At 11:30 PM, in the freezing silence of Queen’s Park, the Yoshidas stood huddled together. Their breaths formed misty clouds in the frigid air, the stillness of the night unnerving. The usual hum of the city was gone, replaced by a silence so profound it felt unnatural—too deliberate. Around them, a ring of men clad in black closed in, each one wearing a strange, half-faced mask and gripping weapons that shimmered with an eerie, magical glow.

  From the shadows, a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped forward. His mask was more grotesque than the others, covering half his face and distorting his features into something monstrous. His mere presence sent a ripple of fear through the air, commanding attention and submission without a single word.

  When he finally spoke, his voice sliced through the tension like a blade. “Mr. and Mrs. Yoshida,” he began, his tone disturbingly calm, “you have disappointed me.”

  Haruto and Natsuki stiffened, unable to respond. The man took a step closer, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sound. “If you had understood from the beginning,” he continued, his voice low and devoid of emotion, “none of this would have been necessary. But now... now, you all will die.”

  Haruto stepped forward instinctively, fear etched into every trembling motion. He held up a briefcase with shaking hands, desperation written all over his face. “We brought the money,” he said, his voice cracking. “Just like you asked.”

  Natsuki echoed him quickly, her own voice tight and trembling. “Y-Yes, it’s all there. Please... please, take it and let us go.”

  The masked leader stared at them in silence for a moment. Though his face was obscured, the disdain in his posture was unmistakable. Finally, he spoke again, his tone even colder than before. “Do not insult me with such words. The time for that has passed.” He raised his hand slowly. “We have already taken what we needed.”

  Confusion flickered across Haruto’s face. “What... what do you mean?” he stammered, but before he could say more, the night erupted into chaos.

  A few feet away, in the parked car, Hikaru stirred. The muffled voices outside had pulled him from sleep. Blinking away his grogginess, he rubbed his eyes and peered through the fogged-up window. The moment his vision cleared, his body went rigid.

  Through the glass, he saw Natsuki crumple to the ground.

  Blood—dark, slick, and spreading—pooled beneath her motionless body, catching the faint glow of the moon. Hikaru’s breath hitched, panic setting in. His small hands pressed against the cold glass, trembling.

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  Then, two of the masked men turned toward the vehicle. Their glowing weapons illuminated their masks, casting long, distorted shadows across the ground. In unison, they raised their staves—and with a deafening crash, the windshield shattered into shards.

  Glass flew into the air. Hikaru screamed.

  Rough hands reached through the broken window and yanked the boy out with brutal efficiency. He kicked and thrashed, tiny fists pounding against their armored arms, but it was useless. His cries rang out through the night.

  “Let go of me! Let me go!”

  But they didn’t stop.

  Dragged across the gravel, Hikaru was hauled before the masked leader. His face was streaked with tears, his legs kicking in protest. The leader looked down at him, silent and unflinching.

  And the boy’s screams echoed through the cold, merciless darkness.

  “So, this is your precious child,” the masked man sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. He loomed over Hikaru, examining him with a cruel, scrutinizing gaze. But as realization dawned, his expression twisted with fury. His voice rose from a cold sneer to a thunderous roar. “It’s a boy!”

  The masked man’s rage exploded like a storm. His eyes blazed behind the grotesque mask as he turned his wrath on Haruto. “You lied to us!” he bellowed, the sheer force of his voice reverberating across the park. “How dare you deceive us, you worthless scumbag?”

  Haruto staggered backward, his face pale, legs barely holding him upright. “P-Please, I didn’t—” he stammered, raising a trembling hand in a futile attempt to defend himself.

  But the leader was beyond reasoning.

  With a furious shout, he thrust his arm forward. A wave of blazing fire erupted from his palm, roaring toward Haruto like a beast unchained. The flames struck him with terrifying force. Haruto’s scream pierced the night as the fire engulfed him, and he collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.

  Hikaru screamed, frozen in place, eyes wide with terror. His cries rose, desperate and raw, as he watched the horror unfold before him. His small arms reached out instinctively toward his parents.

  Natsuki’s lifeless body lay crumpled on the ground, blood continuing to pool beneath her like a dark halo. Haruto, though burned horribly, still drew ragged, shallow breaths. His body twitched faintly, teetering on the edge of death.

  Rough hands shoved Hikaru down, and he stumbled onto the cold, hard earth. One of the masked men sneered as he let go of him, but Hikaru didn’t notice. His tiny legs carried him forward, inching toward his parents, sobs shaking his entire frame.

  “Finish the boy,” the masked leader commanded coldly, turning away as if the matter were beneath him. “He’s making too much noise.”

  The surrounding men moved without hesitation, their glowing weapons humming with malevolent energy as they advanced toward the child.

  Hikaru fell to his knees beside Mr. Yoshida. His small, trembling hands reached for Haruto’s charred fingers, clutching them tightly. The warmth was fading fast, and Hikaru could feel it. Beside them, Mrs. Yoshida lay still—too still. Her silence screamed louder than any cry.

  The boy's heart broke, and the pain shattered something deep within him.

  He wailed, the sound rising from his chest in waves of pure anguish, his voice carrying through the dead night like a ghost’s lament—terrified, heartbroken, and alone.