The small, cramped apartment was nothing like the grand buildings or bustling streets outside. It was tucked away in a quieter part of the city, where the neon lights from the nearby shops flickered just beyond the cracked windows. The walls, faded and yellowed from years of wear, bore the marks of time. The floors creaked underfoot, and there was always a faint smell of dust in the air. But it was home. And in this modest space, Ashima Hito felt safe.
The apartment, though small, had a kind of warmth that couldn't be measured in square feet. It was a place filled with the simple comforts of life—the sound of his mother's voice, the warmth of a shared meal, and the unspoken bond between them. Ashima was no stranger to hardship, but his mother had a way of making everything seem alright. Despite their financial struggles, she made sure he never felt poor. She always had a smile for him, even when it was hard to keep one on her own face.
His mother, was sitting at the small, worn-out table, her hands moving deftly as she prepared their dinner. Her hair, once a deep black, was streaked with silver, and the lines on her face showed the weight of years spent working tirelessly to provide for them. But she never let Ashima see how exhausted she was. She worked multiple jobs, always finding a way to make sure they had what they needed, even if it wasn't much.
"Dinner's almost ready, Ashima," she called from the kitchen, her voice warm despite the exhaustion in her eyes. "Are you ready to eat?"
Ashima looked up from his homework, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'll be right there," he said, his voice soft but steady. He had been doing well in school, something that gave his mother a sense of pride. Even though they didn't have much, she always made sure he understood the importance of learning.
He set his books aside and stood up, stretching his small limbs. The apartment was cozy, but it was also filled with reminders of the struggles they faced: the chipped paint on the walls, the small space that barely allowed for any room to move around, the old furniture that had been handed down from family. Still, Ashima had no complaints. His mother had always told him that happiness didn't come from wealth—it came from love, family, and the little moments they shared.
He walked into the small kitchen, where his mother was finishing up the meal. A pot of rice, some simple vegetable stir-fry, and a few slices of fish lay on the table. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
"Smells good, Mom," Ashima said, sliding into his seat.
She smiled, her eyes softening as she looked at him. "I'm glad you think so."
Ashima nodded, a twinkle of determination in his eyes. "Right."
They sat together, eating in silence for a few moments, the soft hum of the apartment filling the space between them. For all their struggles, they had each other. And that was enough for Ashima. He felt safe here, with his mother beside him, content in the quiet moments that were all too rare in the world outside their home.
But just as Ashima was about to ask his mother about her day, a sharp knock echoed through the door.
His body tensed instinctively, his mother's eyes flashing with something Ashima couldn't quite place—fear, maybe, or unease.
"Who could that be at this hour?" Akiyo muttered, wiping her hands on her apron before standing up. She walked toward the door, her expression cautious, and Ashima's heart began to beat a little faster in his chest. Something felt off.
Before his mother could reach the door, there was another knock, more insistent this time. It was too loud, too forceful.
"Stay inside, Ashima," she said softly, turning to him. There was a strange tightness in her voice that made his stomach tighten with dread.
Ashima opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but she had already reached the door. He could hear her take a deep breath, steadying herself.
"Who is it?" she called out, her voice calm but cautious.
A man's voice answered, smooth and calculated. "Good evening, ma'am. We need to speak with you."
Ashima's breath caught in his throat. There was something about the voice that sent a chill through him. It wasn't the voice of a neighbor, or someone he recognized.
His mother hesitated, her hand resting on the door handle. "What is this about?"
"We've come to collect something," the voice replied, more insistent now.
Ashima's mother's expression darkened. "I told you last time, we don't have anything. Please, just go away."
There was a pause, and then Ashima heard the unmistakable sound of the door unlocking. His heart raced as he watched his mother open it, the door creaking as it slowly revealed two men standing on the other side.
They were both tall, wearing dark suits that seemed out of place in the warmth of the apartment. Their faces were hard and unyielding, but it was the coldness in their eyes that made Ashima shiver. One of them stepped forward, his gaze moving over the woman before locking onto Ashima with unsettling focus.
"We've been patient with your husband's debts," the man said, his voice devoid of warmth. "But now we need to be paid. Your husband owes us a considerable sum."
Akiyo's face went pale. She took a step back, her hands trembling at her sides. "I told you, I don't know where he is. Please, just leave us alone."
But the man didn't budge. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small and square—something Ashima couldn't see clearly from where he stood.
The man advanced toward Mrs Hito, his movements deliberate and controlled. Before Ashima could fully process what was happening, the other man stepped past him, blocking his view of the door. In a blur of motion, a piece of cloth was pressed against Ashima's mother's face, and she gasped in surprise, trying to pull away. But it was too late.
The last thing Ashima saw was his mother's face as she slumped into the man's arms, unconscious.
The room seemed to spin. Ashima's legs felt weak beneath him as the man turned toward him. He tried to move, to run, but before he could take a single step, a sharp pain exploded in his head. His vision blurred, and the room around him tilted dangerously.
"Let's take him too," one of the men said, his voice distant as if coming from far away.
The man approached him. No. Dashed. He brought out a piece of cloth as well, Ashima tried to fight back, to struggle, but he was too weak. The man closed Ashima's mouth and nose and he breathed in as he gasped for air.
He felt dizzy, he tried to break free and suddenly.
Everything went dark.