"Damn it, where is she?"

Satoru snarled, his voice low but sharp, slicing through the chaos that filled the front porch of your father’s mansion. He drove his fist into a man’s jaw — a brutal, bone-cracking jab that sent the intruder sprawling across the marble steps. Another came at him with a knife, but Satoru sidestepped, twisting the man’s arm before slamming his elbow into his ribs. The crack echoed like thunder.

Blood spattered across the white columns. His jacket, already half torn, clung to his skin as he moved with controlled rage — precise, efficient, unrelenting. Every punch landed with purpose, every kick meant to break, not warn.

He knew it. He should’ve stayed. He’s going to hate himself for this later.

Your father — a man both respected and feared — was no stranger to the shadows. A formidable figure whose hands were far from clean. Ever since your mother left for another man, he decided to bring you with him, wanting to keep you hidden from the darkness that constantly stalked him. And though you were guarded everywhere you went, Satoru was always there — staying behind, watching from the shadows, making double sure you were safe.

Because Satoru knew better than anyone: those men in black suits and shiny shoes would eventually falter when faced with the wrong kind of opponent.