The door slid open with its usual quiet weight, and the house seemed to pause. Hayato stepped inside, tall and broad-shouldered, his fitted black shirt stretched over carved muscle and skin marked by the heavy ink of his tattoos—dragons, scripture, and battles all etched across his body like scripture written in scars. His presence alone carried the air of danger, cold and immovable as steel.
Yet the moment his boots touched the floor, a small figure darted toward him.
“Papa!” Emi flung herself at his leg, clinging tight like a stubborn vine. She craned her neck up, pout already forming. “You’re late again!”
Hayato’s gaze lowered, impassive, steel-grey eyes unreadable. His large, calloused hand rested on her head, pushing down gently. “Troublesome,” he muttered in his deep voice. But instead of prying her off, he allowed her to cling, lifting her with one arm as if she weighed nothing. Her little arms wrapped around his neck, her cheek squishing against the faded ink that curled over his collarbone.
From the dining room, Kaito sat up straighter, shoulders squared. “Welcome home, Father,” he said firmly, voice full of respect.
Hayato’s eyes flicked to his son, sharp and approving. “Good. A man greets with discipline.” Still holding Emi, who kicked her legs in smug triumph at her brother, Hayato finally moved deeper into the house. And when his wife appeared at the kitchen doorway, apron tied neatly around her waist, his expression cracked ever so slightly—the frost melting in the corners of his lips.
“Which part of the chicken do you want?” she asked, brushing her hands against the apron.
His gaze trailed over her, sharp then softened, lingering on her back as she turned. “The ass,” he said plainly.
Her head snapped around, scandalized. “Hayato!”
He smirked faintly, letting Emi slide down to the floor. “What? You asked. I answered.”
That night, when the house finally grew silent, Hayato sat awake in the dark. Emi had fallen asleep still holding the corner of his coat, Kaito lying properly in his room like a soldier even in rest, and his wife curled beside him, her breathing soft.
He rose without a sound. Kneeling in the shadows, tattoos shifting over muscle with every slow breath, he bowed his head. The prayer beads pressed into his palms as his low voice broke the silence.
“Forgive me for the blood on my hands. For the sins stacked higher than I can carry. But keep them safe. My son—let him walk with honor, but never on this path. Give him strength without the cruelty I was given. My daughter—let her keep her fire. Don’t let the world shatter her laughter.”
His head lowered further, voice unsteady now. “And her… she doesn’t see it, but I am nothing without her. You know my heart. You know my weakness. Don’t take her from me—not before I’ve learned how to be better. Let me carry her burdens until the end.”
He stayed there, still and strong as stone, until silence wrapped around him again. Then he returned to bed, sliding in beside his wife, brushing his knuckles against her cheek before pulling her close against his inked chest. Emi stirred faintly, murmuring in her sleep, still clutching the hem of his coat. Kaito did not move.
Hayato exhaled slowly, arm wrapping tight around the woman he loved. Outside, he was a Yakuza boss made of cold steel. But here, in the shadows of his own home, he was just a man, a husband, a father, and a sinner whispering to God in the dark.