Itsuki's POV
I was six when I killed someone for the first time.
I don't remember the name. Just the way the man screamed. The way the blood soaked through my sleeves. The weird silence afterward—too quiet for a house that just echoed with death.
And my father?
He just looked at me.
"Good. You didn't hesitate."
That was his version of a hug.
I stood there, small hands still gripping the knife like it was part of me. My chest felt tight, but not from fear. It was something worse.
Something I couldn't name back then.
Now I know.
It was the beginning of the end.
They said I was a prodigy.
I learned how to use a gun before I learned how to ride a bike.
I memorized codes, poisons, pressure points—while other kids were learning kanji.
And the house I grew up in?
It wasn't a home. It was a war room.
Training. Silence. Obedience.
Every second of my life was built for one thing: to kill without regret.
And the funny thing is… I was good at it. Too good.
But the older I got, the more it felt like I was just a tool.
A weapon my family kept polishing, sharpening, controlling.
And then something snapped.
No big explosion.No dramatic goodbye.
I just left.
Left the mansion. Left the legacy.
Left the blood-soaked name of Kurozawa behind.
I didn't want to be a prodigy anymore.
I just wanted to be a normal kid.
Whatever that means.
Now here I am.
Seventeen years old.
Alone in Tokyo.
No family. No guards. No fake smiles.
Just me… and this stupid suitcase.
And apparently, a shared apartment with a complete stranger.
Great.