Inheritance of Giants

Simple Man

Kyoka blinked up at him. "...You think it needs one?"

He shrugged. "Maybe not. Some songs don't. They just show up when you need them."

She looked back at the pages. Then smiled softly.

"...I still want to name it."

"If I remember correctly," Kyotoku said, squinting at the page, "I think the name was 'The Unforgiven,' by Metallica."

"Really?" Kyoka murmured, staring down at the title she'd scribbled in the corner — bold letters, underlined twice, one of them slightly crooked. "That's a dumb name."

Kyotoku blinked. "Okay, wow."

"I mean—'Unforgiven?'" she said, making a face. "Like, forever? That's so dramatic. What if they said sorry later? Then, almost the, 'the,' beforehand is precocious. Like it's one person that holds the weight of all hate."

Kyotoku stared at her.

Like he was seeing something ancient in a face that barely cleared his belt.

"...Sweetie," he said carefully, "do you know what 'precocious' means?"

"Nope," Kyoka replied brightly. "But you used it once. It sounded important."

He smiled — quietly broken and full of awe. "It is. And so are you."

She looked back down at the page, still unimpressed by the title.

She erased it and wrote The Unforgiven again, this time with a tight scowl and deliberately sharp letters.

Kyotoku raised an eyebrow. "Uh... what was that whole spiel about if you were just gonna rename it back anyway?"

"Just because it's dumb," Kyoka murmured, eyes on the page, "doesn't make it wrong."

She didn't look up.

"I'd rather be right than comfortable."

Kyotoku sat there in silence, watching her.

For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet hum of the diagnostics wing, and the soft scratching of her crayon underlining the title.

"...Sweetie," he said gently, "you're gonna terrify people when you grow up."

Kyoka gave a little shrug. "Only the ones who need it."

He laughed — warm, helpless, completely undone.

And this time, when she smiled up at him, he didn't look away.

Because at that moment, The Unforgiven wasn't just a song.

It was a story waiting to end differently.

And then came the chime of Ide to ruin it all.

"So... Like the last two," Ide gruffly remarked. "The room. Is clear. Can I go now?"

Kyotoku didn't move.

"...Can you?"

"I was trying to be dramatic."

"You sounded constipated."

"Technically, I don't have a colon—"

"Thank you, Ide-san!" Kyoka called sweetly, then turned back to her dad with her arms crossed. "Dad, stop being stupid. Let's just get this dumb song over with."

Kyotoku sighed, standing up like a man heading to both confession and combat.

"You sure you're ready for that?"

Kyoka held up her notebook like a shield.

"I was born ready. And also? You're the one stalling."

Kyotoku gave her a tired look.

Walking into the room, Kyotoku rebooted his computer with a sigh, Kyoka looking at her dad expectantly.

"Uh, everything alright?"

"I need paper," Kyoka said with a raised eyebrow. "I used all mine up with this one."

Kyotoku raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you say it was perfect?"

"It is," Kyoka replied, matter-of-fact. "But perfection doesn't mean you stop taking notes."

He groaned, rummaging through a drawer. "You're too much like your mother."

"I know. That's how I know I'm right."

Kyotoku blinked at her, a packet of blank graph paper in his hands.

"Sweetie," he said, handing it over like it was sacred, "I need you to promise me one thing."

Kyoka tilted her head. "Mmhmm?"

"When you become the head of the SSSP in twenty years, please don't fire me."

Kyoka gave him a look. "Dad. You'll already have retired by then."

"Okay. Well then promise not to publicly shame me."

"No promises," she said sweetly, flipping open the notebook to a new page.

Kyotoku sighed and turned back to the monitor, tapping through to the playback interface.

"...Ready?"

Kyoka held her pencil like a wand, paper primed.

"Hit it."

~

To be Continued...