The door slammed shut, the echoes reverberating through the ruined office like a war drum. Dust hung in the air, drifting lazily from the cracks and shattered fixtures Ryker had left in his wake.
Renji lowered himself back into the leather chair, the once-pristine upholstery now stained with tension. He adjusted his wrinkled collar, exhaling slowly, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.
Beside him stood Manager Taro. Arms folded across his chest, his gaze remained fixed on the closed door, unreadable.
"He's getting too close," Renji muttered, eyes narrowed.
Taro didn't move. "He's not a fool. He suspects something."
"Tch. I underestimated how far he'd go... Threatening my daughter…"Renji's jaw clenched.
Taro voice was calm, almost indifferent. "He would've done it too. You saw his eyes. That wasn't a bluff."
Renji let out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his graying hair. "Damn heroes… They act like saviors, but they're just as dangerous."
Taro's gaze hardened. "He'll come again. We should move the girls. Tighten security underground."
Renji nodded slowly, his expression grim. "Yes… and next time, if Ryker steps out of line—"
"I'll kill him," Taro said flatly, without hesitation.
A heavy silence followed, colder than the storm outside.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that… but prepare anyway." Renji's voice dropped to a whisper.
Their eyes met—one filled with fear, the other with resolve.
Without another word, Taro turned and vanished into the hallway, already setting the next move into motion.
The wind whispered across the quiet countryside of northern Japan, where a small boy named Taro once lived. He was six when the men in black suits came. He never saw his parents again.
They told him he was special. That Japan needed him. And so, without a goodbye, Taro was taken—along with twenty other boys—to a hidden training compound buried deep in the forest.
There, innocence ended.
"Your name is no longer yours," barked the commander on the first day. "From now on, you're soldiers of the Black Veil Unit."
Taro didn't cry. He watched the others break down, scream, beg. He stayed quiet.
They trained from dawn to dusk. Martial arts, marksmanship, language, espionage, psychological warfare. Food was scarce. Punishment was severe. Weakness meant failure. And failure meant death.
By the time he was twelve, Taro had mastered the art of silence and the science of killing.
His first mission was in a war-torn region in Southeast Asia. They called it a peacekeeping operation.
It was a slaughter.
Taro killed his first man before his voice had even deepened. The man had a gun. That made it easy. The next day, he killed a boy his own age. That was harder. But the mission required it.
"We bring peace through precision," his handler told him. "And precision has no emotion."
Taro believed them.
For over a decade, he was a ghost. The perfect tool of a corrupt system. He executed politicians, destroyed rebel camps, even infiltrated hero academies to silence those who knew too much.
But with each mission, the reasons blurred. Peace turned to power. Orders came not to protect—but to control.
At thirty, Taro disappeared.
The government claimed he died during a failed operation in Eastern Europe. They lied. But in the shadowed corners of the nation, whispers of a man with no past—no trace—circulated like ghost stories.
Far from the capital, a quiet security center operated under government funding. Its head, Mr. Daimon, was a firm but kind-hearted man. One stormy night, he found a lone man, half-conscious, lying near the compound walls—drenched, wounded, and silent.
"Who are you?" Daimon asked.
The man looked up. His eyes were hollow but sharp. "Call me Taro."
No more questions were asked. Something about the way he carried himself told Daimon all he needed to know. A man like that didn't come from the streets. He came from the abyss.
Taro was given a job—low profile. Thirty years old, he became a night guard, keeping watch over gates and monitors. He never spoke unless spoken to. But he never missed a single detail.
Months later, a black car rolled into the compound. The visitors: Mr. and Mrs. Hayato—the powerful parents of a promising young boy named Renji.
They often consulted the security center for private protection needs. And with them came their son—ten years old, curious and intelligent.
One day, while sneaking around the facility, Renji saw Taro sitting alone, polishing an old security baton.
"Hey, what's your name?" Renji asked.
Taro didn't respond.
"I'm Renji Hayato. I'm gonna be stronger than my dad someday."
Taro looked up. "Then stop sneaking."
Renji blinked. And laughed.
From that day on, the bond began.
Renji would follow Taro on patrols. Ask him about cameras, locks, and tactics. Taro, amused but quiet, never shooed him away.
Mr. and Mrs. Hayato watched from afar, smiling.
"He's like a big brother to Renji," his mother said.
"No," his father replied. "More like a shadow. But one I'm glad is near."
Ten years passed.
Renji grew into a respected man. At twenty-three, he married the love of his life. Three years later, their daughter, Elena, was born—a bright girl with her mother's smile and her father's stubbornness.
Taro was there the day she opened her eyes.
"She's going to be strong," he said softly, holding her for a brief moment. "And you'll have to be stronger to protect her."
Renji chuckled. "That's why you're still here, right?"
Taro didn't answer. But his silence spoke more than words.
Then came the accident.
A single crash, a rainy night, and everything crumbled.
Renji's parents. His wife. All gone.
Only Renji and little Elena survived.
The man who once had everything stood at the edge of ruin.
Taro stood by him.
"I have no one left," Renji said, kneeling beside Elena's crib.
"You have her," Taro replied. "And you have me."
Renji looked up, eyes red. "Why? Why do you stay?"
Taro placed a hand on Renji's shoulder.
"Because I know what it's like to lose everything," he said. "And I swore—if I ever found something worth protecting again… I'd never fail it."
That day, Taro officially became Renji's household manager. But more than that—he became Elena's silent guardian.
He watched her grow, helped Renji rebuild, and built an invisible fortress around their lives.
Whenever danger approached, it disappeared quietly—because Taro never let threats rise.
He was no longer a tool of war.
He was a shadow of protection.
Four months ago
The garden was quiet, the sun just rising above the horizon. Elena, now 18, walked barefoot through the dew-covered grass, her long dark hair swaying gently. She found him, as always, sitting under the old maple tree—polishing his antique knife, eyes calm.
"Uncle Taro," she said, voice soft.
He glanced up. "You're up early."
"I had that dream again."
Taro said nothing, waiting.
"The one where everything burns. I scream, but no one hears me… except you."
He nodded. "Then I'll always be there."
Elena sat beside him. "You're like… a ghost. But one that never leaves."
Taro looked away. "I am not a ghost, Elena. Ghosts haunt. I guard."
She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder.
In that moment, she was just a girl again—and he, just the silent blade that guarded her world.