You loved him.

Not as a friend. Not as someone you could sit with in silence for hours and still feel whole. You loved Kio the way people love light in a dark room. As the only proof that the world was still capable of being kind.

You grew up together. From the age when you still didn’t know how to lie and didn’t know that anything else was possible. Kindergarten. School. University. He dreamed of writing. You followed—not because you wanted the same path, but because any path seemed right when he was beside you.

Kio was soft. Kind. Sarcastic in that special, warm way that never cut. He loved philosophy, cheap detective novels, and coffee with far too much milk. You knew everything about him. How he bit his lip when he was nervous. How he hid his hands behind his back when he lied. How he hated disorder.

There was only one thing you didn’t know.

Whether he loved you.

Or whether you would always remain just his best friend.

Everything ended on one cold autumn Wednesday.

He asked you to meet behind the university. You came right away. He wasn’t there. Only three others were. They looked at you strangely. Then they came closer.

Blows to the ribs. To the head. Someone else’s fingers around your throat. The world turned cloudy and distant, as if someone were slowly turning down the brightness.

You woke up in the hospital. The nurse spoke calmly, almost indifferently: internal organs damaged, marks of strangulation on the neck, head injury, bruises all over the body.

Your parents didn’t come.

Of course they didn’t. They had never cared. They had long since built new lives, and you had remained a mistake it was more convenient to forget. You had known this for a long time. That was why you had worked and rented your own place since you were young.

Kio didn’t come either.

Not on the first day. Not on the second.

Only one message.

“You’re a and you disgust me.”

Something flared inside your head—sharp, dull pain. But there were no tears.

After the hospital you collected your documents. Left the university. Changed apartments.

The emptiness stayed.

It pressed down every day. Quietly. Relentlessly. You asked yourself: why live? For what? For whom? Should the meaning of life depend on another person?

One day you couldn’t take it anymore.

You went to the bridge. Looked down. And couldn’t.

A man stopped you. Put you in his car.

In the dim light of the interior you made out his face.

He looked like Kio. Only older. Harder. More beautiful in that cold, finished way that does not ask to be loved.

An elongated, harmoniously drawn face with clear, noble features. Cheekbones slightly pronounced, the line of the lower jaw even and quite distinct, the chin neat, a little pointed. Skin very fair, with a cold porcelain tone. The face looked smooth, without noticeable flaws, with soft shadows emphasizing the relief of the cheekbones and chin. A straight, narrow nose with a neat bridge and a slightly upturned tip. Lips of medium fullness, beautifully shaped. The upper lip a little thinner than the lower. Eyes narrow, slightly elongated toward the outer corners, almond-shaped. The gaze calm, relaxed, with a slight squint. In it one could feel confidence and a certain slyness. The irises looked dark, almost black. Eyelashes neat, not too thick. Eyebrows thick, dark, with a beautiful natural curve. They gave the face expressiveness and underscored its masculine features. Hair thick, dark, almost black, with a barely noticeable cold brown undertone. Medium length, styled in a voluminous, slightly careless manner. The strands were softly combed back and a little to the side, creating lifted volume at the crown. In front the hair formed a smooth wave that opened the forehead. At the sides it neatly framed the head, and at the back it lengthened a little, covering the upper part of the neck. The hair looked thick, shiny, and well-groomed.

He wore a classic white suit look: a white long-sleeved shirt with a wide, neatly arranged collar. A dark fitted vest that emphasized the figure. A dark tie, slightly loosened and carelessly knotted. Classic dark trousers matching the vest. On his hand—a ring of laconic design. The shirt was slightly loose in the sleeves, creating a contrast with the stricter, more form-fitting vest.

He introduced himself.

Seiji Kujo.

Forty-five years old. Kio’s father.

You understood at once. A family with money. With power. With several businesses. An aristocratic line. No wife—the marriage had once been one of convenience. Kio used to say his father was strict. Cold.

And suddenly something clicked in your head.

Revenge.

Rebuild your life. Use this cold strength, this power, this name.

Why not?

Was it wrong? Yes.

But why should you care about someone else’s peace when no one had cared about yours? When your feelings had been thrown away like trash?

You looked at Seiji. He drove without taking his eyes off the road.

Something hummed in your chest. Heavy. Dull.

“Will you tell me what happened to you? Why you decided to do something like that?” he asked quietly. “I’m not forcing you. But I promise: I’ll listen.”