After a day.
Ryuki stood in the hospital room, the antiseptic smell sharp in his nose, watching Fumiko's chest rise and fall under the thin blanket. Her face was a mess of bandages—six stitches near her eyes, six more at her lips, jagged lines cutting through her once-soft features. She'd woken an hour ago, groggy but alert, and Michiko had stepped out to grab coffee. Now, Saki clung to their mother's hand, her pigtails drooping as she stared up at her.
"I'm staying with Mother," Saki said, voice firm, her grip tightening.
Ryuki sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd wrestled with this all night—hide it or spill it? Lying felt flimsy now; Saki deserved the truth. So he'd brought her here after breakfast, her eyes wide and teary the whole car ride. "No," Fumiko said, her voice weak but stern, cracked from pain meds. "You're going to school."
"No!" Saki shook her head, pigtails swinging. "I'm staying, no matter what!" She pressed her cheek against Fumiko's hand, stubborn as a mule.
Fumiko sighed, a raspy sound. "Saki…" She'd been at it for ten minutes, arguing through the haze of her injuries. Ryuki leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "She's right, Mom. Let us stay. School can wait."
"You too?" Fumiko's eyes narrowed, but the fight drained out of her. She slumped back against the pillow. "Fine. Stay till I'm better—till I can walk. But you're not skipping forever."
Saki beamed, squeezing her hand. "Thank you, Mother!"
Ryuki nodded, relief loosening his shoulders. The doctor—Yu Qingxue—had said Fumiko's legs took the worst hit, numb from the crash, but she'd walk in a week. The real damage was her stomach, stitched up tight, and her face, scarred now. Fumiko didn't seem to care about her looks, though—just kept smiling at them, crooked and tired.
Michiko slipped back in, a paper cup steaming in her hand. She set it on the tray, her black pants rustling as she moved, blouse crisp against her frame. "You two are good kids," she said, resting a hand on Ryuki's shoulder, the other on Saki's. "But how about lunch? Let's eat something."
"No," Saki said, shrugging off Michiko's touch. "I'm staying with Mother."
"Saki!" Fumiko snapped, frowning as much as the stitches allowed. "Go home tonight. Come back tomorrow morning."
Saki's lip trembled. "But—"
"Elder Sister," Ryuki cut in, grabbing her hand, his voice gentle but firm. "Let's go. Mother needs to sleep alone to heal. You don't want her stuck in bed forever, right?"
"But…" Saki's voice shrank, eyes darting to Fumiko. "She'll be lonely."
Michiko knelt beside her, pulling a sleek phone from her pocket. "We'll video call her. You can see her all night—how's that?"
Saki blinked, hesitant. "All night?"
"Yep," Michiko said, pressing the phone into her hands. "I'll set it up. You can watch her sleep, talk if she wakes. Deal?"
Saki bit her lip, glancing at Fumiko, who nodded weakly. "Okay," she mumbled, clutching the phone like a lifeline. "But I'm coming back first thing."
"Deal," Ryuki said, tugging her toward the door. Michiko followed, her heels clicking soft on the tile.
As they stepped into the hall, Fumiko's voice stopped him. "Ryuki—how'd you know I was here?"
He turned, meeting her bandaged gaze. "Police called."
"Hm," she hummed, "Okay. Behave at Ms. Takeru's. Look after your sister."
He smiled, small but real. "Always do. Focus on getting better."
She smiled back, lopsided through the stitches. "I will."
He left, catching up to Michiko and Saki in the lobby. Saki hugged the phone tight, already fiddling with it as Michiko guided them to the car.
---
The third day after killing him, news hit: Herman Miyazawa, Ruby's father, was dead. Ryuki caught it on Michiko's TV, the anchor's voice droning about a "sudden collapse, cause unknown."
Ruby sat beside him on the couch, her knees pulled up, white hair spilling over her face. She'd been staying at Michiko's since he'd brought her from the abandoned house, quitely—until now.
"Ruby?" he said, voice soft. "You okay?"
She stared at the screen, eyes dull. "He's… gone." Her voice cracked, small and lost. She curled tighter, burying her face in her knees.
Ryuki hesitated, then rested a hand on her back. "Yeah. He is." She didn't cry, just went still, depression settling over her like fog.
By next day, Rene pushed her father to adopt Ruby, but Michiko stepped up too, her voice firm as she sat with them in the living room. "Ruby, I'd take you in too."
The two days Ruby lived with her, Michiko came to love this girl, quite but also helpful around the house.
Ruby lifted her head, eyes red but dry. "I… promised Big Sis—Rena—I'd be her sister." Her words were quiet, resolute. "I'll go with her."
Michiko nodded, "Alright. She's lucky to have you." She hugged Ruby, quick and gentle, before letting her go.
A week later, Ruby thrived at Rena's. The gloom of her father's death faded, replaced by a brightness Ryuki hadn't seen before. She'd call Ryuki sometimes, her voice bubbling over the phone—"Big Bro, we made cookies today!"—happier than ever, free of fear, wrapped in a family that loved her.
That same week, Ryuki's world shifted too. With Fumiko stuck in the hospital, oblivious to her bank account, he'd sunk every credit she had into stocks. In seven days, it ballooned—a massive return. Now a money wasn't a worry anymore.
Michiko sat Fumiko down one afternoon, the hospital room quiet save for the beep of monitors. "Work for me," she said, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. "Housemaid at my place. Better pay than your old job."
Fumiko frowned, bandages shifting. "Michiko, I… I can't. It's good money, but not enough for their school fees, food—"
"I'll cover it," Michiko cut in, voice steady. "All of it—Ryuki's, Saki's. Education, clothes, whatever they need. You just work for me, keep your head up."
Fumiko's eyes widened, then softened. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious," Michiko said, grinning. "They're good kids. Let me do this."
Fumiko exhaled, a shaky laugh breaking through. "Alright. For them—I'll do it."
That week, Ryuki and Saki spent their days at the hospital, nights crashing at Michiko's. Michiko was there too, hovering—bringing food, driving them back and forth. One evening, as they sat by Fumiko's bed, Saki doodling on a napkin, Ryuki watched Michiko adjust the blankets. She caught his stare and winked.
"Why're you so good to us?" he asked, "Taking leave, paying stuff, sticking around—what's in it for you?"
She paused, then leaned in, pinching his nose gently. "Because you two are cute as hell, and I love you." Her smile was wide, eyes crinkling behind her glasses.
He blinked, thrown. "Love us? You've known us, what, a week?"
"Doesn't take long," she said, straightening up, hands on her hips. "You're tough, Saki's a fireball—how could I not?"
He didn't get it—not fully. But something clicked as he thought about her house. Back at Michiko's, he'd noticed it—everyone had their own room, their own space. Yuta's clutter, Asuka's neat desk, Michiko's minimalist calm, even her husband's locked office, empty most of the year. They knocked before entering, kept to themselves. Yuta'd told him once, casual as anything: "Dad's overseas, back once a year. Mom's always working. We're fine, though."
Fine, sure—but distant. They loved each other, Ryuki could tell, but time together was limited. If it kept up, thse family might become even more distant.
While his family is opposite. One room, no walls, no privacy—him, Saki, Fumiko, crammed tight. Baths together, meals shoulder-to-shoulder, no secrets. Michiko's family thrived on independence; his family to closeness.
Maybe that's why she latched on—saw something in them she missed at home.