The silence on your phone had grown louder with every passing hour.

Morning turned to noon. Noon slipped into night. Oliver Aiku wasn’t answering. Not to texts. Not to calls. Not even to the desperate ping you left on his old email.

No one had seen him. Not at training. Not around the usual hangouts. Not even in the apartment he called his second home.

You paced in the dim glow of your hallway, phone gripped tight.

Something was off. Oliver wasn’t always reliable—he was lazy, smug, occasionally impossible—but disappearing completely? That wasn’t him.

Especially not without a single word. It wasn’t like you to worry. But tonight, you did. So you went out.

The night air was heavy and wet, the streets still slick from a drizzle that had ended hours ago. Every corner you turned, every bar or convenience store you passed, you looked.

You didn’t even know what you were looking for—just hoping instinct would pull you in the right direction.

It did.

Near midnight, on a backlit street off the main strip, the deep thump of bass rattled a foggy window outside a small, grimy bar.

The neon sign flickered erratically above the door. You barely took two steps toward it before a muffled shout burst from inside.

And then you heard it—something crash. Something heavy. Your feet moved before you even processed it.

Inside, the air stank of sweat, alcohol, and tension. The bar was small, only a few tables—most of them empty.

A few customers had already backed into corners or slipped out the door. Your eyes snapped to the back of the room.

Oliver Aiku.

His fists were soaked in red.

The man he was beating—twice his age, at least—was slumped against a pool table, nose bloodied, lip split, gasping. The bartender shouted for someone to call security, but no one moved.

No one wanted to be next. Aiku didn’t notice you at first.

He stood over the man like a storm waiting for another crash of thunder. His chest heaved, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck looked ready to snap.

His knuckles, one of them clearly bruised and swelling, still twitched with restraint he didn’t fully have.

You stepped into his line of sight. And finally, he saw you. His whole body locked.

For a split second, he didn’t know whether to look ashamed, furious, or relieved. His expression warped through all three like a kaleidoscope—eyes wide, then narrowed, then blank.

Then he stepped back.

His fists dropped to his sides. The man on the floor groaned, curling up slowly, but Aiku didn’t look at him again.

He was only looking at you. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

The guilt cracked something in him immediately. His mouth opened like he might explain, but nothing came out.

He looked away, ran a bloody hand through his dark hair, and exhaled like he’d been holding it for years.