You’ve probably heard the saying about walking a mile in someone’s shoes before judging them. Next time someone’s being difficult, or you just can’t understand them, leave your opinions and emotions aside for just a couple of minutes. Then figuratively walk in their shoes, that is, try to see things from their perspective to understand where they’re coming from. Now, even if we walk a mile in someone’s shoes, we still can’t judge them because we can never really know the reasoning behind someone’s actions or what it’s like to be that person.
The air on Shikoku Island still carried the last whispers of summer, warm but softened by the faint chill of dawn. A thin veil of dew clung to each blade of grass, glistening like shards of crystal in the pale amber light that bled cautiously over the skyline. The sun was still shy, its reach limited, casting long, cool shadows that wrapped themselves around the sleeping earth.
The woods were deep here…ancient and slow-breathing…each rustle in the canopy a language spoken long before human hands ever shaped these paths. Down a narrow gravel road, half-hidden in the embrace of cedar and pine, stood a small two-story kominka. Its frame was hewn from the finest timber yen could buy, rich hinoki wood glowing faintly in the early light, the tiled roof darkened with years of rain and sun. It was a home that seemed to belong to the earth as much as it did to the person who once filled it with life.
Just several steps away, as if in quiet companionship, stood a tiny dojo—a perfect, two-story gem of architecture, its shoji screens latticed with delicate precision, each beam polished smooth by care and tradition. Between the two buildings, a stone path wound its way like an unhurried stream, flanked on either side by the soft blush of cherry blossom trees. Though summer had stolen their blooms, the branches still reached like the arms of graceful dancers frozen mid-step. Along the edges, wildflowers—violet, white, and sun-yellow—grew in unruly but beautiful defiance, nodding in the faint morning breeze.
To the right, a small pond mirrored the slow awakening of the sky. Its glassy surface was broken here and there by the lazy drift of lily pads, the occasional ripple from a frog slipping beneath, or the dart of a tiny, quick-legged amphibian skimming its edge. Beyond the pond stood a tree of almost mythic size, its trunk wide enough to rival the girth of a small car, roots like thick, coiled ropes gripping the soil. The tree’s crown spread with such generous breadth that it cast a shade cool enough to survive even the longest, most merciless heat of summer.
It was a special tree—not because of some whispered magic—but because it had once been the silent keeper of a thousand little moments. A sanctuary. Here, two people had once carved out their own small world, hidden from everything else beneath its protective boughs. The air beneath it had been filled with laughter, secrets, and the unspoken promise that time wouldn’t touch them.
Now, only memories remained—ghosts of joy lingering in a place that had grown quieter, heavier with what seemed like an eternity.
She could still see him there, as if the past was a film playing just out of reach—sitting at the tree’s base in the cool morning air, his back against the great trunk, a small black notebook balanced on his knee. His chest rose and fell sharply, damp with the heat of exertion after his morning training. He called it “shadow punching,” a private battle against demons only he could see. She would roll her eyes at the phrase, masking the truth pressing at her own chest—the truth that the very sight of him made her heart ache in ways he would never know.
…and didn’t.
The present morning felt too still—so still that even the soft hum of cicadas in the distant trees seemed muted, as if nature itself understood the weight pressing on this place.
She sat beneath the old tree, her back pressed to its rough bark, the texture grounding her in a reality she sometimes wished she could slip away from. Her long black hair, streaked with crimson, framed her face in loose bangs, the colors falling in perfect harmony along her cheeks like brushstrokes on porcelain skin. Her legs were folded neatly atop an old, weathered blanket—its fabric frayed at the edges, threads pulling from years of use. Her emerald eyes were shut, their absence of movement a contrast to the thoughts stirring quietly within. Palms rested upward on her lap, fingers gently curved, her breath a steady rhythm—slow, even, and deliberate. In the air, there was no sound but the subtle exhale of her meditated state.
Beside her, catching the early morning light like a quiet intruder, lay a championship title—the All Asian Pro Wrestling Aerial X-Championship. Its gleaming silver buckle was flanked by straps of worn black leather, softened from countless grips, countless battles. For most, it would be a trophy of pride, a symbol of dominance in the skies above the ring—a relic marking the fierce aerial war between Ultimate Wrestling and AAPW. For her, it was something else entirely.
A reminder.
Of the hours and years spent grinding muscle and mind into discipline. Of the mentors who pushed her, the rivals who tested her, and the moments when the cost of victory outweighed the shine of the gold. A reminder of the path that led her here—under this tree—where the only company was a belt and the shadow of memories she couldn’t quite shake.
Alone.
Yet in the stillness, the past bled into the present, threading through the air as vividly as the crimson in her hair. She could almost see it again: him, the carefree spirit of a man carrying the weight of an old soul; his back to this very tree, notebook in hand, sweat still tracing along his temple from his morning workout. That stubborn look in his eye as he punched at ghosts she could never see but always felt hovering nearby.
She remembered what it was like to sit across from him, her arms looped loosely around her knees, pretending not to care. Pretending not to notice the way the sunlight caught in his hair, or how his breathing slowed when she was present. Pretending, because if she didn’t, she might have to admit that the world outside these branches had never really existed for her—not in the way he did.
Now the space between them wasn’t measured in feet, but in weeks. And yet, somehow, she still waited here.
Her breath stayed steady beneath the tree, but in her mind, the weeks peeled back like paper curling in fire, and she was there again—in that golden hour of simpler times, when the world still felt like it belonged to them.
The two of them had been side by side, leaning against the massive roots of the old tree, a scribbled game plan stretched between them in his black notebook. She had her knees tucked to her chest, head tilted just enough to catch the flicker of mischief in his eyes as they plotted their approach. Their voices were low but charged, weaving strategies like silk threads—where she’d strike first, how he’d bait the Red Reapers into breaking formation, the exact moment they’d spring their double-team finisher. Every move was a brushstroke, painting the match they swore would cement their place as an unstoppable force.
Back then, the Red Reapers were just another mountain to climb—dangerous, yes, but not the kind of enemy that would shatter the earth beneath their feet. But the Comrades of the Soviet Union… they were something else entirely.
Mikhail Mordokrov’s steel-eyed cruelty. Snezhnaya Barsa’s cold precision. Viktor Zlovred’s brute savagery. And Svetlana Kazakova—the viper with the poisoned-laced kiss.
The Ronin Rumble had been the day their path splintered. The merciless attack, the brutal assault—blood pooling under arena lights. The poisoned kiss that turned lungs into fire and strength into ash.
It had nearly been the end of True Chaotic.
The wound from that day had never fully healed in her mind. She remembered the panic, the way she fought—desperate, feral—to pull herself back from the brink. But in the end, all she was left with was the cold weight of uselessness in her hands. A battle she had waged with everything she had… only to lose ground anyway.
And somehow, they clawed their way back. Together. Inch by painful inch, they rebuilt what had been taken from them. There were even days when she thought they’d won—not just in the ring, but against everything that had tried to drive them apart.
Until it happened.
The betrayal.
Cassie Hurst. The one she trusted without question. The one she thought was in their corner.
It was surgical, the way Cassie cut her world in half—designed not to destroy him outright, but to harden him, to strip away anything soft, anything human, before the match against Chuluun Bold, “The Great Khan.” An unmovable force. A man she had been certain would break him in ways no one could recover from.
But he didn’t break.
And she would never know if it was because of Cassie’s betrayal… or because he walked into that match with nothing left to lose. He fought like a man untethered, like every strike was an echo of something taken from him. And when he stood victorious, it wasn’t triumph she felt in her chest—it was a hollow ache.
Because the shoes he had walked into that match wearing… were the same ones she now found herself in. Shoes she had chosen before she truly understood the person they belonged to.
And for that—her judgment would always be her sadness.
She opened her eyes now, the dew-lit world sharp around her, but the shadow of that memory clung stubbornly to her shoulders, as real as the title belt beside her. It wasn’t the title she had envisioned herself carrying that upset her so badly. It was the result of what never will happen; and therefore it made the heartache sting even worse.
A faint crunch of gravel broke the stillness.
Her eyelids lifted, the emerald green beneath catching the soft spill of morning light. She didn’t move at first—just listened. The sound was distant but deliberate, each footfall measured, closing the space between the edge of the woods and the sanctuary she had claimed beneath the tree.
The air felt different now, disturbed by more than the breeze. It wasn’t just someone passing through—this was a presence with weight, like the atmosphere itself shifted to make room for it.
Her hand drifted instinctively toward the belt beside her, fingers brushing the cool metal of the championship plate. Not out of fear—she didn’t fear much anymore—but out of habit, the same way a warrior’s fingers find the hilt of their weapon when something approaches unseen.
The path from the kominka curved out of sight behind the cherry blossom trees, their bare limbs whispering faintly in the morning air. And then—between the branches—movement. A shape. Tall. Steady.
The sound of boots on gravel grew clearer, accompanied now by the faint jingle of metal, the swish of fabric. Whoever it was, they weren’t trying to hide their approach.
She straightened slowly, uncrossing her legs, letting the blanket fall into the roots at her feet. Her pulse didn’t quicken—but her senses sharpened, pulling her fully into the moment.
The footsteps slowed, halting just beyond the pond. A pause. The faint rustle of someone’s stance shifting.
And then—
“Didn’t think I’d find you here.”
The voice was low, familiar… but worn, like it had been dragged across too many nights without rest.
She turned her head toward the sound.
“Hara….”
The ferry from Honshu cut through the Inland Sea like a slow, deliberate blade. Hara stood on the open deck, hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, watching the water churn and fold over itself in foamy spirals. The wind carried salt, damp against his face, and beneath it, something else—something faint and green. The smell of Shikoku. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until now. Weeks. He’d told himself it would only be a few days. Handle the job in Osaka, find the information, give it to the Hursts But then another mission had landed on his plate, and another, and then the call about Chiba—someone owed him a debt, and he’d gone to collect it personally. He could tell himself it was just work, just business. But the truth was more complicated. Some part of him had stayed away because he didn’t know what he’d be walking back into. He kept replaying the last morning he’d seen her.
The belt hadn’t been hers then. He remembered the look in her eyes—focused but tired, the kind of tired you don’t sleep off. She hadn’t said she wanted him to stay, and he hadn’t said he didn’t want to leave. They’d just… let the silence answer for both of them. And now, weeks later, he wondered if that silence had grown teeth. The ferry bumped against the dock with a dull shudder. The ramp lowered. And just like that, there was no excuse left between him and the road home. Shikoku’s air felt thicker when he stepped off—warmer, heavier with the ghosts of summer. He kept his stride steady along the narrow roads leading inland, the duffel over his shoulder swaying with each step. Inside, chain links rattled against steel buckles—a faint metallic jingle, constant as a pulse.
The path into the cedar woods hadn’t changed. It never did. The kominka would be waiting, and beside it, the dojo. He’d built his rhythm here once—training at dawn, sparring until the air itself seemed to sweat, sleeping under the sound of wind in the rafters. When the dark roof of the house came into view, a knot tightened in his chest. It looked untouched. That should’ve been a relief, but instead it felt like walking into a photograph—unchanged, but frozen in time. He passed the dojo without slowing, his boots crunching over gravel, the sound loud in the hush of morning. The path curved toward the pond. That’s when the questions started pressing harder. Would she be here? If she was, would she look at him the same way? Had his absence been a wound or a relief?
The pond appeared first, its surface glassy and perfect except for the slow drift of lily pads. Beyond it, the old tree rose with the same impossible presence it had always had—its roots curling deep into the earth, its branches spanning wide like a sky all its own. And she was there. Sitting at its base, back straight against the bark, hair black and crimson spilling like ink down her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, but even from here he could see the tension in her stillness—the kind you learn from years in the ring, when holding still is never the same thing as resting. The championship belt lay beside her, silver and leather catching the light like a blade half-drawn.
He stopped walking. For just a second. Not because she looked different, but because she didn’t. And that made him feel the weeks more sharply than any clock or calendar could. She still carried the gravity of this place. The weight of it. The weight of him, maybe. The crunch of gravel under his boots broke the quiet as he started forward again. He didn’t hide his approach—didn’t give her the courtesy of surprise. If she wanted to turn away, she’d have time to do it. At the pond’s edge, he stopped once more. Water, air, and weeks of absence lay between them. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, worn thin by too many nights without rest.
“Didn’t think I’d find you here.”
Their eyes locked on each other, and just like that, time stood still. He didn’t move closer, she didn’t stand; they just were there in that moment.
His face was a welcome sight to her eyes, scruff and all. She could tell by the stone glare, the pieces of hollowness still remained behind his dark eyes. Her soul leaped into his arms like it was never meant to leave, and yet she remained still underneath the tree.
“Toad..”
He looked at her. He wanted to run over and just hug her. The weeks melted away. She is what he needed, what he always needed.
"Tenshi.."
A soft smile formed, a rare spectacle seen in the past weeks. “Tenshi” a word only he and her father called her. “Angel”. Perhaps she still held that name he so freely said or was it just an old habit that rolled off his tongue. She extends her arm, with a pat on the blanket beside her, the invitation was sent.
Would he accept?
“Sit, please…”
Her tone was filled with weeks, perhaps even months of heartache, a tone so desperate that he had never heard coming from her lips. Yet, he continued to stand, unsure of how to react. Her voice even softer now, more apologetic whispered to him once more.
“Hara…Please.”
A soft smile curved his lips—small, but real. It felt almost foreign on his face after the past few weeks. “Tenshi,” he said, the word warmer than the morning sun, carrying a weight only he and her father had ever given it. Angel. He didn’t know if the name still belonged to her, or if it was just muscle memory of the tongue, but it slipped out like it had been waiting the whole time he was gone.
She extended her arm, palm resting lightly against the blanket of moss at her side, fingers giving the faintest tap. An invitation.
Would he take it?
“Sit, please…”
The sound of her voice caught him off guard. It carried the echo of weeks—maybe months—of quiet ache. He’d heard her fierce, playful, stubborn, but never like this. He stayed standing for a moment, as if the weight of his own uncertainty pinned him in place.
Then, softer still, almost breaking on his name..
“Hara… please.”
The last of his hesitation broke under that sound.
He stepped forward, each crunch of gravel slower than the last until it was only the muted press of moss under his boots. Lowering himself beside her, he felt the earth give just slightly under their combined weight.
For a heartbeat, they didn’t speak.
Her shoulder brushed his arm—light, barely there—but it carried more warmth than any fire he’d known in the weeks away. The space between them dissolved in a breath, the air shifting from taut to quiet. The pond’s still surface mirrored the branches overhead, and for the first time in what felt like years, his chest loosened.
She smelled faintly of cedar and the sweetness of early plum blossoms. Not perfume—just her.
He let out a slow exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She felt like home. Not the kind with walls and a roof, but the kind you carry in the shape of a person.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, he knew exactly where he was supposed to be.
“You look…” She paused, not because she wasn’t sure what to say, but unaware of the weight it carried once she said it. She sat still for a moment, mesmerizing everything in that very moment, just incase it happened to slip away again.
She took her hand, lifted it slowly towards his face, he didn’t move. Her palm softly caressed the stubble of a few days out shave. She inhaled as she softly drug her fingertips to the bottle of his chin. He closed his eyes, briefly.
“I’ve missed you..” Escaped her lips without any thought behind it, it wasn’t meant to escape so desperately, so suddenly, so freely. Yet the element of surprise didn’t even show upon her face, she just exhaled almost hoping he didn’t pay attention.
But he did…He always did.
He looked deep into her eyes. All the things that drove them apart came crashing back. He swallowed the large lump in his throat. Quietly almost a whisper.
" I am sorry Tenshi.. She did it before I could stop her."
He still blamed himself, after all this time, after everything…Cassie, the kiss…her betrayal. Kami just sighed heavily, the weight of guilt pressured tightly upon her chest, heavy, deep, regretful feelings bellowed from deep within, and her voice cracked.
“No, Hara…I am sorry.” She turned her head, afraid of what was next. She had to tell him; Cassie’s plan, the way she talked her into going along with it.
The way she went along with it.
She wasn’t ready, it would never be the right time, but she couldn’t hold on to it any longer. No matter what came next. All she could do…
“I know….”
She turned her glare to the water, hoping her reflection didn’t shine through, but it did…
And he saw it.
Once again, her voice whispered.
“I knew all along…I…she…staged the whole thing, I was supposed to see it. She wanted me to see it..she told me…” her voice cracked, she was unable to continue, the heartache, the guilt, it all turned on her. She was dying inside, and every syllable that came next, only carried her a step closer to her demise.
Yet she had to…
“She told me…told me I had to break you..” She turned slowly, looking at the confusion in his eyes.
“She said you wouldn’t have been able to beat Chuluun..with the weight of me on your mind.” She lowered her head.
“….And I…” she paused, “I thought she was right.”
He looked at her, then down at the ground.
"You guys did not trust me. You thought I would be the weak link. Why should any of you be any different than anyone before?"
He starts to stand up.
She reached for his arm quickly, gripping his wrist in a desperate attempt to make him stay..Quickly, she thought..say it..just say it…
“Because I loved…” she paused for a quick second.
“….I love you, Hara!”
Time stopped, he stopped…she softly let go of his arm. If this was where it ended, she would have finally admitted what she swore would never happen but did.
And man…did it ever happen.
“I was afraid..afraid of losing you, not to the darkness, but to him.” She gave one last plea..hoping it would be enough.
“I always believed in you…but I also believed in the monster behind the fangs. I could only hope that I could bring you back from the darkness..but from death…I couldn’t handle that.”
Hara sat quietly for several moments, trying to think back to that night, the tone in Kami’s voice the night she said, “I never want to see you again.” The words he played repeatedly in his mind every second of every day, until this very moment.
It was all staged..Every single word she said.
So she didn’t mean it..but she said it…
What would make him believe the words she said just now.
He shook his head…
He leans forward, ready to stand…
NO!!....
Don’t leave….
She had to think quickly she thought..
What could she do…She had to do something…
Anything…
She lunged forward, pressing the weight of her entire body into him, he fell back, knees folding out from underneath him, his back pressed firmly ontop of the moss, their weight sinking deep into the earth.
Deeper…
Her eyes locked in, the last attempt of desperation she had left. She lowered her head, her lips touching his.
Not a soft brush..not a tender pull..
She pressed those lips into him like it was her last moment on earth..
And she didn’t stop.
The force of her kiss hit him like the first breath after drowning—sudden, overwhelming, burning in his chest.
His hands, instinctively at first, pressed against the moss, as if to push himself up, to push away. But the moment her lips crushed into his, that resistance cracked, then broke completely.
Weeks of restraint, of silence, of everything unsaid, poured out of him in one deep, shuddering exhale. His hands found her face, fingers curling into her hair, pulling her down like he’d been starved for this without ever admitting it.
She tasted like the air here—cedar and earth, salt from the pond’s edge, the faint sweetness of something fleeting and real.
The ache in his chest shifted, not gone but transformed—less like a wound, more like a release. He kissed her back with the kind of urgency that doesn’t plan for a tomorrow, the kind that says I’m here, I’m not letting go.
When they finally broke for air, foreheads pressed together, he kept his eyes closed, afraid that opening them might break whatever fragile magic had finally pulled him back.
“You don’t get it,” he murmured, voice rough, almost breaking. “It was never him. Never the darkness. It’s always been you.”
Her breath hitched against his, and he realized something—the fear he’d carried wasn’t about losing her to someone else, or even to the shadows that haunted them both. It was about never making it back here. Never making it home.
His hands stayed at her cheeks, thumbs brushing away a tear she didn’t try to hide.
“I’m here, Tenshi,” he said, softer now, the words sinking into the space between them. “I’m right here. And I’m not leaving again.”
The pond rippled with a faint breeze, the old tree towering above them like a witness, and for the first time in weeks—maybe years—Hara felt it in his bones: he was exactly where he was supposed to be. The world didn’t rush back in.
The kiss had ended, but neither of them moved, as if the moss beneath them had taken root through their bones. Kami’s hair spilled over his shoulder, a dark curtain streaked with red, carrying the faint scent of rain and cedar. Her breath warmed the space between his neck and jaw, slow, steady, syncing with his without either of them trying.
The pond mirrored the sky without a ripple, the old tree’s branches swaying just enough to let the morning light drip through in soft fragments. A cicada called somewhere far off, its song rising and falling like it, too, was careful not to break the moment.
Hara’s hand rested at the small of her back, palm flat, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The tightness that had lived in his chest for weeks loosened more with every inhale. She fit against him in a way that made distance feel absurd, like those long days apart had been a mistake the world had finally corrected.
Neither of them spoke. Words felt too sharp for a moment this soft.
She shifted slightly, not to pull away, but to press closer, her cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, not from calm, but from knowing—truly knowing—he was exactly where he belonged.
The old wounds between them were still there, but for now, they were quiet, dormant, resting beneath the weight of her body against his.
If the sun never rose higher, if time itself decided to stop here, he wouldn’t fight it.
Because in this stillness, she was home. And he was already there.
