[Fanfiction] Destination Nowhere (Prologue)
Fandom: You’re my Loveprize in Viewfinder
Pairing: Asami x Akihito (so far)
Rating: PG-13 (Prologue); M/NC-17 (later chapters)
Summary: There's no way to know who the real you is. Akihito, a photography student, struggles to find himself within his own mind. Asami fights his own demons as he tries to fulfil one last dying wish. When their paths cross, reality turns into a sea of illusions.
Warnings: Possible spoilers for minor situations, nothing major; smex (for what else should I write fanfiction? :P); AU with possible OOC.
Word count: 2561
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. This also applies to anything related to this series. Any similarity with real world situations is pure coincidence.
Author's note: This is the first time I’m writing a Finder fanfic. I’m an avid reader of others works and this time I wanted to try publishing something mine. I have a passion for stories that explores the human mind, unusual situations and drama. The plot for this fic might be confusing but that’s my purpose (and you want to kick me now… haha). Hope you will enjoy it! Reviews are love.
Edit: I found a beta! Thank you so much Kelsey for proofreading ^^
Destination Nowhere
Prologue - The Inverted Sun
Run. It was the only thing his mind could process that moment. Run. As fast as he could, even though his legs were becoming heavier and heavier as fatigue consumed him. His feet were begging for some rest, his fingers cramping one after another. But he only knew he needed to run away before he was dragged back.
It was a cold winter night. Weather forecasts a little earlier didn’t mention the strong, piercing gusts that were now ripping countless leaves of all sizes from their mother branches. Snow fell like tiny pieces of virgin cotton thrown by innocent children complementing their dances. Only a few stars hung high up in the sky near the nearly invisible moon, holding no purpose, not even to guide him to safety. At least he was grateful there was barely any light. Maybe, he could escape stealthily without drawing much attention. His friends wanted him to dye his hair blond, but he was glad he didn’t comply with this idea.
Run. He had no time for distracting thoughts and needed to focus all his energies on his lower limbs. He just hoped there wasn’t a stream nearby as he was blind to where he was stepping, and getting soaked would be a free ticket to hypothermia. Unless he had caught one already. His ripped jeans earned him many cuts from low branches, the denim tainted with a mixture of sweat and blood. His tank top resembled an old, worn towel wrapped around his torso yet providing no warmth at all. His slender arms, uncovered from the cold, were rigid and scarred just as his legs. His whole body was in pain. His whole body was in pain, screaming in agony, while it wept muted cries of torture muffled by the unyielding heavy steps he took towards his salvation, his desired freedom and utopia.
Why couldn’t he run faster? Why was his pace decreasing? He had to get away before they seized him. Before things were too late. Maybe it already was. Was he so stupid and blind not to realize it sooner? And he had to witness… witness… no, he had already forgotten about it. There was nothing to be remembered. He had no memories or recollections of it. The present “he” is what was left of him. And right now, he just needed to run and never come back. He felt his throat clench, obstructing the air flow to his lungs. His heart was beating with such violence he thought it might break one or two of his ribs. He could no longer tell if it was just sweat or tears running down his cheeks. Nevertheless, there was only one password right now and it was spelled with three letters: RUN.
- “Do you think you can still escape?” - Someone yelled from afar. It was a deep dramatic voice, each word was as sharp a sword expertly swinging through the open air. Except it did hurt him. All the muscles and cells in his body trembled. He couldn’t move. He knew that timbre but couldn’t recognize who possessed such a powerful tone.
- “I can give you anything, more than I’ll ever get. Why don’t you understand?” - Danger. It was becoming louder, nearer, more strident. He had to gather courage to run. “Just a little bit more” he mumbled, like a silent secret prayer.
- “You know I’ll find you, don’t you? I can imagine our sweet reunion.”
True. He never escaped before. All his attempts were in vain. But he had hope this time. He would start all over again and no one was going to stop him. Or so he thought. Footsteps were echoing in a reverberating staccato and crescendo rhythm. Sweat ran down his forehead. He never felt the real meaning behind fear until now. There was no looking back anymore. He gathered the remaining fuel, his last scraps of energy, and ran.
At a distance, the tinkling sound of a gun finishing loading was heard. The shot resonated through the trees. The footsteps of someone running suddenly stopped.
*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*VF*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*____*
The aspiring flames of the silver lighter burnt the tip of the cigarette in Asami’s hand almost instantly. The touch of that complete white stick was already wrong. He inhaled the smoke and put out the little object right away. What a headache. That’s why he hated incompetent people. He made a mental note to call Kirishima and have him buy him the right Dunhill he ordered before. He just wanted some distraction from those boring, monotonous, time consuming financial reports: profits, transactions from Europe, shipments of… stop. He was tired of all those bureaucracies and logistics. He made another mental note - call Suoh to buy his desired Dunhill and make Kirishima deal with all the paper work.
His large office, decorated sparsely with barely any pieces of art and a deep black leather sofa with signs of starting to wear, now suffocated him with the stale air branded with tedious, ordinary smell of business that he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible. The dual tone tie, alternating between thin gray lines almost mimicked the tone of the sky that day, and the ample blue stripes (that would catch anyone’s attention), seemed like a collar. No matter how light that humble piece of garment was (and it was made of the purest silk), it felt like a weight on his chest, depriving him from the basic oxygen necessary for survival. His hand that was signing some papers he carefully read (although he didn’t want to) dropped the fountain pen in a pile of outdated reports, a few tiny drops of dark ink staining the whiteness of the paper. His fingers automatically searched for the knot and skillfully, a couple of seconds later, the tie was hanging lifeless in his lap. He loosened the top buttons of his plain shirt, allowing some fresh air to brush over his now exposed collarbone.
He closed his eyes, hoping to get some rest, no matter how brief it was. Neither was he physically tired or fatigued. It was just the subtle weariness of the day that weighed on his shoulders with no way of dissipating. His silhouette revealed no signs of exhaustion. It exuded, instead, an aura that screamed power and dominance.
The harmonizing silence suddenly broke with a repeated ring louder than anything else that moment. It was his phone. He quickly pick it up, annoyed by the ear-piercing noise. The screen was blank. There was no name from his contacts list, a string of unrecognizable digits or even just one or two numbers. Just the blinking icon of an incoming call which seemed to have no end.
- “Asami speaking.” - His voice was calm, giving no hints of his growing impatience of that anonymous call for disturbing his peaceful moment just now.
No one answered from the other side of the line. Not a single word, a sloppy greeting or even the wicked laughter of some kids playing a prank. It was almost as he didn’t pick the phone. Or it was just an illusion from his mind. Right before he cut the connection, there was a faint sound, the hectic breathing he couldn’t distinguish if it was coming from a woman or a man. It didn’t matter too. He couldn’t re-establish the call and wasn’t intending to know the author of that unusual occurrence. Everyone had times when they simply dial the wrong number, though Asami never did.
As he grabbed the pen personally tailored for him, someone knocked at his office door and entered. After identifying the person as Kirishima, his most trusted and exclusive secretary, who has accompanied him for years since his major night club - Sion - had opened.
- “Asami-sama…” - He carefully placed a pack of completely new and sealed Dunhill on the desk.
The owner of the club smirked. He never regretted employing Kirishima. The man was smart and very observant of his surroundings.
- “… the Medical University Hospital called just a few moments ago.”
The smirk in Asami’s face vanished and was replaced by a much more serious expression, an undecipherable junction of curiosity and concern. He slightly nodded with his head as a signal for his employee to continue the message.
Kirishima was tall, and his broad shoulders often made people think of him as a bodyguard instead of doing secretarial work. The frameless glasses hanging perfectly on his face trembled somewhat, alongside his hesitation to deliver the rest of what he heard. It felt like if a lump was lodged in his throat yet his voice came out as he was speaking normally. - “Setsuko-san…”
Asami grabbed his coat and stormed out of the room. The Dunhill was left forgotten near the half signed report.
*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*VF*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*____*
The apathetic looks of those accompanying the sick in the main lobby, the watery, pain-filled eyes behind those cotton sterilized masks, children running around with no intention to remain seated and wait to be called to the examination rooms, the frantic pace of the impeccably clean white coats and the dreadful smell of antiseptic, a medley of iodine, ethanol and hydrogen peroxide; all these reminded Asami why he hated hospitals so much. The place was a meeting place for the miserable, the suffering lot and all the hopeless whose life had shut its doors and the only remaining task for them to do was complain.
The entrepreneur ran to the information desk, his face and voice showing a calm demeanor though, as he politely requested for the whereabouts of a woman under the name of Setsuko. The nurse on duty, probably around her early twenties and still in her internship, felt intimidated by his presence and answered stuttering halfway through her words. It was hard to hear and make sense of the correct numbers with all the surrounding noise, but Asami managed to do so perfectly and was already rushing to the said room, leaving Kirishima to thank the inexperienced caregiver.
The dim lights in the intensive care ward made it seem like a gloomy, endless tunnel. The lifts were taking too long to go from one floor to another and a lot of people were waiting in the corridor to enter one. It was a particularly chaotic night, with a few patients admitted with serious injuries. Nurses were guessing about possible causes for it, ranging from suicide to purely home negligent accidents. There was a commotion in the air: doctors in the late shift giving orders, relatives crying and sobbing, all types of machines, each one of them with a different chime to it.
Asami glanced at his clock - three minutes had gone and he still hasn’t arrived near the one he wanted to see. He was losing his patience.
- “Asami-sama, we are almost there.” - It was true. As they turned right, the desired number came to their sight. The door was opened. Inside, a man in his mid-fifties was trying to pull a piece of paper the woman held with an extraordinary force. He had a small identification tag pinned to his white coat.
- “Dr. Yoshikawa, I’m Kirishima to whom you spoke this afternoon.”
The man took a minute to process those words. The woman laid in the bed was the only patient of the room. The paleness of her face contrasted with her dark brown curly hair scattered around the pillow. Not a single scratch or scar spoiled her fair skin, almost perfect like a porcelain doll. She was a human version of the Snow White, waiting for her prince to wake her up from the deadly slumber and purge the poison with a kiss. Near her, the heart monitor beeped in regular intervals, the fluorescent green thin line going up and down, complemented with a flat artificial broken record of the same note that was everything less than reassuring.
The doctor in charge took a quick glance at Kirishima and turned his gaze to the man next to him. His eyes fixed in the powerful figure, scanning him from head to toes with so much attention and detail someone would normally try to avert that scrutiny. Asami, unlike others, stared with the same intensity, not losing a single inch of balance.
- “You must be Ryuichi then. I wasn’t expecting to see you here so soon.”
What was with that man calling him by his first name? Who told him anyway? - “What’s her condition?” - Asami touched her hand that was gripping the crinkled paper. Her skin had a hint of warmth but it was barely noticeable through the cold layer. Her arm was limp, stripped from any strength yet her fingers held on stubbornly to that object, even if it meant she needed to protect it with her last breath.
- “Well…” - The doctor straightened his coat as he was trying to hide his loss for the right words. - “… she’s in a comatose state. She was admitted last night with serious internal bleeding. We are not sure what the cause is.”
Asami’s broad shoulder stiffened and his feet became petrified at the appalling confession. - “Will she wake up?” - He caressed her skin receiving no response. Her pulse was so faint he couldn’t distinguish if it was his own he was feeling.
- “Those who do not want to wake up, will remain asleep.”
- “Pardon me?”
- “Those who choose to go, can’t come back.” - And left the room in feathery steps, almost as if he was floating. No further explanations were given and Kirishima thought his superior had grasped the entirety of the situation, requiring no more details.
- “Kirishima, go get me some cigarettes.”
The secretary complied with the order although he knew no smoke could ease the agony of each passing second and the torment of being impotent as time slipped away in a much faster rhythm.
With no one else in the room, Asami approached the bed and sat on its edges. No change was registered in the heart monitor. He kissed her hand, a caress neither quick nor slow. It was tender and delicate, afraid she might break with the slightest contact. He ran his fingertips through her hair. It was the same texture, the usual mild dryness that tickled his scabrous skin.
Asami whispered gently to her ears, in a velvety lullaby chant. - “You can rest now. Go to where your freedom is.” - And took the piece of paper which now freed from her hand with no difficulty. Despite the smeared red vivid ink, the entrepreneur found no challenge in reading it:
To Ryuichi
Forgive me for being so selfish. Knowing that you loved me was like a poison. But I was already rotted. There’s no turning back. Please grant me one last wish. Forgive my selfishness. Find him. He needs you more than I ever did. Find Akihito. Find him Ryuichi.
Please be happy.
*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*VF*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*____*
When Kirishima came back to the room, Asami had already left. Nurses were going in and out and gossiping among them. A continuous, monotone song lingered in the air. The heart monitor displayed a solid straight line.
In the same hall, just a few meters away, another comatose patient had just opened his eyes.
His names was written on the record sheet hanging at the end of the bed. It read Takaba Akihito.
Pairing: Asami x Akihito (so far)
Rating: PG-13 (Prologue); M/NC-17 (later chapters)
Summary: There's no way to know who the real you is. Akihito, a photography student, struggles to find himself within his own mind. Asami fights his own demons as he tries to fulfil one last dying wish. When their paths cross, reality turns into a sea of illusions.
Warnings: Possible spoilers for minor situations, nothing major; smex (for what else should I write fanfiction? :P); AU with possible OOC.
Word count: 2561
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. This also applies to anything related to this series. Any similarity with real world situations is pure coincidence.
Author's note: This is the first time I’m writing a Finder fanfic. I’m an avid reader of others works and this time I wanted to try publishing something mine. I have a passion for stories that explores the human mind, unusual situations and drama. The plot for this fic might be confusing but that’s my purpose (and you want to kick me now… haha). Hope you will enjoy it! Reviews are love.
Edit: I found a beta! Thank you so much Kelsey for proofreading ^^
Destination Nowhere
Prologue - The Inverted Sun
Run. It was the only thing his mind could process that moment. Run. As fast as he could, even though his legs were becoming heavier and heavier as fatigue consumed him. His feet were begging for some rest, his fingers cramping one after another. But he only knew he needed to run away before he was dragged back.
It was a cold winter night. Weather forecasts a little earlier didn’t mention the strong, piercing gusts that were now ripping countless leaves of all sizes from their mother branches. Snow fell like tiny pieces of virgin cotton thrown by innocent children complementing their dances. Only a few stars hung high up in the sky near the nearly invisible moon, holding no purpose, not even to guide him to safety. At least he was grateful there was barely any light. Maybe, he could escape stealthily without drawing much attention. His friends wanted him to dye his hair blond, but he was glad he didn’t comply with this idea.
Run. He had no time for distracting thoughts and needed to focus all his energies on his lower limbs. He just hoped there wasn’t a stream nearby as he was blind to where he was stepping, and getting soaked would be a free ticket to hypothermia. Unless he had caught one already. His ripped jeans earned him many cuts from low branches, the denim tainted with a mixture of sweat and blood. His tank top resembled an old, worn towel wrapped around his torso yet providing no warmth at all. His slender arms, uncovered from the cold, were rigid and scarred just as his legs. His whole body was in pain. His whole body was in pain, screaming in agony, while it wept muted cries of torture muffled by the unyielding heavy steps he took towards his salvation, his desired freedom and utopia.
Why couldn’t he run faster? Why was his pace decreasing? He had to get away before they seized him. Before things were too late. Maybe it already was. Was he so stupid and blind not to realize it sooner? And he had to witness… witness… no, he had already forgotten about it. There was nothing to be remembered. He had no memories or recollections of it. The present “he” is what was left of him. And right now, he just needed to run and never come back. He felt his throat clench, obstructing the air flow to his lungs. His heart was beating with such violence he thought it might break one or two of his ribs. He could no longer tell if it was just sweat or tears running down his cheeks. Nevertheless, there was only one password right now and it was spelled with three letters: RUN.
- “Do you think you can still escape?” - Someone yelled from afar. It was a deep dramatic voice, each word was as sharp a sword expertly swinging through the open air. Except it did hurt him. All the muscles and cells in his body trembled. He couldn’t move. He knew that timbre but couldn’t recognize who possessed such a powerful tone.
- “I can give you anything, more than I’ll ever get. Why don’t you understand?” - Danger. It was becoming louder, nearer, more strident. He had to gather courage to run. “Just a little bit more” he mumbled, like a silent secret prayer.
- “You know I’ll find you, don’t you? I can imagine our sweet reunion.”
True. He never escaped before. All his attempts were in vain. But he had hope this time. He would start all over again and no one was going to stop him. Or so he thought. Footsteps were echoing in a reverberating staccato and crescendo rhythm. Sweat ran down his forehead. He never felt the real meaning behind fear until now. There was no looking back anymore. He gathered the remaining fuel, his last scraps of energy, and ran.
At a distance, the tinkling sound of a gun finishing loading was heard. The shot resonated through the trees. The footsteps of someone running suddenly stopped.
*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*VF*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*____*
The aspiring flames of the silver lighter burnt the tip of the cigarette in Asami’s hand almost instantly. The touch of that complete white stick was already wrong. He inhaled the smoke and put out the little object right away. What a headache. That’s why he hated incompetent people. He made a mental note to call Kirishima and have him buy him the right Dunhill he ordered before. He just wanted some distraction from those boring, monotonous, time consuming financial reports: profits, transactions from Europe, shipments of… stop. He was tired of all those bureaucracies and logistics. He made another mental note - call Suoh to buy his desired Dunhill and make Kirishima deal with all the paper work.
His large office, decorated sparsely with barely any pieces of art and a deep black leather sofa with signs of starting to wear, now suffocated him with the stale air branded with tedious, ordinary smell of business that he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible. The dual tone tie, alternating between thin gray lines almost mimicked the tone of the sky that day, and the ample blue stripes (that would catch anyone’s attention), seemed like a collar. No matter how light that humble piece of garment was (and it was made of the purest silk), it felt like a weight on his chest, depriving him from the basic oxygen necessary for survival. His hand that was signing some papers he carefully read (although he didn’t want to) dropped the fountain pen in a pile of outdated reports, a few tiny drops of dark ink staining the whiteness of the paper. His fingers automatically searched for the knot and skillfully, a couple of seconds later, the tie was hanging lifeless in his lap. He loosened the top buttons of his plain shirt, allowing some fresh air to brush over his now exposed collarbone.
He closed his eyes, hoping to get some rest, no matter how brief it was. Neither was he physically tired or fatigued. It was just the subtle weariness of the day that weighed on his shoulders with no way of dissipating. His silhouette revealed no signs of exhaustion. It exuded, instead, an aura that screamed power and dominance.
The harmonizing silence suddenly broke with a repeated ring louder than anything else that moment. It was his phone. He quickly pick it up, annoyed by the ear-piercing noise. The screen was blank. There was no name from his contacts list, a string of unrecognizable digits or even just one or two numbers. Just the blinking icon of an incoming call which seemed to have no end.
- “Asami speaking.” - His voice was calm, giving no hints of his growing impatience of that anonymous call for disturbing his peaceful moment just now.
No one answered from the other side of the line. Not a single word, a sloppy greeting or even the wicked laughter of some kids playing a prank. It was almost as he didn’t pick the phone. Or it was just an illusion from his mind. Right before he cut the connection, there was a faint sound, the hectic breathing he couldn’t distinguish if it was coming from a woman or a man. It didn’t matter too. He couldn’t re-establish the call and wasn’t intending to know the author of that unusual occurrence. Everyone had times when they simply dial the wrong number, though Asami never did.
As he grabbed the pen personally tailored for him, someone knocked at his office door and entered. After identifying the person as Kirishima, his most trusted and exclusive secretary, who has accompanied him for years since his major night club - Sion - had opened.
- “Asami-sama…” - He carefully placed a pack of completely new and sealed Dunhill on the desk.
The owner of the club smirked. He never regretted employing Kirishima. The man was smart and very observant of his surroundings.
- “… the Medical University Hospital called just a few moments ago.”
The smirk in Asami’s face vanished and was replaced by a much more serious expression, an undecipherable junction of curiosity and concern. He slightly nodded with his head as a signal for his employee to continue the message.
Kirishima was tall, and his broad shoulders often made people think of him as a bodyguard instead of doing secretarial work. The frameless glasses hanging perfectly on his face trembled somewhat, alongside his hesitation to deliver the rest of what he heard. It felt like if a lump was lodged in his throat yet his voice came out as he was speaking normally. - “Setsuko-san…”
Asami grabbed his coat and stormed out of the room. The Dunhill was left forgotten near the half signed report.
*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*VF*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*____*
The apathetic looks of those accompanying the sick in the main lobby, the watery, pain-filled eyes behind those cotton sterilized masks, children running around with no intention to remain seated and wait to be called to the examination rooms, the frantic pace of the impeccably clean white coats and the dreadful smell of antiseptic, a medley of iodine, ethanol and hydrogen peroxide; all these reminded Asami why he hated hospitals so much. The place was a meeting place for the miserable, the suffering lot and all the hopeless whose life had shut its doors and the only remaining task for them to do was complain.
The entrepreneur ran to the information desk, his face and voice showing a calm demeanor though, as he politely requested for the whereabouts of a woman under the name of Setsuko. The nurse on duty, probably around her early twenties and still in her internship, felt intimidated by his presence and answered stuttering halfway through her words. It was hard to hear and make sense of the correct numbers with all the surrounding noise, but Asami managed to do so perfectly and was already rushing to the said room, leaving Kirishima to thank the inexperienced caregiver.
The dim lights in the intensive care ward made it seem like a gloomy, endless tunnel. The lifts were taking too long to go from one floor to another and a lot of people were waiting in the corridor to enter one. It was a particularly chaotic night, with a few patients admitted with serious injuries. Nurses were guessing about possible causes for it, ranging from suicide to purely home negligent accidents. There was a commotion in the air: doctors in the late shift giving orders, relatives crying and sobbing, all types of machines, each one of them with a different chime to it.
Asami glanced at his clock - three minutes had gone and he still hasn’t arrived near the one he wanted to see. He was losing his patience.
- “Asami-sama, we are almost there.” - It was true. As they turned right, the desired number came to their sight. The door was opened. Inside, a man in his mid-fifties was trying to pull a piece of paper the woman held with an extraordinary force. He had a small identification tag pinned to his white coat.
- “Dr. Yoshikawa, I’m Kirishima to whom you spoke this afternoon.”
The man took a minute to process those words. The woman laid in the bed was the only patient of the room. The paleness of her face contrasted with her dark brown curly hair scattered around the pillow. Not a single scratch or scar spoiled her fair skin, almost perfect like a porcelain doll. She was a human version of the Snow White, waiting for her prince to wake her up from the deadly slumber and purge the poison with a kiss. Near her, the heart monitor beeped in regular intervals, the fluorescent green thin line going up and down, complemented with a flat artificial broken record of the same note that was everything less than reassuring.
The doctor in charge took a quick glance at Kirishima and turned his gaze to the man next to him. His eyes fixed in the powerful figure, scanning him from head to toes with so much attention and detail someone would normally try to avert that scrutiny. Asami, unlike others, stared with the same intensity, not losing a single inch of balance.
- “You must be Ryuichi then. I wasn’t expecting to see you here so soon.”
What was with that man calling him by his first name? Who told him anyway? - “What’s her condition?” - Asami touched her hand that was gripping the crinkled paper. Her skin had a hint of warmth but it was barely noticeable through the cold layer. Her arm was limp, stripped from any strength yet her fingers held on stubbornly to that object, even if it meant she needed to protect it with her last breath.
- “Well…” - The doctor straightened his coat as he was trying to hide his loss for the right words. - “… she’s in a comatose state. She was admitted last night with serious internal bleeding. We are not sure what the cause is.”
Asami’s broad shoulder stiffened and his feet became petrified at the appalling confession. - “Will she wake up?” - He caressed her skin receiving no response. Her pulse was so faint he couldn’t distinguish if it was his own he was feeling.
- “Those who do not want to wake up, will remain asleep.”
- “Pardon me?”
- “Those who choose to go, can’t come back.” - And left the room in feathery steps, almost as if he was floating. No further explanations were given and Kirishima thought his superior had grasped the entirety of the situation, requiring no more details.
- “Kirishima, go get me some cigarettes.”
The secretary complied with the order although he knew no smoke could ease the agony of each passing second and the torment of being impotent as time slipped away in a much faster rhythm.
With no one else in the room, Asami approached the bed and sat on its edges. No change was registered in the heart monitor. He kissed her hand, a caress neither quick nor slow. It was tender and delicate, afraid she might break with the slightest contact. He ran his fingertips through her hair. It was the same texture, the usual mild dryness that tickled his scabrous skin.
Asami whispered gently to her ears, in a velvety lullaby chant. - “You can rest now. Go to where your freedom is.” - And took the piece of paper which now freed from her hand with no difficulty. Despite the smeared red vivid ink, the entrepreneur found no challenge in reading it:
To Ryuichi
Forgive me for being so selfish. Knowing that you loved me was like a poison. But I was already rotted. There’s no turning back. Please grant me one last wish. Forgive my selfishness. Find him. He needs you more than I ever did. Find Akihito. Find him Ryuichi.
Please be happy.
*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*VF*_____*_____*_____*_____*_____*____*
When Kirishima came back to the room, Asami had already left. Nurses were going in and out and gossiping among them. A continuous, monotone song lingered in the air. The heart monitor displayed a solid straight line.
In the same hall, just a few meters away, another comatose patient had just opened his eyes.
His names was written on the record sheet hanging at the end of the bed. It read Takaba Akihito.