The Silent Sketch and the Otherworldly Girl

The alleys behind the shopping arcade were narrow, their stone steps uneven from decades of wear. Laundry hung overhead, strung between rusted poles like faded flags. The air smelled of soy sauce and rain-soaked wood.

Ryunosuke moved slowly, sketchbook tucked under his arm, the cloth bundle containing the Hiyashi crest hidden in his coat pocket. He wasn't searching for anything in particular—just a feeling. A memory. A trace of the world his father once knew.

He stopped in front of a corner shop no wider than a hallway, its windows cluttered with old snacks, matcha candies, and dusty newspapers. A faded red lantern swayed outside the door. A small sign read: 喫茶・あおば — Aoba Teashop.

The bell jingled softly as he stepped inside.

Behind the narrow counter, an elderly man with a stooped back and deep crow's feet looked up. His glasses magnified his eyes, and his gray apron was stained from years of brewing tea. He offered a small nod.

"Just browsing?" the man asked, voice raspy but kind.

Ryunosuke smiled politely. "Just wanted something warm."

The shopkeeper motioned toward a thermos of barley tea. "Still hot. Help yourself."

Ryunosuke poured a small paper cup and stood quietly, his eyes drifting to the yellowed photographs pinned behind the counter—snapshots of the neighborhood long ago, men in suits, storefronts that no longer existed.

He hesitated, then asked softly, "Did you ever know anyone from the Hiyashi Family?"

The old man's hand froze mid-motion.

His face didn't change. Not fully. But the light behind his eyes dimmed. Slowly, he turned to face Ryunosuke, studying him in a way that felt colder than the wind outside.

"That's not a name people ask about," he said flatly.

"I'm just trying to learn," Ryunosuke replied, his voice careful.

The old man stared at him for a long moment. Then, in a quiet tone filled with weight:

"That name still echoes in dark corners. People may pretend to forget, but it lingers—like smoke after a fire."

He reached beneath the counter, pulled out a basket, and began placing wrapped snacks into it.

"You should finish your tea and go."

Ryunosuke nodded silently, setting the paper cup down.

As he turned to leave, the bell chimed again, sharp in the still air. The door closed behind him with a quiet finality.

Outside, the alley felt colder.

The past wasn't gone.

It was buried—shallow, and still warm.

The overpass cut through the city like a scar—massive concrete pillars holding up the railway line above. Beneath it, the world felt dimmer, echoing with the low hum of passing trains and the occasional clatter of gravel beneath hurried footsteps.

Ryunosuke wandered toward the shadows, guided by instinct. The walls beneath the overpass were a canvas of layered graffiti—decades of turf claims, territorial warnings, and silent histories rendered in dripping spray paint.

He stopped in front of a mural nearly erased by time. Faded paint traced the outline of a dragon twined around a blooming sakura branch—its eyes still fierce despite the weathered surface.

His heart thudded. The symbol matched the crest inside the bundle from Kenji.

"Cool, right?"

The voice came from behind him. Ryunosuke turned to see a local teenager—maybe sixteen—leaning against a nearby pillar with earbuds slung around his neck and a soccer ball tucked under one arm.

"You don't see many like that anymore," the boy said, nodding to the graffiti. "Used to be everywhere around here."

Ryunosuke kept his voice casual. "What is it?"

The teen tilted his head, squinting. "Old Yakuza symbol. Dragon and blossom. That was Hiyashi Family stuff."

The name landed like a stone.

"They were big?" Ryunosuke asked, trying not to sound too invested.

"Legend," the teen said, his tone half-mocking, half-respectful. "People say they ran this whole side of the city. Not just gangs—like, real control. But that was before all the crackdowns."

He stepped closer, lowered his voice.

"People used to cross the street to avoid that symbol. Now it's just paint."

Ryunosuke stared at the image. The blossom had started to peel away, revealing bare concrete underneath. The dragon's tail was obscured by a newer tag—bright, chaotic, and meaningless by comparison.

"But hey," the boy added with a shrug, "not my thing. I just like the art."

He kicked his soccer ball into a dribble and jogged away, disappearing down the slope of the overpass.

Ryunosuke stood there for a while longer, staring at the dragon-and-blossom.

It wasn't just paint and memories… It was a warning disguised as art.

The streets grew quieter the farther Ryunosuke walked, the buzz of city life dimming into the soft hush of alleys and shuttered storefronts. Neon signs flickered weakly in windows, their color bleeding across the pavement like watercolor.

He hadn't planned to stop—but the bar stood out.

Kōyō, the sign read. "Autumn Leaves." The lettering was hand-painted, and the wooden paneling gave it a worn but well-kept feel. A soft golden light leaked through the frosted glass, accompanied by the muffled sound of jazz guitar.

Something about it felt… still.

He stepped inside.

Warmth wrapped around him like a blanket. The bar was narrow but cozy, its shelves lined with vintage bottles and trinkets from another era. The walls were papered with old show posters. A radio behind the bar played low instrumental jazz, and the air smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.

There was only one customer seated at the far end—a man with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, wearing a navy blue jacket and holding a cigarette between two fingers like it was part of him. He looked up the moment Ryunosuke entered.

The bartender nodded to him politely, but the man at the end of the bar… stared.

A pause. Then a low chuckle.

"Well, I'll be damned," the man said, his voice gravelly but clear.

"I'd recognize that jawline anywhere."

Ryunosuke blinked. "Excuse me?"

The man stood slowly, joints creaking with age but not weakness. He moved with the kind of grace that didn't fade—just slowed.

"You're Riku's boy."

The words hit Ryunosuke like cold water. "You knew my father?"

"Shoji," the man said, extending a hand. "Used to walk with him in the old days. He taught me how to bluff at cards and scare a room without raising my voice. Didn't think I'd ever see his spitting image walk through that door."

Ryunosuke shook his hand, unsure what to say.

Shoji motioned for him to sit. "Drink? On me. You look like you're carrying ghosts."

They sat at the bar, and Ryunosuke accepted a small pour of warm sake. He hadn't realized how cold his hands were until he held the cup.

Shoji didn't press right away. He lit another cigarette and stared at the rising smoke.

"Your father wasn't just a name," he said finally. "He was a storm dressed in a suit. Kept this city balanced on a thread. Everyone knew Riku Hiyashi didn't draw blood unless someone made him bleed first. But when he did…"

He whistled low.

"Even Kanda flinched."

Ryunosuke's heart skipped. "Senator Kanda?"

Shoji smirked. "Back then, he wasn't a senator. Just a man with ambition and connections. Riku kept him in check. Quietly."

The pieces were falling faster now, sharper.

"We always thought your father disappeared because he'd won," Shoji continued. "Didn't realize he was running. Or protecting someone."

He looked at Ryunosuke again, more solemnly this time.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

Ryunosuke didn't answer, but his silence was enough.

Shoji raised his cup and tapped it gently against Ryunosuke's.

"To Riku. A man who carried the world… and never let it show."

Shoji poured another measure into Ryunosuke's glass, then refilled his own with a slow hand. The light overhead flickered for a moment, then steadied.

"Your old man could walk into a room and make everyone shut up without saying a damn word," Shoji said. "Not because he was the loudest. Because he listened first. That's what made him dangerous."

Ryunosuke ran his fingers around the rim of his glass. "He never talked about it. None of it. To me, he was just… my dad. Kind. Patient. Quiet."

Shoji gave a knowing nod. "That's how you know he was real Yakuza. The ones who brag? They're amateurs. Your father left when things got rotten. Could've stayed. Could've made a move. But he chose something better."

He paused, then leaned in slightly, voice low.

"You're not here just to walk memory lane, are you?"

Ryunosuke hesitated. "No. I'm trying to figure out who he really was. What he left behind. And why… why so many people still whisper his name."

Shoji took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled toward the ceiling.

"He left behind a vacuum. You don't just walk away from power like that without shaking the tree. When Riku vanished, so did the last of the old ways."

Ryunosuke's voice softened. "Did he ever regret it?"

Shoji looked at him for a moment before answering.

"He regretted not doing it sooner."

There was silence between them—heavy, but not uncomfortable.

"He talked about you," Shoji added after a beat. "Once. Said he was scared the world would eat you up before you had the chance to draw your own lines. That's why he disappeared—so you wouldn't have to carry the same weight."

Ryunosuke's chest tightened. A lump formed in his throat.

"He gave me a sketchbook," he murmured. "Said I should use it to make sense of things. I have hundreds of them now, all filled up."

Shoji smiled, almost wistfully.

"Sounds like him. He believed the world didn't need more blades. It needed eyes that could see clearly."

The bartender passed by, silently refilling their glasses. Outside, a train passed overhead, its rumble distant but steady.

"What happened to the Family?" Ryunosuke asked.

Shoji shrugged. "Scattered. Some tried to go legit. Others didn't make it. A few… are still out there, I guess. Waiting for something. Or someone."

Ryunosuke didn't respond, but Shoji seemed to read the unspoken question.

"Don't worry," he said, voice softer now. "You don't have to become him. Just understand him. What happened to him?"

"He... passed away," Ryunosuke replied softly.

Shoji took a deep breathe, and muttered into his drink, "The fucking the Dragon of Minami... Gone..." 

They clinked glasses again. This time, slower. Heavier.

"To sons and shadows," Shoji said. "May one never consume the other."

The sky had darkened by the time Ryunosuke left Kōyō. Shoji stayed behind, sipping quietly at the bar, lost in his own memories.

Ryunosuke didn't know where his feet were taking him, only that he needed air—space to process.

He wandered until the narrow city paths opened into a park nestled between apartment buildings and trees. The golden hour cast a soft amber glow across the grass, where parents gathered near benches, chatting over thermoses and paper bags. Children ran laughing in loops around a jungle gym, chasing each other in worn sneakers and giggles.

Ryunosuke sat on a low concrete ledge near the playground, sketchbook resting on his lap.

He didn't open it.

Not yet.

Instead, he watched.

One girl balanced on the edge of a sandbox, arms outstretched like she was walking a tightrope. A boy helped his younger sibling climb the slide, only to run off before they reached the top. A mother knelt to tie her son's shoe, smiling through her exhaustion.

This—this was the world his father chose.

A life where danger was replaced with after-school snacks and soft conversations. A life where power didn't live in fear, but in warmth.

Ryunosuke opened the sketchbook.

Instead of drawing, he flipped through the pages filled with Lilith's face—various angles, expressions, moments where she'd haunted his thoughts. But now he stopped on a blank page and stared.

What Shoji said echoed in his mind:

"He believed the world didn't need more blades. It needed eyes that could see clearly."

He picked up his pencil.

Not Lilith. Not the symbol. Not his father.

He sketched a girl walking across a sandbox. A shoe being tied. A boy laughing at nothing. The small, ordinary things his father gave everything up for.

And in the bottom corner of the page, he added a barely visible dragon—small, peaceful, curled beside a blossom.

How many people feared the man I called 'Dad'?

He didn't realize his hand had stopped moving until a soft breeze tugged at the edge of the page. He let the pencil fall and leaned back, gazing up at the fading sky.

A presence lingered nearby—quiet, familiar. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Lilith.

He let the stillness settle around him, the sounds of laughter and rustling leaves fading into the background.

Then, softly:

"Are you there?" Ryunosuke asked, not looking up.

"I kinda want to talk to you for a bit…"

A breeze passed over him gently, stirring the edge of his sketchbook.

He stared down at the image he had drawn—the simple, peaceful scene. The world his father left behind. A dragon curled beside a blossom.

"Is this what you wanted me to see?"

No voice answered.

But the air felt warmer. Like someone had quietly said yes.

The sky had shifted to twilight when Ryunosuke finally stood up from the park bench.

He tucked the sketchbook under his arm, one last glance toward the spot beside him where no one sat—but where warmth lingered all the same.

The streets grew quieter as he wandered, thoughts still swimming. His feet carried him aimlessly until the modern storefronts gave way to older buildings with narrow signage and yellowed windows.

At the edge of a small alley, he spotted a faded plaque mounted beside a rusted door:

市立記録館

Municipal Archives.

He pushed the door open.

The scent of old paper and dust filled his lungs as he stepped inside. A small bell jingled above the door, and faint classical music played from an old speaker tucked behind a wooden shelf.

The library was dim and mostly empty, lit only by the occasional desk lamp and narrow beams of evening light filtering through frosted windows. A wooden counter stood at the far end, with a small sign that read: Archivist, Mrs. Aiba, On Duty – Please Ring.

Before he could reach the bell, a voice floated from behind a shelf.

"We don't get many young visitors here. You looking for school records?"

Ryunosuke turned to see a woman in her seventies, her white hair tied neatly in a bun and a pair of thick spectacles perched at the edge of her nose. She wore a buttoned cardigan and walked with a deliberate, measured grace.

"Actually… I was wondering if you had anything on local Yakuza groups. From the last few decades," Ryunosuke asked carefully.

She paused, looking at him with an unreadable expression.

"That's a strange topic for someone your age."

"I need it for a research topic," Ryunosuke replied.

She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded toward a hallway. "Follow me. Basement level. Older newspapers and criminal records—public ones, at least."

They descended together down a creaking staircase. The basement opened into a room lined with filing cabinets and metal shelves, rows of carefully labeled boxes, and stacks of old newspaper reels waiting to be scanned.

"You're not the first to ask about them," she said as she unlocked one of the cabinets. "But most walk away once they see the headlines."

She slid a drawer open and pulled a file marked with the characters:

氷室会

Hiyashi-kai.

Inside were yellowed news clippings, blurred photos, and public records. Ryunosuke reached for them slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded the first article.

Local Businessman Riku Hiyashi Named in Extortion Probe — Evidence Inconclusive.

Another read:

Community Divided Over Vigilante Reputation of Hiyashi Group.

Some of the photos showed his father—much younger, standing with suited men, serious-eyed and unsmiling.

Ryunosuke sat down at the reading table, spreading the papers before him like puzzle pieces.

The archivist watched him quietly.

"You're not just curious," she said softly.

"You're connected to this."

Ryunosuke didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on a photo of his father shaking hands with a younger man—one whose face was uncannily familiar.

A name was scrawled beneath it:

Kanda Hiroshi.

Ryunosuke's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the photograph.

Even as a younger man, the ambition in his eyes was unmistakable. His smile didn't quite reach them. He stood beside Ryunosuke's father like a man posing beside a statue—polite, careful, distant.

Mrs. Aiba placed a kettle on the nearby table and poured him a cup of green tea from a small thermos she had brought from upstairs.

"That man," she said, nodding toward the picture, "he came around often. Always had an entourage. Always watching. But Riku never seemed afraid of him."

Ryunosuke looked up, startled. "You knew Riku?"

Aiba smiled faintly. "You have his eyes. I suspected the moment you walked in that you were related."

She lowered herself gently into the seat across from him. Her voice softened.

"I ran this archive back when your father was active. He would come by sometimes, late in the day, when no one else was around. He never said much, just asked for records—old family registries, land deeds. He was trying to protect people in ways no one would see."

Ryunosuke sat still, letting her words settle into him.

"He was feared," he said quietly.

Aiba nodded. "He had to be. But he never let that be all he was."

She leaned forward, brushing her hand across one of the newspaper clippings.

"You know… your name wasn't chosen lightly."

Ryunosuke blinked. "What?"

Aiba smiled gently, and for a moment, her eyes gleamed with something wistful. "You're name is Ryunosuke, isn't it?"

"It is."

"He once told me he wanted his son's name to carry both strength and freedom. Ryuu, the dragon. Nosuke, one who helps. He wanted you to be powerful—but never bound. Never like him."

A sharp, unexpected pressure welled in Ryunosuke's chest. His breath hitched.

He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. The tears came before he could stop them.

One slid down his cheek, then another.

Aiba reached over, taking his trembling hand in both of hers.

"It's okay to cry. He did, too. Once."

That nearly undid him.

Ryunosuke lowered his head and wept—quietly, into his sleeve, in a room filled with the ghosts of the past.

Aiba said nothing more. She simply sat there with him, her presence calm and unshaken.

The cool air bit gently at Ryunosuke's cheeks as he stepped out of the archive. The sun had dipped below the skyline, casting Kyoto's narrow streets in soft shadows. Streetlamps buzzed to life, one by one, their yellow glow stretching across brick alleys and tiled rooftops.

He walked without purpose, still holding the warmth of Aiba's hands in his own, still hearing her say, "He wanted you to be powerful—but never bound."

His fingers brushed the spine of his sketchbook tucked beneath his arm. He didn't open it. Not yet.

The neighborhood changed as he moved. Newer buildings gave way to older storefronts—mom-and-pop shops with hand-painted signs and faded curtains swaying in cracked windows. The kind of places that remembered the city before it became a city.

One such shop caught his eye.

It was tucked between a bicycle repair shop and a tobacco stand, its wooden door slightly ajar. Dusty light filtered through frosted windows, and the smell of old tatami mats, dry incense, and aged wood spilled into the street.

He stepped inside.

A bell chimed above the door.

Rows of worn shelves lined the narrow aisles—filled with everything from bamboo chopsticks to collectible coins, from jars of preserved plums to faded sake bottles that looked untouched in years. At the back stood a small counter, behind which sat a thin old man in a knit vest, polishing a teacup with a fraying towel.

The man looked up, eyes narrowing curiously but not unkindly.

"Evening," he said. "Looking for something?"

Ryunosuke hesitated, then approached. "Actually… I'm searching for information. About someone. Or rather… a name."

The man raised an eyebrow.

Ryunosuke leaned slightly forward, his voice quiet. "Hiyashi."

The towel stilled in the man's hand.

Silence fell.

For a moment, Ryunosuke thought he hadn't been heard. But then, the man's expression changed—eyes sharpening just enough, like a window locking into place.

"You shouldn't say that name out loud," the shopkeeper murmured. "Not here."

Ryunosuke swallowed. "You knew them?"

The old man didn't answer directly. Instead, he folded the towel, set the cup down carefully, and stepped around the counter. He walked to the front door and gently pushed it closed with a faint click.

Then, without turning back, he spoke.

"That name still echoes in dark corners," he said softly. "It's better if it stays buried."

Ryunosuke took a breath. "I'm not looking to cause trouble. I just—"

"I know what you're looking for," the man cut in, his voice kind but firm. "But some things… don't belong to the living anymore."

Their eyes met.

And in that moment, Ryunosuke understood: it wasn't hate. It was fear. Respect, maybe. And sorrow.

He gave a quiet nod. "Thank you for your time."

The man didn't respond. Only returned behind the counter, picked up the cup, and resumed his polishing.

Ryunosuke stepped back out into the night.

As he walked down the sidewalk, he jotted a note in the back of his sketchbook:

"Corner shop near Gion. Owner still fears the name. No answers—only ghosts."

From a bench across the street, two elderly men sat murmuring quietly over a paper cup of sake. They glanced his way once, their conversation dropping to a whisper.

He couldn't hear them.

But he knew what they saw.

Not him—but his shadow.