The dim light barely filled the room, throwing long shadows across Keitaro's face as he sat at his desk. His hands were clenched tightly together, the tension showing in his knuckles. The cracked mirror on the wall reflected his figure, but he wasn't looking at himself. His eyes seemed fixed on something distant, something invisible—his past, perhaps.
"When I was a kid, I wanted to be a hero," he said softly, almost like he was confessing. "The kind of hero who could save Japan. Make it stronger after everything it's been through. Maybe it sounds crazy now, but I believed it. I thought heroes could change the world." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I was born in Hiroshima."
The room fell silent except for the faint creak of his chair as he leaned forward. "We all know what happened there. But for me, it wasn't just history—it was personal. A shadow that never goes away."
Keitaro's fingers curled into fists as his voice hardened. "My grandfather lived through it. Survived the fire, the screams, the ashes. But only his body survived. His mind stayed trapped in that moment, like it never let him go. PTSD, they call it now, but those three letters don't explain what it did to him—or to us. It took his life long before he actually died."
His gaze drifted to the ceiling, where the paint was peeling away in jagged strips. "The bombing is supposed to be something we 'remember'—a lesson from the past. But we don't talk about it, not really. It's everywhere, though. In textbooks. On TV. In movies. And then, people joke about it. Laugh about it. Celebrities, comedians, even strangers online—they all make light of something that tore apart millions of lives. And don't even get me started on America."
His tone dropped, turning low and bitter. "I studied in the U.S. for a while. Thought it'd be good for me, you know? A chance to learn. Instead, they turned me into a punchline. 'Hey, Hiroshima, don't blow up!' or 'How's Japan doing, Hiroshima?' Like I was some kind of joke. Every word, every laugh… it stayed with me. It cut deeper than they'll ever know."
Keitaro stood suddenly, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. He began pacing, his steps heavy, the floorboards groaning under his weight. "That's when I made a vow," he said, his voice steady now. "I promised myself I'd make them pay—not just for me, but for all of us. For every life lost that day, and every child who grew up in its shadow. I didn't just make a promise. I've been working toward it ever since."
He stopped in front of the mirror, staring into it like he could see someone else looking back. "I wasn't the smartest kid in school because I wanted to be. I was the smartest because I had to be. I read every book I could get my hands on. Memorized everything. A photographic memory helped with that." He allowed himself a faint, humorless smile. "I used it to build connections, find allies, put together every piece of my plan."
Turning back toward the wall, Keitaro's eyes landed on a large corkboard pinned with maps, photographs, and documents. Red strings crisscrossed in a chaotic web, each thread carefully placed to connect the dots. At the center, written in bold, jagged red ink, was one word: America.
"Countries fight for power," he muttered under his breath. "They crush the weak, rewrite history to make themselves look noble, and expect the rest of us to live with the aftermath. But not this time."
Keitaro's gaze softened as it landed on an old photograph pinned near the center of the board. It showed his grandfather as a young man, smiling faintly. It was the only picture where Keitaro had ever seen him happy. He touched it lightly with his fingertips, his voice almost breaking. "Grandpa… you'd understand, wouldn't you? You were there. You felt it. This isn't just revenge. It's justice."
He stepped back, his chest rising and falling as he surveyed the board. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then, with calm, deliberate certainty, he spoke again. "They'll see," he whispered. "The world will finally see what their arrogance has cost."