Rewrite Our Love? Too Late-Chapter 120: Guardian and the Broken Boy

Pinned to the ground by the weight of silence and rain, Yukima Azuma felt it:

His plan had succeeded.

The game had entered easy mode.

Kurokawa Akane, soaked and shaking, looked at him through a veil of tears. freёwebnoѵel.com

"Don't commit suicide," she said.

Her voice wavered—was it a command or a plea? Azuma couldn't tell. Didn't care to.

He leaned against the railing, helped them both to their feet.

"Why not?" he muttered. "Death is liberation. Living's just... exhausting."

To say something like that to a girl already on the verge of self-destruction—it was cruel. Ironic.

But then again, wasn't that the point?

She hesitated, lips trembling.

"...Don't commit suicide," she repeated.

The effort that must've taken... Azuma didn't bother to imagine. Her internal struggle wasn't his concern.

He only saw opportunity.

"Oh? If you won't let me die," he said, his voice low and mocking, "then take responsibility."

Her eyes widened. She froze.

The words cut through the fog in her mind, jolting her like cold water. She understood—this conversation wasn't normal. His request? Absurd. And yet...

She said nothing.

Turning, she took a step toward home. Toward the darkness.

But behind her, his voice rose again:

"Yeah, that's right. Go ahead, leave. I've always been alone. No one's ever been responsible for me. I was born an extra. Not wanted. Not needed. My parents didn't want me. Society doesn't need me. This world doesn't need me..."

The monologue spilled out, theatrical in its hopelessness.

Online, these speeches filled forums and comment sections.

But to hear one aloud—face to face? Rare.

And effective.

Her steps faltered.

She turned. Reached out. Gripped his hand.

"Don't think like that."

A pause. Then she asked softly, "Where's your house? I'll take you home."

Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed everything.

Yukima nodded.

She followed, her thin white socks already soaked and muddy. She didn't complain.

Halfway down the sidewalk, her grip loosened—instinct? Modesty? Discomfort?

It didn't matter.

Azuma knew how to keep her tethered.

"The wind's strong tonight," he said. "If I fainted, I could fall into traffic."

Akane glanced at the road—cars speeding past.

Without a word, she tightened her grip and pulled him to the inner side of the sidewalk.

She used her own body to shield him from the cars.

He looked at her. That delicate face. A mask of blankness hiding a shattered soul.

Her hair, plastered to her cheeks by the rain, didn't mar her beauty—it deepened it. She looked like she could crumble at any moment.

Beautiful. Fragile. Perfect.

They reached his apartment—a high-end rental.

Azuma pulled up the code from his chat with the landlord and let them in.

Rain pooled at their feet, soaking into the floor.

Akane made to leave.

This time, Azuma didn't stop her.

He headed for the kitchen.

She heard the sound.

Metal scraping. A knife being sharpened.

Without hesitation, she ran in, snatched the knife from his hand, and shoved him out of the kitchen.

He blinked in mock surprise.

"Why'd you take my stuff?"

"Because it's dangerous."

"There are a lot of dangerous things. What right do you have?"

"I saved you. You said that makes me responsible."

"Sounds like you're my guardian."

"Exactly. I'm your guardian now. So you have to listen to me."

Azuma stared at her, then gave a soft, entertained smile.

She'd taken the bait. All of it.

"Well, just saying it doesn't count," he said, pointing to his mouth. "I'm hungry. Feed me, guardian."

Without missing a beat, she turned and walked into the kitchen.

Rain still clung to her hair. He watched her go, then said lightly:

"Rainwater's dirty, you know. If you swallow it, you might get sick... maybe even die."

Akane paused. Then turned and headed to the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the house.

Azuma moved toward the closet, retrieved a towel and an oversized white T-shirt, and placed them on the bathroom sink.

The frosted glass offered a blurry silhouette.

A lesser man might've been tempted. But Azuma didn't peer too closely. He wasn't after pleasure.

He was after control.

When Akane emerged, she wore the oversized shirt. Her hair had been dried thoroughly—perhaps so droplets wouldn't fall into the food. A small, practical sign of care.

She looked a little stronger. A little more alive.

She headed to the kitchen.

Soon, the rhythmic sound of chopping vegetables echoed through the home.

Azuma took his turn in the shower.

By the time he came out, a hot meal waited on the table.

Fried pork cutlet on rice. Miso soup. Nothing fancy—but warm.

He sat.

Akane, without a word, picked up a spoon, blew on it, and brought it to his mouth.

He blinked. Then chuckled.

"You do realize I'm not a toddler, right?"

But he didn't protest. He opened his mouth and ate.

She watched him with unwavering focus.

And Azuma... felt pleased.

Human nature was simple.

Either you corrupt the pure...

Or you convince the broken to rebuild something in someone else.

And he'd chosen the latter.

He wasn't feeding her hope.

He was giving her purpose. Redirecting her pain into protecting him.

And it was working.

He only ate half.

"I'm full," he said. "I'll leave the rest to you."

She blinked. Then hesitated.

Finally, she pulled the spoon back and took a bite.

She hadn't eaten since noon the day before.

Her hunger had numbed itself to protect her body. But now, it stirred.

One bite. Then another.

Eventually, she ate enough to survive.

Azuma made a call. Requested his laptop.

Soon, he sat at his desk, white light from the screen casting shadows across his face.

Akane watched, anxiety flickering in her eyes.

But he didn't browse social media.

He opened a document.

The damage to her was done online.

But now, he'd reverse it there too.

Shifting public opinion?

For Yukima Azuma, it was easier than breathing.

He typed the title:

"The Youth of a Lonely Boy Won't Dream of a Bunny Girl Senpai."

Simple. Vague. Melancholic.

He smiled.

He'd also make sure to avoid a heroine like Kujou Megumi—her charisma was too overpowering. He needed the narrative to focus on the boy.

Timeline before the anime. Add a childhood friend backstory. Perfect.

He glanced over at Akane.

She was curled in the chair, knees pulled to her chest. Her face unreadable. Lost.

"Guardian," he said.

She looked up.

"My shoulders... they're really stiff."

Without hesitation, she walked behind him. Her small hands pressed against his shoulders, kneading with just the right pressure.

His eyes closed. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips.

Not from the massage—but from how easily the pieces had moved into place.

Keikaku intensifies.