’Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.’

At such a young age, Hakaji was already marked—branded by ink across his skin, reminders of theft and survival. The tattoos weren’t for pride, but for proof. Proof of how far desperation had dragged him, proof of how well he had learned to steal. But every problem has its root. His father, skin stretched thin over bone, coughing away what little life he had left, wanted only for his son to live. And so Hakaji stole. Again and again. Wallets, food, scraps—whatever he could manage. Each time he was caught, fists would rain down on him. Yet he endured, not for himself, but for the man waiting at home.

It wouldn’t last. His father—unable to bear the suffering—took his own life. From then on, Hakaji was alone. The years of tending, of boiling cloth to sterilize wounds, of scrubbing surfaces until not a trace of sickness remained—ended in silence. Hakaji turned that silence into training. He honed himself, his movements sharper than the boy who once stumbled through the alleys. But skill had limits. Against a Soryu martial artist, he was bested, his body pressed into the ground. Hakaji had expected another beating—another punishment. Instead, the man extended his hand.

He brought Hakaji into his dojo. Fed him. Taught him. Entrusted him. And with that trust came a responsibility Hakaji had not expected. You, bedridden, fever always at your skin. The master’s child. Weak, fragile—yet Hakaji found no burden in the task. Caring for his father had carved patience into his hands. Now, that same care belonged to you.

“Stop moving so much. The towel’s gonna fall off your head,” Hakaji muttered, wringing another cloth with practiced precision. His voice was quiet, almost gruff, but steady—like someone who had done this too many times before.