The heavy door clicked shut behind him.
Ren stood still for a moment in the quiet of his room. The only sound was the soft hum of a bulb overhead, flickering slightly like it might die out any second. He set the duffel bag down, its weight lighter than when he left—but somehow heavier on his mind.
The boy was gone. Dropped off. Delivered.
But the questions? Still there.
Ren took a slow step toward the mirror above the sink. The face that stared back looked almost unfamiliar beneath the smudges of blood and dirt that painted his jaw and collar.
He leaned closer.
Underneath the streaks of sweat and the soft cut just under his eye, something stood out—something almost faint but unmistakable under the right light.
A streak of white.
His black hair dye was fading again.
Shit, he thought, quietly.
He grabbed the sink's edge with one hand and stared harder, as if trying to erase what was underneath. His real hair had always been white, like freshly fallen ash. Elder Daizen had instructed him early on to keep it dyed.
"You don't want to stand out," Daizen had said once. "Not for that."
But now, as the white began to bleed through, it wasn't just about standing out. It was that damn kid. Toshi. That frail little thing with the same dead look in his eye. The same white hair.
Maybe that's why he didn't kill him back at the warehouse.
Not because he cared. Not because of pity.
But because…
He looked too much like me.
Ren's jaw clenched.
He yanked off his shirt, the fabric clinging to dried sweat and blood. His torso was scarred, yes, but one mark ran deeper than all the others. A long, ugly gash that sliced diagonally from his right shoulder down to his left side.
He touched it. Slowly.
Flesh over bone. Muscle over memory.
He had that scar for as long as he could remember—which, ironically, wasn't very far back. Daizen had told him he got it the night his family was murdered. He didn't remember it. Didn't remember anything before the hospital.
Just that scar. That pain.
The rest? A fucking void.
Ren tossed the shirt on the ground and sat on the edge of his bed. He leaned back slowly until he was lying down, hands folded beneath his head, staring at the ceiling.
Then his eyes shut.
And the darkness came to greet him.
[Flashback – Age 9]
Screams. Red. The sound of metal. Blood dripping like rain on tile.
Ren didn't remember how it happened. He didn't remember the faces. Not clearly. They flickered like dying bulbs—shapes drenched in red, laughter warped like static, a blur of motion and heat and terror.
All he remembered…
Was the cold.
Not the kind you feel on your skin. The kind that sinks into your bones, slow and numbing, like the world had suddenly been pulled from under him and left nothing in its place.
Then—
Light.
Harsh. White. Blinding.
His eyes fluttered open for a moment, just long enough to see white lights passing overhead like dying stars. He was on a stretcher—strapped down, soaked in blood, and vibrating with every bump through the hallway.
The ceiling spun.
A man leaned over him, face shadowed by a surgical mask. The voice was frantic, trembling with urgency.
"Shit—pressure's dropping! We're losing him—!"
Hands pressed into his chest. A needle slid into his arm. He couldn't even twitch. Couldn't speak.
A woman's voice cracked behind the chaos. Sobbing. Calling his name.
But then—
Silence.
Like the entire world had taken its final breath and just stopped.
When Ren came to again, it wasn't light that greeted him.
It was the weight of absence.
No pain. Not yet. Just that strange hollowness. Like something had been ripped out of him while he was unconscious. Something vital. Something irreplaceable.
The hospital room was dead quiet. No movement. No warmth. Just the slow, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor and the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing like flies.
His body didn't feel like his own.
His chest—tightly wrapped in thick, sterile gauze—throbbed with every breath, like his ribs were grinding together beneath the bandages. Each inhale was a fight. A fucking war. Like dragging broken glass through his lungs.
He tried to move.
Nothing.
His arms were limp. His muscles refused to answer. It wasn't weakness—it was like they'd forgotten how to exist. It was painful but he didn't cry or rather couldn't. Almost like he had forgotten how to.
He turned his head, slowly, and stared at the wall. Blank. Just like his mind.
Then—
The door creaked open. A nurse stepped in, startled when she saw him awake.
"Oh my god," she whispered, hands flying to her mouth. "You're awake. Thank God—thank God."
Her voice cracked. She took a few steps toward him, eyes glassy with emotion. "It's alright now. You're going to be okay. You're safe."
Ren just… stared.
His lips moved, but nothing came out.
Words felt like lead in his throat.
She went to get someone. When she returned, it wasn't with a doctor.
It was with him.
Elder Daizen.
Clad in a dark coat, eyes as cold as stone, he stepped into the room like he belonged there. Like he had a right to be.
Ren didn't flinch, didn't react. He just blinked at the man.
"This is your uncle," the nurse explained softly, placing a hand on Ren's arm. "He's here to take care of you."
Daizen nodded with a mask of concern so well-crafted it would've fooled anyone. "Ren," he said. "I'm here now. You don't need to worry."
Ren's mouth opened slightly.
"…Who are you?"
His voice was broken. Almost mechanical.
Daizen's smile didn't falter. "I'm your uncle."
"…Why… am I here?"
The nurse and Daizen exchanged a glance.
He asked again, slower. "What's… my name?"
A pause.
Then Daizen answered, "Ren. Your name is Ren."
It clicked then. The nurse's face changed. Pity washed over her.
"He doesn't remember anything," she whispered to Daizen, unaware that Ren could hear. "The trauma must've been too much. He'll need psychiatric care. Therapy. He's not ready to leave, not for a long time."
Ren blinked slowly.
The voices buzzed.
Amnesia.
That word didn't mean anything to him then. Nothing did.
He was broken glass.
Shattered.
Days passed.
Ren found himself wandering the halls in slow, silent steps, always in that pale hospital gown. He watched the other kids, the ones with parents sitting beside them. Mothers spoon-feeding soup. Fathers cracking jokes. Warmth.
A little girl pointed to a woman beside her and giggled. "Mummy!"
Ren stopped in place.
He tilted his head.
That word echoed in his skull.
Mummy.
He didn't know what it meant, but something about it made his chest feel… tight.
That night, during dinner—bland hospital food on a plastic tray—two police officers entered. One was a broad-shouldered man with a tired look in his eyes. The other, a woman, looked hesitant and exhausted. The nurses tried to stop them, insisting the boy wasn't ready.
But they came anyway.
"We just want to talk," the woman said gently.
She sat at the edge of the bed.
"Do you remember anything?" she asked softly. "Your name? Where you were before the hospital?"
Ren shook his head.
He couldn't even form the sentence to explain it.
The man watched quietly from the doorway. He didn't speak.
They were about to leave when Ren tugged gently on the woman's sleeve.
He looked up at her, eyes wide and unsure.
"…Are you… my mummy?"
The woman froze.
Tears welled instantly in her eyes. She tried to hold them back—but failed.
She cupped his face and broke down, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry we didn't get there sooner."
Then she left, trying to hide her sobs in the hallway.
Ren sat still.
He stared at the food tray in front of him, untouched. Slowly, he looked around at the empty room.
Everyone else had someone.
A mother. A father. A name. A life.
But him?
Nothing.
No memory.
No past.
Just the scar across his chest… and the man who claimed to be his uncle.