Yuki hid the shaking by stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.
The sleeves were too long—borrowed from the back of the lost-and-found box under the register. His knees were still unsteady, but he walked slow enough that no one noticed.
Probably.
Sakamoto said nothing as Yuki entered the store.
He only looked up, raised a brow, and nodded once—like he already knew.
Shin, though, was watching.
Always watching.
⸻
The broom felt heavier today.
His right shoulder throbbed whenever he reached out. There was a dull pulsing in his calves—like his muscles were trying to file complaints with HR.
He kept sweeping.
"Rough night?" Shin asked.
Yuki shrugged. "Bad dream."
"You always dream in pressure points and spinal tension?"
Yuki froze. Then resumed sweeping.
"No idea what you're talking about."
Shin chuckled. "You screamed in your head."
Yuki stopped.
"…You were listening."
"You were broadcasting," Shin said. "Loudly. Like, 'I just ripped open my nervous system to test anime magic' loud."
Yuki sighed.
"You gonna tell Sakamoto?"
"Already did."
Yuki flinched. "You—what?!"
"He just shrugged," Shin said. "Said, and I quote, 'if he breaks something, make him mop it up.'"
"…that sounds about right."
——
That evening, while stocking cup noodles near the back shelves, he heard the door chime.
Sakamoto was in the backroom. Shin was out getting more ice cream from the supplier.
Yuki stood.
A man had entered.
Tall. Gaunt. Wore a leather jacket two sizes too big and had a single black glove on his left hand. His eyes were sharp—feral, even.
He didn't walk like a customer. He walked like a problem.
Yuki's instincts—raw and untrained—lit up.
"Hey," Yuki said, stepping out from the aisle. "We're about to close."
The man ignored him. Walked straight toward the counter.
Yuki stepped in his path.
"Did you hear me?"
The man's hand moved. Fast.
Yuki barely sidestepped the incoming knife. The blade sliced through the air next to his face, close enough to split a few strands of hair.
Focus.
Thump.
Don't use it. Not here. Not unless—
The man came again. Yuki ducked, shoved the shelves, tried to put distance between them.
The man kicked a box of ramen aside and lunged again.
I'm not fast enough.
His legs screamed as he pushed them too hard, too soon after yesterday.
Then it clicked.
Gate of Opening — Open.
He didn't shout it. Didn't need to. His body knew.
Power surged—but raw. Pain came instantly. His right arm locked, twisted under strain. But he moved faster.
He dodged the third strike, turned behind the attacker, and punched him into a display shelf hard enough to rattle every drink in the cooler.
The man crumpled.
Yuki breathed hard. Limbs shaking.
Blood leaked from his nose.
He turned around—straight into Sakamoto.
The older man looked at the wreckage, then at Yuki.
Yuki wiped the blood from his face.
"Uh… temporary price reduction?"
Sakamoto sighed.
….
The man was zip-tied in the back, unconscious and bleeding from the nose where he'd hit the edge of a freezer.
Yuki sat on the floor of the storage room, a bag of frozen peas pressed against his shoulder. His hoodie was soaked with sweat, his breathing shallow. Every part of his body screamed like it wanted to file a formal complaint.
Shin stood across from him, arms folded, eyes flicking from the tied-up intruder to Yuki's trembling limbs.
"What," Shin said flatly, "the hell was that?"
Yuki didn't answer right away. He took a long sip from the sports drink Sakamoto had silently passed to him, as if he'd known exactly when to do it.
"I… did something," Yuki finally said.
Shin raised an eyebrow. "You moved like someone who's been in a dozen fights. But you think like a tourist. What happened?"
Yuki exhaled.
"You ever hear of the Eight Gates?"
Shin blinked. "…Like in Garuto?"
Yuki nodded. "That's the one."
Silence.
Shin stared at him. Then rubbed his temples. "You're telling me you opened one of those imaginary makra gates? Like, cartoon muscle magic?"
"It's not 'makra' here," Yuki said. "It's… just the body. Pushed past its natural limit. I didn't think it would work. But it did. Barely."
Shin glanced at the bruises forming down Yuki's arms. "You look like a pretzel that got into a bar fight."
"I think I tore something. Or a lot of somethings."
"Then why the hell did you do it?"
Yuki looked up, face pale, eyes sharp beneath the pain.
"Because I want to live long enough to get stronger ."
Shin stared at him for a long moment.
Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, he said, "…Okay."
——Next day——
Morning came with the smell of curry buns and wet pavement.
Yuki stood behind the counter, staring at the register like it might spontaneously detonate. His left arm still ached, and the ice pack taped inside his sleeve had melted hours ago.
Sakamoto was silent as usual, munching on a half-wrapped rice ball while organizing the cigarette shelf with machine-like precision.
The guy hadn't said a word since the fight yesterday.
No lecture. No warning. No "Don't wreck my store again, kid."
Just a gesture toward the mop and a quiet pat on the shoulder.
Yuki hadn't realized how badly he'd needed that.
⸻
He was mid-way through wiping down the drink fridge when Sakamoto handed him a folded apron.
Yuki blinked. "You… want me to wear this?"
Sakamoto nodded.
"It's got my name tag on it" Yuki said.
Sakamoto shrugged.
Yuki put it on. It fit better than expected.
"Alright," Sakamoto finally said, voice low but clear. "Lesson one. Customers don't like soggy floors."
Yuki looked down at the puddle near the freezer and grabbed the mop with a nod.
Sakamoto walked past, gesturing toward the shelves. "Restock soy sauce. Middle row. Count before you lift. Carton's heavier than it looks."
Yuki followed.
⸻
They worked like that for an hour.
No questions. No pressure. Just silent routine.
Yuki tried to keep up.
Sakamoto was deceptively fast—not in a flashy way, but efficient. He handled ten things at once with zero wasted motion: restocking shelves, bagging, typing price changes into the register with fingers that used to kill people for a living.
Yuki wasn't sure what to make of it.
He was used to the Sakamoto from the early chapters—lethal, unhinged, brutally calm. But here, in this quiet store on a rainy Tuesday morning, he was just… human.
Still dangerous. But gentle.
Like a lion that learned how to fold laundry.
⸻
"Why are you helping me?" Yuki asked finally, stacking instant curry packs.
Sakamoto looked at him, then pointed toward the security monitor above the door.
It showed a grainy image of the man Yuki had fought. Still zip-tied. Still unconscious.
"You protected the store," Sakamoto said simply.
Yuki blinked.
"That's it?"
Sakamoto gave a small shrug. Then, almost as an afterthought, added: "And you didn't cry."
Yuki laughed, sharp and sudden. "I almost did."
Sakamoto gave a thumbs-up.
Yuki turned as a woman entered the store, umbrella folded, slippers ticking lightly on the tile.
She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that had volume to it.
Aoi Sakamoto.
She looked between Yuki, the shelves, and her husband, who was just now reaching for another rice cracker.
She crossed her arms.
"Sakamoto."
He froze mid-chew.
"Why is there another teenage boy in the store?"
Sakamoto began slowly chewing again.
"And why," she continued, voice sugar-sweet, "is there a suspicious man zip-tied in the back room with a shoeprint on his face?"
Sakamoto blinked. Twice.
Shin walked out from behind the aisles. "He was attacking us. Yuki handled it."
Aoi raised an eyebrow. "Yuki?"
Yuki raised a hand awkwardly. "Uh… hi."
"You let a teenager fight in the store?" she snapped. "Sakamoto, are you killing again?"
Sakamoto rapidly shook his head.
"Because if you are—if you're breaking the family rules again—then that means…"
She leaned in, eyes sharp.
"D-I-V-O-R-C-E."
Yuki nearly dropped his drink.
Sakamoto paled. Visibly.
Shin muttered, "Not this again."
Aoi stared a moment longer. Then her smile returned.
"Good," she said. "Because I'm not doing shared custody over convenience store turf wars."
Then she turned to Yuki, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "You're young. Don't die."
And just like that, she was gone.
She walked upstairs.
Yuki looked at Sakamoto. "So… that's your wife?"
Sakamoto nodded solemnly, eating his rice cracker like it might be his last meal.
⸻
At lunchtime, they sat behind the counter eating microwaved yakisoba. Shin wandered in with a bag of mochi and tossed one at Yuki's head.
"Manager says you're still not getting paid."
Yuki caught it. "Good. That'd make this feel too real."
"You gonna open that thing again?" Shin asked, mouth full.
Yuki didn't answer right away.
He looked down at the mochi. Then at his bruised arm.
"…Not unless I have to."
Shin nodded. "Good answer."
Sakamoto, without looking up from his food, held up a note card.
In thick black ink:
"Don't break anything I can't afford to replace."
Yuki smiled.