SSS Unknown: Dark Knight's Legacy

It was a day much like any other. The weather was unremarkable—neither too warm nor too cold. The wind whispered just enough to remind you it was there, and the sun hung in the sky with a presence that felt more obligatory than comforting. 

Even the scene outside my window held no allure, the kind of view you'd glance at and immediately forget.

Honestly, mornings like this had become monotonous, repeating like the first frames of a movie that had long since lost its charm. Dull, lifeless, predictable—that was the world I woke up to each day.

And yet, I found solace in that predictability.

This mundanity was a balm, making the simple act of waking up lighter somehow. With that comforting thought in mind, I made my way to the most run-down part of the house—a shabby little room held together by rotting wooden planks I couldn't stand to look at.

"Sakura, get up and have breakfast."

I gripped the old door handle and yanked it open with force, the creak and bang of the wood breaking the silence like an alarm clock. It was loud, intrusive, and deliberate—a small rebellion against the stillness that threatened to swallow the house whole.

"Ugh, Shirou... How many times have I told you not to open the door like that?"

Her voice, muffled beneath layers of disheveled blankets, carried the faintest edge of irritation. Yet it was undeniably soft, the kind of sound you couldn't stay mad at.

That was Sakura—my younger sister in all but blood. I was adopted, and she was the daughter of my uncle's second marriage. There was no biological tie between us, but to me, she was family. The only family I had left.

Family or not, though, I still had to wake her up.

"It's six-thirty. You'll be late," I said, walking over to the pile of blankets. Without hesitation, I grabbed the edge and yanked it away, revealing a half-asleep girl in wrinkled pajamas.

She blinked slowly, her Azure eyes hazy with sleep. Her delicate face scrunched in mild annoyance, cheeks puffed out like a sulking child. Sakura's way of waking up was like a lazy cat—reluctant, adorable, and entirely predictable.

She stretched, her light pink hair falling messily across her face like the petals of a cherry blossom tree in disarray. For a moment, I forgot the chaos of the room around her—books scattered across the floor, clothes in piles, and papers stuffed into every available corner.

Her presence seemed to light up the dingy space, making even the disorder feel... bearable.

But only for a moment.

"Sakura, your room's a disaster," I muttered, my voice betraying my irritation as my eyes roamed the clutter.

She noticed immediately, her face flushing with embarrassment as she scrambled out of bed to push me toward the door. "Shirou! Out! Now!"

I could've argued, maybe lectured her about cleanliness, but she looked so flustered that I let it slide.

Sighing, I made my way downstairs to the cramped dining area. Breakfast was ready. I didn't particularly enjoy making it, but it was a habit I'd long since grown used to. If I lived alone, I'd skip it entirely—save the time, save the money.

But Sakura was here, and taking care of her mattered more than convenience.

A few minutes later, she joined me at the small, battered table. In the small, cluttered space that served as both the living room and dining area, the lively chatter of two young people echoed, filling the room with a rare sense of warmth. The furniture was modest—worn wooden chairs and a table too small to fit even the two of them comfortably. Stacks of books, a few half-folded blankets, and mismatched utensils gave the room a chaotic charm. Despite its cramped and messy state, it sufficed. There was no need to buy anything new, especially since I had no intention of staying here much longer.

"Um! Shirou, your cooking is amazing! You're the best!"

Sakura's cheerful voice cut through the silence as she praised the food with a smile, her cheeks puffed out with rice. A single grain clung stubbornly near her lips, and the sight was almost too much—clumsy, endearing, and undeniably Sakura.

"But if you spent a little more on ingredients, it'd taste even better!" she added, her tone light and teasing but tinged with a hint of genuine suggestion.

"We're saving money. This is good enough," I replied flatly, shutting down her comment as if it were a trivial matter.

"...Oh, if you say so," Sakura muttered, her smile dimming slightly. The subtle disappointment in her voice was impossible to miss.

I glanced down at my plate, feeling a faint tug of guilt. My cooking, while good, was undeniably repetitive. Cheap yet passable meals had been our norm for so long that even I was beginning to grow tired of them. But changing that felt like a luxury we couldn't afford—not with everything else looming over us.

"Sakura, do you have work today?" I asked, steering the conversation in a different direction as we continued to eat.

Her smile returned, though weaker this time. "I'm a bit worn out. I think I'll just come home and sleep after school," she said, shaking her head lightly.

Relief washed over me. At least she wasn't pushing herself too hard, not like I had been for years.

"…I see. I've already made some food and put it in the fridge. If you get hungry, just heat it up," I said, standing up and collecting the dishes from the table.

"Today's that day, so I probably won't be back until late," I added, my voice quieter, as I walked toward the sink.

Today was the anniversary of my parents' deaths, the day I visited their graves. The thought caused an ache in my chest—not a sharp, sudden pain, but a constant, needling presence that I had grown too familiar with over the years.

Sakura tilted her head slightly, her lips parting as if to say something, but hesitation held her back. Her thoughtful silence was something I both admired and resented at times. If only she'd speak her mind more often, things would be simpler.

As I prepared to leave, her voice broke through the quiet.

"…Um, Shirou, I have something I want to ask," she said hesitantly, tugging gently at my sleeve. Her voice was soft, almost timid, but there was a weight behind it that caught me off guard.

"Do we really have to move?"

"…"

My jaw tightened as her question lingered in the air. I turned my face away, unwilling to let her see the irritation and bitterness rising within me.

"I can't let you stay with those two pieces of trash anymore," I said coldly, my voice sharper than I intended.

The "pieces of trash" I referred to were none other than my uncle and Sakura's mother—two people I had no patience for and even less respect. Just thinking about them stirred a quiet fury in me, the kind that burned low but never extinguished.

"You're abandoning them instead of helping?" Sakura pressed cautiously, her voice soft but steady. "No matter how awful they are, they did take care of us. And leaving them alone… I just don't think it's a good idea." Her words were heavy with sadness, as though she'd been holding them back for some time.

Her response struck a nerve. My teeth clenched, my fists curling at my sides. She didn't know—she couldn't possibly understand—what they had done to me. What they had planned for her. I had endured everything for her sake, protected her from things she would never need to know. Forgiveness was out of the question; I had made that decision long ago.

Why did she still cling to hope for them? I couldn't comprehend it.

"People don't change, Sakura. You'll see," I said, my voice cold and final. Grabbing my bag, I moved toward the door.

"I'm leaving."

Before I could step out, her small hand caught my sleeve again.

"…Wait," she whispered, and then, without warning, she wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a firm embrace.

Her warmth enveloped me, soft and undeniable. The faint scent of her light perfume lingered, mingling with the clean aroma of soap. For a moment, I froze, startled by her unexpected action.

"What's this about?" I asked, my voice betraying my confusion. While Sakura was naturally affectionate, this level of closeness was unusual even for her.

"…Don't make that face anymore. It's scary," she murmured into my shoulder.

So she had seen my anger after all. Despite my efforts to hide it, she had noticed. Was I really so transparent, or had I underestimated how well she could read me?

"Fine," I muttered, my voice softer now, conceding without argument.

Her arms tightened around me briefly before she stepped back, her expression unreadable. For all her kindness, Sakura was far stronger than I often gave her credit for.

***

The bullet train hummed steadily as it sped through the countryside. It wasn't crowded—it rarely was on a weekday around noon. I sat by the window, gazing at the passing scenery. Fields, buildings, and trees blurred into one indistinct panorama, and I let my mind wander.

Earlier, I'd visited my school to submit a leave application and stopped by my new apartment. But now, sitting here, I couldn't even recall the details of the day. They were vague, like most things I deemed unimportant.

Ask me what I ate or who I talked to fifteen minutes ago, and I'd draw a blank. Maybe that's why people thought I was indifferent, emotionless. And honestly? They weren't wrong.

I rarely smiled, always wore a brooding expression, and had little interest in making friends. At school, I spent most of my time studying or working. There was no room for socializing, no room for distractions.

But today was different.

Today, I had to leave my carefully constructed routine.

As the train slowed to a stop, I disembarked, stepping into a town that felt both familiar and alien.

The streets were starkly different from the fractured images in my memory. The houses, once quaint and uniform, had transformed into modern, angular buildings. The small shops where I'd bought candy as a child were gone, replaced by convenience stores and cafes.

"Everything has changed," I muttered under my breath, a bittersweet ache blooming in my chest.

But the sadness was faint, more like a dull whisper than a sharp pang.

A part of me had hoped to see those childhood scenes preserved, untouched by time. Another part was relieved that they weren't. Perhaps it was better this way—less chance for old memories to surface, less chance for the wounds they carried to reopen.

Lost in thought, I wandered through a narrow alley that once led to my childhood home. The bittersweet nostalgia wrapped around me like a fragile cocoon until—

"Ah! Help me, please!!"

A piercing scream shattered the quiet, pulling me abruptly back to the present.

I stopped.

The logical choice was to ignore it. Whatever trouble was unfolding wasn't my problem. Getting involved would only complicate things.

And yet, my feet betrayed me, carrying me toward the sound.

Peeking around a corner, I spotted the source of the commotion—a group of boys in school uniforms cornering a smaller, skinnier boy in a dimly lit alley.

"Stop hitting me! Please!"

"If you don't want to get hurt, hand over all your money," one of the bullies sneered, punctuating his demand with a sharp kick to the boy's side.

The victim curled up on the ground, his arms shielding his head. He whimpered but didn't fight back.

The scene filled me with quiet indignation. I hated people like this—cruel, mindless, and utterly pathetic.

Taking out my phone, I began recording.

"Boss, let's just knock him out," one of the bullies suggested, grinning wickedly.

"Good idea. He won't dare tell anyone if he's unconscious," the leader replied.

"No! This money's for my mom's hospital bills!" the boy cried, his voice cracking with desperation.

He stopped shielding himself and lunged at the bullies like a cornered animal, throwing a wild, uncoordinated punch. It landed on the leader's chest, but the blow was too weak to cause any real damage.

The bully laughed, grabbing the boy's wrist and twisting it painfully. "You call that a punch?"

With a brutal kick, he sent the boy sprawling against a wall. The sickening thud of impact made me wince. Blood trickled down the boy's face as he lay crumpled on the ground.

I sighed, pulling out my phone. Recording the scene felt less like an act of justice and more like documenting a dull spectacle.

It wasn't my fight. I wasn't a knight in shining armor. Fighting these kids head-on wasn't worth the effort. But exposing them? That had potential.

I'm no hero.

Once the bullies began rifling through the boy's pockets, I turned and slipped away, careful not to draw attention. The video I'd recorded was enough. It would find its way online, and justice—if such a thing existed—would follow.

Still, there was one thing left to do.

Returning to the alley once the bullies were gone, I found the boy unconscious, his face bruised and bloodied. I crouched beside him, checking for injuries. He was alive, though barely.

Using my phone, I called an ambulance. Then, I performed basic first aid as best I could, cleaning his wounds with tissues and bottled water.

"Hang in there," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

As I worked, I uploaded the video to a popular website, making sure it was anonymous. The internet would do what it did best—expose and condemn.

By now, people had started to gather, drawn by the earlier screams. It was time for me to leave.

I didn't want thanks or recognition. This wasn't about being noble.

I was simply a coward who couldn't look the other way.

Along the old path, I arrived at my family's gravesite. This was the first time in exactly thirteen years that I had returned here.

I remember that day clearly—the funeral. I cried until I had no tears left. The sky had been filled with dark clouds, and it rained relentlessly as if the heavens themselves were mourning. I stood in the rain even after the ceremony had ended. Even when everyone tried to pull me away, I clung to the memory of them.

I hadn't returned here all these years. I wasn't strong enough to face it. The thought of seeing their graves again, knowing I could never hear their voices or feel their presence, paralyzed me. I was terrified the tears would come again, terrified someone might witness my weakness.

But now, standing before them, I felt only a dull ache—a hollow emptiness. They say time heals all wounds, but all it had done for me was dull the agony, leaving only the scar. A scar that had grown over the years, but never truly healed. And now, it throbbed once again, the painful reminder of everything I had lost.

"Maybe I was worrying for nothing…" I muttered, voice thick with regret.

"I hope they don't think I'm unfilial."

Tsugimoto Shinji -Tsugimoto Hana -Tsugimoto Makoto -

Before me were three graves, each one a marker of a life that had ended far too soon.

"Dad, Mom, I'm sorry…" I whispered, my voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might wake the ghosts of the past.

"It's been far too long since I've been here…" My smile was bitter, my words empty as I tried to convince myself that it wasn't too late to make amends.

Their graves, now weathered and covered in moss, had become an unfortunate symbol of neglect—just as I had neglected my own healing. The dirt clung stubbornly to their headstones, as if the world itself had decided to forget them. It was as though the universe was punishing me for allowing these memories to slip into the dark corners of my heart.

I felt the weight of that guilt, sharp and unrelenting. This was my fault. I should have come sooner. I should have been here every day, even if just to speak their names. But I had run from the pain, from the reminders of my failures.

With a shaky breath, I gathered the items I had brought to clean the grave and began scraping away the moss, the grime, and the dust. Each stroke felt like a penance. Each movement dragged up memories I wasn't sure I was ready to confront. I could almost hear my father's voice in my head, soft but firm, telling me, "Shirou, boys don't cry."

And so, I held back the tears. The memories of my mother's playful scolding followed—her voice telling me, "Shirou, you're so lazy. Get up and help clean." I had hated it when I was a child, but now, I would give anything to hear her complain once more.

Grinding my teeth, I wiped the grime away, slowly revealing the names beneath the layers of time. I polished the stone until the names shone, the reflection of my face in the polished gravestone staring back at me, a face I barely recognized.

"All done…"

I looked up at the sky. The sun was sinking, painting the world in shades of orange and pink. But it wasn't the same warmth I remembered. The world felt cold. They were gone, and I was still here.

I knelt in front of each grave, placing flowers and offerings, though I could barely see their vibrant colors through the blur of my vision. How could I appreciate their beauty when the memories still hurt too much to bear?

Every time I looked at their graves, the scene from that day replayed in my mind. The accident. The crash. The blood. My parents' screams as they died, leaving me behind. Why had I survived? Why was I the one who lived when they had given everything to raise me?

I had witnessed it all, and yet I didn't understand why I had been spared. Was it fate? Or had it been random? And in the dreams, it was always the same—the sound of their voices, their calls for help echoing in my mind.

Sometimes, I wanted to join them. To be with them once again, even if it meant never seeing the world again. But no matter how much I wanted it, I couldn't. They were gone.

"Dad, Mom, I wonder… Does reincarnation exist?"

"If it does, how long does it take?"

"And when we're reborn, where do we go? Will I ever meet you again?"

I pointed up to the sky, asking questions that would never be answered. Words that could never bring them back. I thought I had moved on, but I hadn't. The tears came anyway, despite my best efforts to hold them back.

Visiting the graves, cleaning them, offering my prayers—it felt so insignificant. So meaningless. The dead couldn't feel anything, couldn't appreciate my actions.

And yet, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, just a little. A burden I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. Perhaps this is what it meant to let go. To finally say goodbye.

I still had one person left—someone I had vowed to protect. Someone I cherished above all. And this time, I wouldn't stand by and let anything happen to her.

No matter the cost, no matter what it took, Sakura would be safe. Even if she didn't want me to fight for her.

"…No," I corrected myself, wiping the tears from my face. "I'll make it something she wants."

With a final, tired sigh, I stood up, leaving the gravesite behind. I didn't look back. I couldn't. There was nothing left here but old wounds. And those, no matter how hard I tried, would never fully heal.

I glanced at my phone and saw the time. It was late. The sky had turned darker, the first signs of night creeping in.

But before I left, before I buried these memories forever, I needed to go home—my childhood home.

"It's time," I whispered to myself.

The footsteps were heavy, as if each step was dragging me further into the past. And as the rain began to fall, I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever find peace.

No. Peace had never been something I could achieve. Not since that day.

And as I approached the house—the house that should have been mine, the house where I had once been happy—the anger swelled within me again.

That bastard uncle, that vile, disgusting man who had sold our house, who had caused all of this. The one who was responsible for everything. He didn't deserve to live.

But I wouldn't let my hatred consume me. I wouldn't let it control me. I had to be better than that. For Sakura.

I looked at the house, the lights glowing warmly from the windows, and clenched my fists.

I had no place here anymore. Not in this house. Not in the past.

Turning away, I walked toward the station, each step heavier than the last.

And as I ran, the phone in my pocket rang.

It was from Sakura.

But I didn't pick it up.

And in that instant, I knew.

I should have.

As soon as I realized, a chill ran down my spine. My instincts screamed at me—something was wrong. On the train, I dialed her number again and again, but there was no answer. That couldn't be. Sakura never ignored me.

The anxiety surged through me like a tidal wave, swallowing every shred of reason. My heart pounded, and with every passing second, I felt the grip of panic tightening around me. I was spiraling, reckless, and unaware of how fast I was moving. All that mattered now was confirming one thing: that nothing had happened to her.

But deep down, I already knew. Something terrible had happened. And it was too late.

I kicked the door open without a second thought, the sound of splintering wood deafening in my ears. As I stepped inside, I realized—too late—that I'd made a grave mistake.

I should've listened for sounds, and should've been more cautious. But the moment for second guesses had passed.

"...The Yakuza..."