The warrant arrived at 8 AM.
Ren watched Detective Watanabe's car pull up to his father's house — the same house where he had grown up, the same house where his mother had died. The morning light was pale and cold, painting the white walls in shades of gray. But when the officers knocked on the door, no one answered.
They knocked again. Louder.
Still nothing.
Watanabe signaled to her team. Two officers went around the back. A third forced the front door open — a sharp crack that echoed down the quiet street.
Ren got out of Takeshi's car. His legs were steady, but his heart was pounding.
Hikari followed. "Wait here," she said. "Let them clear the house first."
"I need to see."
"I know. But you need to be safe."
Ren stood by the gate, watching the officers disappear into the house. Minutes passed. Then Watanabe appeared in the doorway, her face grim.
"He's not here," she said. "The house is empty. No clothes in the closets. No food in the refrigerator. No phone. No computer. He left days ago."
Ren's blood went cold. "He knew."
"Someone warned him. Same as before." Watanabe walked down the steps. "But he didn't leave empty-handed. There are gaps in the bookshelves. Missing files. He took what he could carry."
"What about the briefcase evidence?"
"That's still in our custody. He can't take that back."
"But he can run. He can hide. He can disappear."
Watanabe nodded slowly. "He can try. But we'll find him. We have his face on every camera in the country. His name on every watchlist. He can't run forever."
Ren looked at the house — at the open door, the dark interior, the curtains blowing in the wind. His father was gone. Again.
Just like when Ren was fourteen. Just like when his mother was dying.
"What did he leave behind?" Ren asked.
Watanabe hesitated. Then she reached into her jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "This was on the kitchen table. With your name on it."
Ren took the paper. His hands were steady. His heart was not.
He unfolded it.
Ren,
If you're reading this, I'm already gone. Don't bother looking for me. You won't find me. I've been preparing for this day for years.
You think you've won. You haven't. You've only forced me to change my strategy. The evidence you have — the briefcase, the witnesses, the records — none of it will matter if I'm not there to defend myself. And without me, the case against my associates will fall apart.
They know you now. They know your face, your name, your address. They know about Hikari. They know about Mrs. Tanaka. They know about everyone you care about.
You can run. You can hide. You can try to protect them. But you can't protect everyone. Sooner or later, you'll make a mistake. And when you do, I'll be there.
This isn't over, Ren. It's never been over.
—Your Father
Ren lowered the paper. His hands were shaking.
"What does it say?" Hikari whispered.
"He's threatening us. All of us. He says he's not going to stop."
Hikari took the paper and read it. Her face went pale, but her voice was steady.
"Then we don't stop either."
---
They drove back to the apartment in silence.
Ren stared out the window, watching the city blur past. His father's words echoed in his head — they know about Hikari, they know about Mrs. Tanaka, they know about everyone you care about.
He had failed. He had gathered the evidence. He had built the case. But his father had slipped away, and now the people Ren loved were in danger.
Hikari's phone rang.
She answered. Listened. Her face went white.
"What is it?" Ren asked.
"That was the clinic. My mother —" Her voice cracked. "She's in ICU. Her heart stopped. They revived her, but she's not conscious."
Ren's heart stopped. "We need to go."
"Now."
---
The clinic was the same as before — glass and wood, modern and cold. But the garden was empty, and the corridors were quiet, and the nurse who led them to the ICU had tears in her eyes.
Hikari's mother lay in a bed, surrounded by machines. Her face was pale, her eyes were closed, and her hands — thin, pale, fragile — rested on top of the blanket.
"She's stable," the nurse said. "But her vitals are weak. The cancer has spread faster than we expected."
Hikari sat on the chair beside the bed. She took her mother's hand.
"Mom," she whispered. "I'm here."
The machines beeped. The IV dripped. The sun slanted through the blinds, painting stripes on the floor.
Ren stood by the door, watching.
"I'm not going to forgive you," Hikari said. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I'm here. And I'm not going to leave."
Her mother's fingers twitched. Her eyes fluttered.
"Hikari," she breathed. "You came."
"I came."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I know."
They sat in silence, mother and daughter, the machines humming around them.
Ren stepped out into the hallway. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
His father was gone. Hikari's mother was dying. The war was still raging, and he didn't know if they would survive.
But Hikari was still fighting. And so was he.
---
That night, Ren called Kobayashi.
"The case against my father — can we proceed without him?"
"We can try. But it's harder. He has the right to face his accusers. If he's not there, the judge might dismiss the charges."
"Then we need to find him."
"We will. Watanabe has a team working on it. But it might take time."
"How much time?"
"I don't know. Weeks. Months. Years."
Ren's jaw tightened. "We don't have years."
"Then we do what we can. We protect the witnesses. We gather more evidence. We keep fighting."
Ren ended the call. He stood by the window, looking out at the city.
Somewhere out there, his father was watching. Waiting. Planning.
But Ren was watching too.
And he would be ready.