Chapter Text
The apartment was small. Clean, in the way that only an empty space can be. No decorations. No clutter. No scent of food or life. Just the hum of an old refrigerator and the ticking of a clock Baki had stopped noticing months ago.
He winced as he shut the door behind him, pulling it closed with his elbow because his knuckles were too raw to grip the handle. His shirt stuck to his back, soaked in sweat and dried blood. There was a new tear at the bottom hem — he didn’t remember when that happened. His jaw ached. So did his ribs. And his ankle.
But none of it mattered. He’d won.
He dropped his gym bag by the door and staggered into the bathroom. The lights flickered once before stabilizing. The mirror showed what he already knew: swollen lip, purple bruises blooming beneath his eyes, and a smudge of dried blood near his ear. He turned on the tap and let the water run cold before splashing it over his face.
He didn’t bother with dinner. There wasn’t any food in the fridge, anyway. A carton of expired milk, half a jar of mustard, and rice he hadn’t cooked yet. It didn’t matter. He’d sleep. He’d wake up. He’d train.
Same as always.
Baki was up before dawn the next morning, running on autopilot. No time to rest, not really. Not if he wanted to surpass his father. Not if he wanted to survive.
He slipped on his hoodie, laced his shoes, and stepped out into the early Tokyo morning — damp, cloudy, quiet.
And stopped.
There was someone sitting on the stair rail outside his apartment.
A man. Broad-shouldered. Calm-eyed. Wearing a dark green tracksuit and drinking tea from a thermos like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning,” the man said.
Baki blinked. “…Do I know you?”
“Nope,” the man replied. “Not really.”
A beat.
“…So why are you sitting outside my apartment?”
The man smiled lazily and took another sip from his thermos. “I was watching you yesterday. That fight in the alley behind the old bookstore. Sloppy footwork toward the end. You were compensating for a bad ankle.”
Baki tensed.
“I’m not here to fight you,” the man added quickly. “I’m here to feed you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re a teenager. You live alone. You’re clearly underfed, under-rested, and barely keeping your bones intact.” The man slid off the rail and stood up. He was tall. Taller than Baki expected. “You shouldn’t be living like that.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
Baki narrowed his eyes. “You’re some kind of stalker?”
“Not a stalker,” he said evenly. “Concerned civilian. I’m Kaito, by the way. Kaito Renshin.”
“…I’m not going with you.”
Kaito shrugged. “Alright. I’ll just carry you then.”
Before Baki could respond, the world spun.
One second, he was standing flat-footed — the next, his feet were off the ground and a massive arm was under his knees and shoulders like he weighed nothing.
“HEY—!”
“I told you,” Kaito said calmly, “I’m not here to fight. But you’re coming with me. And you’re going to eat something that didn’t come from a vending machine.”
Baki thrashed — out of instinct, more than fear — but the man’s grip didn’t budge. It wasn’t just strong. It was immovable. Baki could’ve snapped a cinderblock in two, but Kaito held him like a sack of rice.
This was ridiculous.
This was humiliating.
This was…
…weirdly warm?
Baki woke up to the smell of steamed rice.
His head was still buzzing. His back was pressed against something soft — a futon? His hoodie had been removed. His hands were wrapped. Cleanly. By someone who clearly knew how to dress knuckles after a fight.
He sat up groggily.
The room was open and bright. Paper screens. Warm wood flooring. A teapot simmered quietly on the stove in the corner. It wasn’t a dojo, but it wasn’t exactly a normal apartment either. It felt… older. More lived-in. Calmer.
“About time,” came Kaito’s voice from the kitchen. “Thought you’d sleep until noon.”
“You— You drugged me or something?”
“I carried you. You were already half-passed-out.” He was standing by a counter, cracking eggs into a bowl by hand. “You ever heard of electrolytes? Vitamins? Protein that isn’t from gas station jerky?”
Baki rubbed his temple. “You really are insane.”
Kaito just hummed and went back to whisking eggs. “You want breakfast or not?”
The food was… annoying.
Because it was delicious.
A simple miso soup. Warm, salty, comforting. Rice cooked perfectly. Eggs soft, folded, flavored with dashi. Grilled fish — still warm from the pan. And green tea, steeped and poured by hand.
Baki hadn’t had food like this since… well. Since his mother.
“You made all this?” he asked reluctantly.
“I make all my meals by hand,” Kaito said, sitting cross-legged across from him. “You should, too. It’s part of the discipline. The body listens to effort.”
Baki ate in silence for a moment.
“…Why are you doing this?” he asked finally.
Kaito looked at him, quiet now. No joking. No lazy smile.
“Because you’re a kid,” he said. “And no kid should be limping home at midnight with open wounds and an empty stomach. You can punch holes in walls, but that doesn’t mean you know how to live.”
Baki looked down at his rice. His jaw clenched.
“I don’t need—”
“You do,” Kaito interrupted gently. “You need someone in your corner who isn’t trying to beat you down or push you harder. You need rest. Food. Shelter. Comfort. You need a space that isn’t just survival.”
“I’m not weak.”
“I didn’t say you were.” Kaito leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But even the strongest people fall apart when they’re alone long enough.”
The room was still.
The only sound was the clink of chopsticks against the ceramic bowl.
Baki didn’t look up. But he didn’t argue again, either.
That night, Baki lay on the futon — the same one Kaito had set up for him — staring at the ceiling.
There was a roof fan turning slowly above him.
The air smelled like tea.
His ribs still ached. His muscles still throbbed.
But for the first time in a long while… he wasn’t cold.
Kaito stood outside on the balcony, mug in hand, watching the city lights blink against the dusk.
He could hear Baki breathing inside. Shallow. Restless.
But he’d stay. For now.
He took a sip from his mug and smiled faintly.
“One step at a time, kid.”