of your hoodie, pressing against the barely-there swell of your stomach. He didn't know. He couldn't know.

You had planned to tell him. A long time ago, before everything fell apart. Before the streets ran red, before Mikey started coming home with a dead look in his eyes. Before you realized that this, his world, wasn't a place to raise a child.

Your child. His child.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. His dark eyes burned into yours, searching for something, an answer, a reason, anything he could hold onto.

You tried to say his name.

"Mikey—"

But before you could finish, he moved.

It wasn't sudden, wasn't aggressive, but it still sent a shiver down your spine. He reached for you, his fingers curling around your wrist.

Not tight enough to hurt.

But tight enough that you felt it.

Tight enough that it made your breath catch, made your pulse stutter.

"I'll fix this," he said.

His voice was low, steady, but you could hear the cracks beneath it. The desperation. The fear.

"Whatever it is— whatever's making you want to
leave— I'll fix it."

Your eyes stung.

Because you knew that he believed that.

Because you knew that, in some way, he meant it.

But some things couldn't be fixed.

Not with his fists.

Not with the weight of his name.

Not when he had already drowned himself in a world so deep, so dark, that there was no way out.

You had seen it happen, had watched as he spiraled after Draken's death, had watched as the grief rotted him from the inside out. You had been there for the fights, the blood, the nights where he barely spoke, barely ate, barely slept.

You had tried.

Tried to hold onto him, tried to be the thing that anchored him, tried to remind him that there was still something good left in this world.

But it wasn't enough.

It was never going to be enough.

And now, you had someone else to think about.

Someone who couldn't be raised in this world of violence and death and endless revenge. Someone who deserved better.

You slowly pulled away.

Mikey's grip loosened, fingers slipping from your wrist, but he didn't let go completely.

Not yet.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there was something else there now, something fragile, something cracking.

Waiting.

Hoping.

But you couldn't give him that hope.

"I'm sorry."

For a second, he didn't react. Didn't move, didn't breathe.

Then, something shifted.

His entire body went rigid, his expression closing off. His fingers finally slipped from your skin, and in that moment, you knew, this was it.

This was the moment where everything shattered.

But you couldn't stay to watch him break.

You turned.

You walked away.

And this time, he didn't stop you.

-

The small apartment you shared with your son wasn't much. The walls were thin, the floors creaked with every step, and the heater rattled on cold nights.

The furniture was secondhand, the couch a little too worn, the kitchen cabinets slightly misaligned. But it was home.

It was warm, filled with soft blankets, scattered toys, and the faint scent of miso soup from last night's dinner.

Most importantly, it was safe.

"Are you hungry, sweetheart?" you asked as you placed your bag on the counter, rolling the tension out of your shoulders.

A soft patter of feet against the wooden floor made you turn.

Your son, Shin perched on the edge of the couch, his tiny legs swinging back and forth. His dark eyes flickered up to meet yours, gleaming with anticipation. He was five now, full of energy, always asking questions, always laughing.

Always reminding you of him.

"Can we have ramen?" Shin asked in an exaggerated plea with his hands clasped together.

You chuckled, tilting your head. "Ramen again?"

Shin grinned, revealing a slight gap between his teeth. "It's my favorite!"

His excitement was infectious, and you couldn't help but smile as you walked over, ruffling his messy hair.

He giggled, swatting your hand away before flopping back against the couch dramatically.

"Alright, alright," you relented, heading toward the kitchen. "Ramen it is."

The sound of Shin's victorious "Yes!" made your chest tighten with something warm.

This life wasn't perfect, but it was yours.

It was good.

Shin was your world, your reason for breathing, the force that kept you moving forward even on the hardest days.

And Mikey...

Mikey was just a ghost of your past.

Or at least, that's what you told yourself.

Because ghosts?

They always find a way back to you.

ideas for the next chapter?