Baki — Hanma

Four minutes passed. Then five. Baki opened his eyes. "I'm still hungry," he said.

A black iron bowl. The broth smelled of ginger, soy, and something deeply, disturbingly familiar. Baki sniffed. His pupils dilated. It was his own mother's recipe—Emi Akezawa’s special winter stew. The one she made when he was five, before the tragedy, before Yujiro. "How...?" Baki whispered. "We have our sources," said the second son. "We extracted the memory from a chef who knew her." Baki lifted the spoon. As the broth touched his lips, he wasn't in the subway. He was a child. Warm, safe, loved. The taste was a weapon sharper than any punch—regret. Tears welled up, hot and unbidden. He wanted to stop. He wanted to stay in that memory forever. Instead, he drank the whole bowl, letting the tears fall into the empty vessel. Strength isn't about forgetting. It's about carrying the weight and still moving forward. Baki Hanma

Outside, the Tokyo rain washed the subway dust from his jacket. He wasn't stronger than before. But he was wiser. And sometimes, that's the same thing. Four minutes passed