AN : Zaboru Image
Wednesday 18 June 1999 Tokyo dical University Hospital.
Zaboru was still lying on his back, unconscious, but his vital signs were strong and stable. The monitors beside him blinked rhythmically, each steady beep quietly reassuring everyone that his condition was improving. Sitting close to his bed was Ayumi, faithfully accompanying him while continuing to work on her laptop for Akaishidan's recent ga projects. Even in this mont of uncertainty, responsibility did not stop—but neither did her devotion. The doctors had said that Zaboru was expected to regain consciousness today, and she held onto that hope tightly. Zaboru lay there peacefully, his expression calm, almost as if he were simply sleeping after an exhausting day. Ayumi looked at her husband and whispered softly, "Zabo.. Please open your eyes. I miss you." Her voice trembled despite her effort to remain composed. She let out a quiet sigh, and tears welled up again even though she knew he was dically fine. The accident had reminded her of sothing painful—no matter how strong, intelligent, and capable her husband was, he was still human. And humans, no matter how powerful they seed, were fragile. That realization deepened her feelings even more, making her love him stronger than ever before.
anwhile, inside Zaboru's own mind, he was dreaming.
He was back in his room from his previous life. He had woken up in his fifty-year-old body—yet he didn't realize he had already been reincarnated. Everything felt normal in a way that made it even stranger, like his brain had chosen this place as a shelter. Not comfort—shelter. A familiar box where the world asked nothing of him.
The air was stale, mixed with the faint sll of instant noodles and old fabric. The room's silence wasn't peaceful; it was the kind that pressed against the ears. He yawned, blinking slowly, and his joints complained with a dull stiffness that didn't belong to a young body.
He shuffled toward the mirror.
"Huh? Sohow… I feel like I'm dreaming, but I can't rember much," he muttered, voice rough, as if he hadn't spoken to anyone in days.
In the mirror stood a fifty-year-old man with a tired face, an unkempt, skinny body, and a neglected appearance. His hair sat in uneven waves, his cheeks slightly hollow, his shoulders rounded in a posture that ca from too many nights in the sa chair. The eyes were the worst part—carrying the dull weight of routine, like soone who had kept living, but had stopped expecting anything new.
He sighed.
"Another day… to live."
The words didn't sound dramatic. They sounded practiced.
Zaboru let out another breath and sat down at his PC, the motion automatic, like muscle mory. His fingers hovered over the mouse and keyboard before they even fully registered the decision. A faint smile tugged at his lips—not joy, exactly, but relief.
"Well… at least I can still play gas again."
The PC was modern, but the area around it was a ss. Empty containers, crumpled wrappers, soda cans, tangled cables, and dust gathered like proof of ti passing without purpose. A stack of unopened mail sat on the edge of the desk, half-hidden beneath a ga magazine that had been folded and unfolded so many tis the corners were soft. The room didn't feel like a ho—it felt like a waiting room for a life that never moved.
He powered the computer on. The familiar hum of the fans filled the silence, almost comforting in its chanical steadiness. He launched a ga.
Palworld.
The date on the screen read: December 1, 2024.
He stared at it for a mont, as if the number itself was supposed to an sothing. Like it should trigger a mory, a promise, a deadline—anything. But the aning slid away before it could settle.
"Heh… I wonder who will win 2024 GOTY?" he murmured. "If it's the Elden Ring DLC, it'll shake the industry for sure… but I think Astrobot or Black Myth Wukong has a better chance."
He chuckled softly, speaking to no one, then adjusted his posture and started playing.
Minutes turned into hours. The ga's colors filled the room, replacing the dull gray of the walls with artificial adventure. Outside, sunlight faded—afternoon becoming evening, evening becoming night. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting faint lines across the window blinds. The only light left inside ca from the monitor, painting his tired face in cold colors.
He wasn't playing just for fun. He was playing because the mont he stopped, the silence would return.
He was playing to escape—escape the quiet, escape the loneliness, escape the feeling that sothing important was missing. Not an item. Not a goal. Sothing deeper. Sothing that should have been there, like a na on the tip of his tongue.
Sotis, in the middle of a fight or a nu screen, he would pause for half a second, a strange ache pulsing in his chest—as if soone had called him from far away. Then he would shake it off and keep playing, pushing the feeling down like an unwanted notification. But despite all this he still love video gas with all his heart.
Then, suddenly, the doorbell rang.
The sound cut through the room like a blade, too sharp, too real. For a mont, even the ga's music felt distant, as if the dream itself had been interrupted.
Zaboru sighed and thought, 'Definitely Sanika. I told her to mind her own business and stop worrying about … but she's probably bringing food again. Sigh.'
He stood up and walked to the door, already picturing his sister's familiar expression—half annoyed, half caring—like she always was. In his mind, Sanika was older now, in her forties, with her own family and children… yet still stubborn enough to show up uninvited just to make sure he didn't rot away alone.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"Huh…? Who are you?"
A woman stood there.
She felt familiar—so familiar that his chest tightened instantly—yet his mind couldn't attach a na to her face. It was like recognizing a song you loved, but forgetting the title, forgetting the singer, forgetting when you first heard it. The closer he looked, the worse it beca. His thoughts slid off her features as if his brain refused to hold them.
Her silhouette was clear, but the details were wrong in a way he couldn't explain. The edges of her hair seed too soft, like mist. The color of her eyes shifted the longer he stared, as if the dream couldn't decide what was real.
The hallway behind her was quiet. Too quiet. No footsteps, no distant voices, not even the hum of a building. The light felt unnatural—warm, but without a source—like the world had been painted only for this mont.
He swallowed.
Sothing inside his chest stirred—sothing deep and instinctive, a pull that didn't co from logic. His fingers twitched as if they wanted to reach for her, even though he didn't know why.
Then she spoke, gently, as if she had been waiting a long ti to say it.
"Zabo… please open your eyes. I miss you…"
The words hit him harder than any shout.
Zaboru's eyes widened.
His breath caught.
The sound wasn't just in the hallway. It echoed inside his skull, overlapping with another mory—another place—like two worlds speaking at once.
His hand flew to his head as a sharp ache pierced through him—mories trying to surface, tearing through the fog like glass. For a second, the air felt unstable, as if the room itself was trembling. The doorfra flickered. The hallway stretched and compressed like a broken tape.
He saw flashes.
A woman laughing.
A warm hand on his cheek.
A ho filled with small footsteps.
A voice calling him back.
"You…" he whispered, the word almost breaking. "Ayu…mi?"
Her expression softened, and for the first ti the dream stopped resisting. The familiarity rushed into place like a puzzle finally snapping together, and the na felt painfully right.
And the instant her na left his mouth, the world shifted.
The walls blurred.
The hallway rippled like water.
The floor dropped away.
The dim apartnt dissolved into white light.
And back in the hospital—Zaboru opened his eyes.
Ayumi was still typing on her laptop, completely unaware that her husband was awake. The room was calm, filled only with the gentle rhythm of the heart monitor and the soft tapping of her keys. Then, in a hoarse and fragile voice, Zaboru finally spoke.
"Ayu..mi?"
Ayumi froze. Her fingers stopped mid‑keystroke, and for a heartbeat she didn't dare move, as if she was afraid she had imagined it. Slowly, she turned her head toward the bed.
Zaboru's eyes were open—heavy, tired, but unmistakably conscious.
"Zabo! You're awake!"
Her voice cracked with relief. She rushed to him, grabbed his hand with both of hers, and held it tightly, as if letting go would make him disappear again. Her eyes filled instantly, and she leaned closer, scanning his face like she needed to confirm it was real.
Then her instincts kicked in. Still holding his hand, she pressed the ergency button.
Within seconds, nurses and doctors entered the room with practiced urgency. They checked his pupils, asured his blood pressure, reviewed the monitor readings, and asked him simple questions to confirm awareness and orientation. Ayumi stayed close the entire ti, barely breathing as she watched their hands move and listened to their short, efficient instructions.
After a while, the doctor gave a reassuring nod. "He's completely stable," he said. "No complications. He's just dehydrated from being unconscious for days. We'll manage his fluids and keep monitoring him, but overall he's doing well."
Ayumi nodded repeatedly, relief washing over her in waves. She whispered a soft "thank you" without realizing she had said it out loud. Not long after, the dical staff finished their checks and left the two of them alone again—leaving the room quiet once more, except this ti Ayumi wasn't typing anymore.
She was simply holding Zaboru's hand, as if anchoring him to the world.
Zaboru looked at the small mirror in his hand and squinted at his reflection. "Ugh… I'm bald now? But I'm still handso, I think?" he mumbled, trying to sound casual even though his voice was still dry and weak.
Ayumi managed a shaky smile, then leaned in and hugged him carefully. The mont her arms wrapped around him, the strength in her composure finally collapsed. "You fool," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You worried to death. I will never forgive you if you leave alone, Zabo. You're not allowed to die—do you understand? Not ever."
Tears stread down her cheeks as she spoke, grief and relief mixing into sothing too heavy to hold back. Zaboru softened imdiately. Even with pain in his body, he gently raised his hand and caressed her hair, stroking it slowly as if to calm her breathing.
"I'm sorry for making you worry…" he said quietly. Then he tried to shift his shoulder—and imdiately winced. "And, Ayumi… I'm actually hurt right now. Ouch…"
Ayumi froze. For a second, she had forgotten the reality behind the relief—the broken fingers, the cracked ribs, the bruises, the fractures. Her face flushed with panic as she pulled back just a little, terrified she might have injured him further.
"S-sorry, Zabo…" she whispered, her voice small.
Zaboru let out a light chuckle, more breath than laughter, and gave her a tired but reassuring look—as if to tell her he was still here.
Then his stomach growled loudly, betraying him.
He blinked, embarrassed for half a second, and then sighed. "Ayumi… I'm really damn hungry. Could you bring so good food? Not hospital food, please."
Ayumi wiped her tears, then forced a small smile and nodded. "You're still sick, Zabo, so please eat sothing healthy for now, okay?" Her voice was gentle, but there was a firmness behind it—like she was holding him together with sheer will. Zaboru let out a long sigh, his stomach still aching with hunger.
"Ugh… fine," he muttered, surrendering for now.
He was starving—more than he expected. Ever since he woke up, his Enlightennt Body tabolism had kicked into full throttle, burning through energy to repair broken bones, cracked ribs, and bruised muscles. It felt like his body was rebuilding itself from the inside, and it demanded fuel constantly.
Not long after, the hospital food arrived. As expected, it was bland and tasteless, the kind of al designed for safety rather than comfort. Zaboru stared at it like it was an enemy… then his stomach growled again, and he gave up any pride he had left. He devoured it anyway, eating faster than Ayumi thought was even possible for soone with injuries.
Once the first wave of hunger eased, the room finally felt calr. Ayumi sat closer, and the two began catching up on the ti they had lost—Ayumi quietly telling him how the last few days felt, and Zaboru listening with a tired, apologetic expression, squeezing her hand whenever her voice started to shake.
About thirty minutes later, Keiko, Sanika ,Zenshin and Arumi finally arrived. The mont they stepped into the room, the atmosphere brightened—like the air itself beca warr. Keiko carried a container bag filled with ho-cooked food, and even from a distance the aroma was unmistakable. It wasn't just "healthy" food—it was the kind of al that felt like safety, like family, like ho.
Zaboru's eyes widened. For a second, he genuinely looked like he was going to cry.
"MOM! You're a lifesaver!"
Keiko smiled with quiet pride, the kind of smile a mother gives when she's relieved her child is alive—yet still wants to scold him for being reckless. Sanika stood beside her, smiling too, though her expression still carried leftover worry from the last three days.
Then Zenshin rushed in and hugged Zaboru tightly. "Papa! I miss you!" His small arms wrapped around Zaboru's waist like he was afraid his father might disappear again.
Zaboru chuckled softly and, careful of his injuries, reached down to gently caress Zenshin's hair. "Hehehe… I miss you too, Zen-chan," he said, his voice warm despite the hoarseness. "Papa's here. I'm not going anywhere."
Zenshin sniffled, pressing his face against Zaboru for a mont before pulling back just enough to look at him properly—eyes wide, checking that he was really awake.
Then Zaboru turned and asked for Arumi. Keiko carefully brought her closer, and Zaboru took his daughter into his arms for a little while, supporting her gently. His expression softened imdiately. Arumi stared at him, then gave a tiny, sleepy smile—small but unmistakable—and Zaboru smiled back like his whole body had finally relaxed.
For a brief mont, the room felt complete again.
After that, Keiko and Ayumi guided the children back, giving Zaboru space to eat and recover without being overwheld, while still staying close enough that he could see them whenever he looked up.
Zaboru didn't waste ti. He ate with gusto, carefully at first because of his injuries, but the hunger in his body was too strong to ignore. Each bite tasted absurdly good—so good it almost felt unfair compared to the bland hospital als. It beca the most delicious thing he had eaten in this life… and even in his previous one. His body was rebuilding itself, and it craved real energy, real warmth.
Keiko watched him eat and let out a soft laugh, relieved to see his appetite return. Sanika leaned forward, teasing him lightly while still sounding emotional, as if she had been holding her breath for days.
Floating nearby, Zaborn stared at the food like a starving ghost at a banquet. His face twisted with pure envy.
"Damn! I really miss food!" he grumbled. "Dude… let into your Emulator Mind!"
Zaboru chuckled, careful not to move too much, and gave a small nod while Keiko giggle she can see Zaborn after all.
Zaborn imdiately slipped back into the Emulator Mind, and the first thing he did was demand Zaboru conjure sothing edible for him. Zaboru, still smiling, did it without hesitation—because even in a mont like this, he couldn't deny his ghost partner's suffering.
Keiko could only stare in disbelief. She had brought what she considered "a lot of food," yet in barely ten minutes it was almost completely gone. She let out a long, exhausted sigh and shook her head.
"I wonder what you're made of, Zaboru… and you're still hungry?"
Zenshin's eyes lit up. "Whoa! Papa, you really eat a lot!"
Zaboru straightened up with a proud little grin, then flexed his arm as if he was showing off in front of an audience. "Of course Zen-chan you need to eat a lot! And Mom, I'm in recovery! My body is rebuilding itself right now. I'm absolutely famished… and yes, I'm going to eat again later!"
Sanika burst out laughing. "Hahaha! That's my Nii-san! Way to go!" She grinned mischievously, then reached into her bag as if she had been waiting for this exact mont. "Look what I brought you, Nii-san—hehehe!"
She pulled out 4 chocolate bread and 4 garlic bread like they were rare treasure.
Keiko and Ayumi imdiately frowned at the sa ti.
"Sanika-chan!" Keiko scolded, eyes narrowing. "You can't give your brother that. He's still sick!"
Zaboru's face instantly dropped into an exaggerated, wounded expression, like a child being denied candy. "Mooom… please…" he whined, dragging the word out shalessly.
Even Ayumi couldn't hold back a small chuckle at how fast he switched from heroic CEO to pathetic patient.
Keiko tried to stay stern, but the corners of her mouth twitched. After a few seconds, she sighed again—this ti with resignation—and waved her hand. "Fine. Just a little. And chew properly."
Zaboru's eyes lit up. He accepted the bread like it was a royal gift.
"Sani-chan… you are the best little sister in the whole universe right now!"
Sanika grinned proudly. "Of course."
A couple of hours later, Zanichi arrived from the ZAGE offices along with several employees—so from managent, so from the developnt floors—each carrying gifts, flowers, and small get‑well tokens from teams across the company. Their faces showed the sa mix of relief and guilt, as if they still couldn't believe their CEO had nearly been taken from them. When they stepped into the room and saw Zaboru sitting up—bald, bruised, and clearly exhausted—many of them froze for a second, surprised by the shaved head and the bandages, before their expressions softened into grateful smiles. So laughed awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood, while others bowed deeply, thanking him for being alive. More than anything, they were simply glad that Zaboru Renkonan was awake, stable, and still here with them.
anwhile, in a certain household—the ho of the drunk driver who had nearly killed Zaboru—Akechi arrived to "visit."
He didn't co alone. Behind him were mbers of his trusted special squad: silent n who moved with the discipline of professionals and the calm of people who had done far worse than break bones. They entered the house without rushing, without shouting, and that quietness made it even more terrifying.
Inside, the driver and his father were already trembling. The father tried to stand tall, but his voice cracked the mont he saw Akechi's eyes—cold, emotionless, and impossibly calm. The driver looked even worse, pale and sweating, as if the weight of the world had finally reached him.
Akechi didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
The na "Rashomon" carried its own pressure.
As the room fell into a suffocating silence, the driver and his father cowered in fear, realizing that this was not a police visit, and not a negotiation. It was a verdict.
Now, Rashomon would do his thing.
To be continue
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