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Time: Late Afternoon
Location: En Route to Kullu
The bus snaked through Himachal's narrow, winding roads, its tires humming a quiet tune against the broken tarmac. Towering pine trees stretched endlessly on either side, their shadows dancing with the dying light of the sun. The air was crisp—cold enough to bite, clean enough to breathe without guilt.
Akira sat by the window, his black hoodie draped low over his face. He didn't speak. He didn't blink much either. He simply stared as the mountains passed by—sharp, ancient, and silent. His fingers tapped a rhythm against the seat, a quiet metronome that counted down to something only he understood.
There was no Aarav now. No conversations. No naïve laughter. Just Akira—and a bus full of strangers who didn't care what darkness he carried.
> "Act nicely. Smile softly. And disappear once again."
He whispered it like a curse he was born to repeat.
The bus made a brief stop at a roadside tea stall. Akira remained in his seat, motionless. Outside, a family of tourists took selfies under the grey sky. A small boy dropped his tea on his father's shoes. A woman wrapped her shawl tighter as the wind grew bolder. Life moved, as it always did. But for Akira Toizawa, everything had frozen the day he was buried under lies in Japan.
An hour passed. The bus climbed further, higher into the folds of the hills. As it reached Kullu, the driver barked out the announcement:
> "Manali passengers—this is your changeover. Last bus leaves in ten minutes!"
Akira stepped down, his boots crunching against gravel. A sudden gust of cold slapped his face, but he welcomed it. It reminded him of Sapporo. Of blood in snow. Of regret he never showed.
> "Almost feels like home," he murmured, smirking faintly.
He walked to the HRTC counter and quietly bought a ticket. The man didn't ask questions. No ID. No names. That's what Akira liked. To them, he was just another tourist, another ghost on the mountain road.
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Evening – On the Road to Manali
The second bus was older. Slower. It groaned with every turn, its windows rattling with the wind. Only a few locals and an elderly couple sat at the back.
The journey into Manali was a descent into fog and silence. The pine trees thickened, and the rivers below howled like wild spirits. The sky had darkened to ash. The first flakes of snow began to fall.
Akira leaned into the window, his breath fogging the glass.
He remembered Aarav's eyes—hopeful, foolish, annoyingly persistent.
> "One more try," the boy had said.
Akira scoffed.
> "He was lucky I didn't kill him."
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Time: 8:45 PM
Location: Manali Bus Stand
The brakes hissed as the bus pulled into Manali. The town was soaked in drizzle, streetlights casting golden reflections across the wet ground. Akira stepped off and stretched his arms. The cold clung to his skin like memory.
Above, the snow-covered peaks stood like silent gods.
> "Japan without the Sakura," he muttered, remembering Aarav's words.
He walked with his backpack hanging low, blending into the shadows. No destination. No plan. Only instincts. That was enough.
A guest house stood a few blocks down. Its lights were still on. The sign flickered with a tired buzz. Akira entered without hesitation.
Behind the counter, an old man looked up.
> "Room?"
"One night," Akira replied.
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Night – Room 207
The room was modest. A single bed, a rickety chair, and a window with a view of a sleeping town covered in mist. It was enough.
Akira pulled off his hoodie. Bruises still lingered across his ribs and shoulder, reminders of battles past. But he was healing. Slowly. Silently.
He stood before the mirror. For a long moment, he simply looked.
Then, a smile crept across his lips—not the gentle kind. The kind that grows when the world forgets what you're capable of.
> "Time to create a new life... and bury the old one."
He pulled out a notebook from his bag. Inside, a list of names—some scratched out, some underlined. Some still waiting.
At the bottom, he wrote in careful block letters:
"Manali – First move begins."
The wind outside howled like a beast pacing the forest.
The massacre hadn't started yet. But the silence before it was deafening.
He turned to the window and slid it open. Snow was falling softly now, dotting the roads like ash from the sky. Somewhere below, voices shouted joyfully.
> "Look! It's snowing!"
Akira glanced at the calendar hanging near the desk. December 9.
Tomorrow was December 10th.
He leaned against the balcony, the chill burning his skin.
> "A good day to start," he said, his voice ice.
He stared at the falling snow, expression unreadable.
> "Let's make it red tomorrow."
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