The walls of the Syndicate headquarters pulsed with a heavy silence that only men accustomed to death could feel comfortable in.
Cold lights flickered overhead as Daizen led the two children through the sterile corridors. The sound of Ren's and Emi's soft footsteps barely registered beneath Daizen's own, each one as sharp and heavy as his presence. He didn't speak, and neither did the children.
Emi walked closely behind him, her small fingers brushing the hem of Ren's sleeve. Her eyes darted to the black-suited assassins who stood against the walls—motionless, expressionless, like statues carved from violence. Their gazes followed them, cold and piercing. Each glance made her chest tighten.
Ren felt none of that.
The eyes meant nothing to him.
He didn't even look at them.
His face remained blank, his stride unbroken.
Fear, wonder, anxiety—those were emotions for people with something inside them. Ren only had the silence. The weight of emptiness.
Daizen pushed open a large steel door. The hall inside smelled faintly of antiseptic and old metal. At the end of the corridor was a wide chamber where five people waited—each seated, each cloaked in the same aura of authority, though their appearances betrayed something unexpected.
They were injured.
One sat in a wheelchair, his leg raised and casted. Another leaned on a pair of crutches, his left arm in a sling. Blood had dried into the bandages wrapped around a woman's side, her long hair slightly disheveled. The others wore smaller signs of trauma—splints, stitched cuts, and stiff, awkward movements.
These were the Elders—the highest echelon of the Syndicate. The ones everyone feared.
And yet, they had clearly been humbled.
Daizen walked forward, flanked by the two children, and stopped before them.
The tension in the room was immediate.
The elder in the wheelchair—Elder Tsukasa—broke the silence first. His voice was sharp and furious.
"You've gone mad, Daizen. Utterly fucking mad."
Daizen's jaw tightened, but he remained calm. "Is that so?"
"He's from that clan," Shion spat, her voice cold with venom. "And you dare to bring a monster like him into our kingdom? Worse—adopt him?"
Elder Masaru growled. "He looks exactly like his father."
Daizen didn't flinch.
"If this child grows up—if he remembers anything—he'll be the end of all of us," Tsukasa hissed. "He won't just destroy the Syndicate. He'll end the age of assassins. There'll be no one left."
"He has no memories," Daizen replied. "None. Not even of his name before he arrived."
"So what? That makes him safe?"
Daizen stepped forward.
"He's a beast," he said. "Yes. A dangerous one. One without an owner. Without a leash. Without a purpose. And that makes him more dangerous. That's why we give him one."
The room fell into bitter silence.
"We make him serve us."
"And the girl?" Elder Kaito finally asked, calm but unreadable. "Who is she?"
"She's… insurance," Daizen said simply. "Ren insisted she come. But I have plans for her."
"Watch them both," Masaru said. "Like a hawk. The boy is an atom bomb waiting to explode, Daizen. And you're treating him like a son."
"No," Daizen said, eyes cold. "I'm treating him like a weapon."
Ren and Emi were led down another corridor—quieter, lined with heavy doors spaced evenly apart. A woman in a plain black uniform gestured to two of them side by side.
"These are your rooms," she said. "You may rest. Food will be brought."
Ren stood by his door for a moment. He glanced sideways as another boy passed by.
He had clean black hair, neatly combed. A violet-trimmed robe that practically screamed royalty wrapped around his frame. The crest of the Takeda was etched into the silk over his heart.
The boy, probably the same age as Ren, waved with a curious smile.
Ren stared back blankly.
Then the boy was gone, hassled by two older figures who clearly didn't like him straying from his path.
Ren entered his room and dropped the box onto the bed.
It was barely a room—sterile, plain, dull.
He opened the box. Inside were only a few folded clothes. New, unused.
Nothing else.
No keepsakes. No photos. No memories.
Daizen had claimed to be his "uncle." The only living family Ren had.
But family was just a word. It held no meaning to a boy who couldn't even remember how to feel.
He unpacked the shirts and stacked them quietly in the wardrobe.
A knock came.
Ren turned.
Emi stood at the door, her expression bright despite everything.
"I got bored," she said, walking in before he even responded. "Hope you don't mind."
Ren didn't say anything.
She plopped herself onto the bed and leaned back, arms behind her head.
"You think we'll be okay here?" she asked.
Ren shrugged. "I don't know."
She smiled. "You never say much, do you?"
"I don't have much to say. And you already know that."
She looked at him for a while.
Then her voice softened. "What do you want to do when you grow up?"
Ren blinked.
He had never been asked that before.
No one had ever cared.
And he… didn't know.
"I don't know," he said after a long pause. "I suppose existing and having somewhere to live is good enough."
She tilted her head, smiling again. "That's sad."
He didn't reply.
"Well," she said, "I want to be a doctor. Heal people. I want to save lives, I think. And maybe…" she laughed softly, "maybe even be a mother. With kids. A husband. You know, boring stuff that make life worth living."
She leaned closer, smirking.
"Maybe I'll marry you."
Ren blinked again. "No."
She pouted. "You're no fun."
She laid back again, staring up at the ceiling.
"My parents died in that fire," she said suddenly. Her voice wasn't sad—it was tired. Raw. "I lost everything. I smile a lot… but I'm always alone. People don't get it. They try to, but they just… don't. No one I've met understands what it's like to lose everything. To walk out of a hospital with nothing left. Just pain."
Ren sat down, his hands still in his lap.
"But when I met you," she continued, "it was different."
She turned her head to look at him.
"You're like me. No… worse. You don't even remember what you lost. You're numb. You feel nothing. But that loneliness… that I recognize. I know it when I see it. You walk like someone who's missing something he can't name."
Ren didn't respond, but something shifted inside him.
Aya had cried for him. Doctors had pitied him. But they never understood.
They treated his silence like a symptom. A problem to be fixed. But Emi… she didn't try to fix him.
She just sat there beside him.
A product of loss.
A child with no home, no family.
Just like him.
She didn't understand his emptiness—but she knew what it meant to be broken. To hurt.
And somehow, that was enough.
The air between them wasn't warm. It wasn't comfortable.
But it was less cold.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
And for the first time since Ren could remember…
He felt something.
Just a flicker. A faint warmth in the darkness.
Happiness.
Not loud. Not overwhelming.
But real.
And it scared him.
Because some part of him knew, deep down…
It wouldn't last.