Dean’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. 

He swallowed hard. Then again.

He closed his eyes, took a breath — and finally spoke:

“…My real name is Dean.”

Ayane’s eyelids twitched upon hearing the name — but she stayed composed, expression unreadable.

He continued, voice low:

“I met Daiki when I was just a kid. In America.”

He glanced at Ayane, then added:

“He worked for my father… Congressman Leyton.”

Dean paused, wondering if that would be enough.

But the look on Ayane’s face — silent, sharp, unsatisfied — told him otherwise.

So, he went on:

“Daiki… he used to bring me toys. Snacks. He… he felt bad for me, I think.”

Dean hesitated.

“He was like an older brother to me.”

He stopped there, lips tight.

“That’s all.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never thought of hurting Daiki. I swear that’s the truth.”

He bowed his head, hands clenched, waiting for her judgment.

That should be enough, Dean thought. 

He didn’t need to go any further.

His past belonged to him and Daiki — no one else.

But still, he was nervous. And her silence made the air even heavier.

For a long moment, all that moved was her finger against the chair — tap… tap… tap…

Ayane kept her gaze on him, weighing whether to press harder.

After hearing all that, fragments stirred in her memory.

She had been a child — no older than five — resting quietly in her father’s arms when her uncle, Daiki, turned from his hospital bed and said:

“You mean Dean?”

He wore a soft, gentle smile — one she’d never seen on him before… or since.

Her jaw tightened at the memory. That moment had never left her.

She knew more than Dean realized.

But there were still many things that didn’t add up. 

And something about the name Michael lingered in her mind.

Oddly enough, she believed him on that too.

But in the end, it wouldn’t be her judgment that mattered.

It would be Daiki’s.

So, for now, she let the matter pass.

“I believe you,” she said at last.

Her voice had softened — but not her eyes.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She rose to her feet.

But Dean, desperate, called out:

“Wait... Please… don’t tell anyone yet. Especially Daiki.”

Ayane turned her head slightly. She didn’t ask why. Maybe she didn’t need to.

After a pause, she nodded.

“I won’t. For now.”

She took a step toward the door — then stopped. 

She lingered, as if weighing her next words.

Then glanced over her shoulder.

“But listen carefully,” she warned. 

“You’d better tell Daiki who you really are — soon. Or I will. Got it?”

And with that, she walked out — silent as a shadow disappearing into the storm.

Dean remained frozen, still wrapped in the remnants of that nightmare and the truth he’d finally spoken aloud.

The guilt had never eased — not over all these years.

 And fate, as cruel as ever, had brought him face-to-face with Daiki like this.

But before he could gather his thoughts and emotions, a commotion stirred outside the room.

Suddenly —

BANG!

The door flew open, slamming against the wall.

Dean jumped to his feet.

And there he was — Daiki, standing in the doorway… alive.

Dean’s breath caught.

Every detail — the disheveled hair, the dirt on his clothes, the half-open shirt — told of the battle he fought the day before. Alone.

Dean’s heart slammed in his chest. His eyes stung, close to tears.

But what stole Dean’s breath wasn’t just the sight of Daiki — it was the man being dragged behind him by the collar.

Dean’s voice escaped before he could stop it and shouted with shock:

“Benjiro?!”

The man — who had been struggling in Daiki’s grip — froze.

He knew that voice.

His eyes snapped to Dean, widened in disbelief.

“Wha…” he stammered, then finished:

“…Dean!?”

TO BE CONTINUED.

Author’s Note:
A name slips, a memory stirs… and an old door swings wide open.
Things are about to shift.
P.S. I’m still learning digital art — more illustrations may come after Season One. Until then, enjoy the storm. 😉