Dandadan: The Limitless

Kouki Yukishiro.

The name echoed in Yohan's mind like a distant bell. He knew her—not personally, but from the pages of Dandadan he had read before his accident. A tragic figure, a fallen prodigy, whose talent had been smothered by the weight of defeat.

And now, she stood before him, her fingers still hovering over the piano keys as if trapped between the desire to play and the fear of failing again.

"Yes, you won a junior piano competition, but after one loss, you never competed again. What happened?"

The question was deliberate. Yohan knew the answer—knew about her defeat to Aira Shiratori, knew about the breakdown that followed—but he wanted to hear it from her. He wanted her to admit the pain, because only then could he begin to help her.

Kouki froze for a second, her shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly. When she finally spoke, her voice was a broken whisper.

"My talent? It died when I lost. Everyone turned their backs on me after that competition. Even my family…"

She didn't finish, but Yohan didn't need her to. He already knew. He knew how her younger sister, Alice, had taken her place in their parents' affection. He knew how the scornful looks and the whispers behind her back had eroded her confidence until nothing remained.

But he also knew something she couldn't see.

"No."

The word came out firm, almost like a slash. Kouki raised her face, her wide eyes fixed on him with a mix of surprise and doubt.

"If he had died, you wouldn't play so well."

Yohan sat beside her on the piano bench, turning his body to face her directly. Behind his dark lenses, his Six Eyes captured every microexpression, every tremor in her hands, every shadow of hesitation in her gaze.

"I heard it. It's faint, but he still lives within you, Yukishiro-chan."

Kouki seemed to want to protest, but he gave her no opening.

"You fell into a well where you needed someone to reach out and pull you back up."

He leaned slightly forward, his voice quiet but carrying unshakable conviction.

"And I will be the one to reach out for you."

For a moment, Kouki just stared at him, as if trying to decipher whether those words were real or just another cruel illusion. Her fingers tensed slightly over the keys, as if about to play—or flee.

"...Why?"

The question came out in a whisper, almost desperate.

"Why do you care?"

Yohan smiled—not a condescending smile, but something softer, almost melancholic.

"Because I understand what it's like to be left behind."

It was a half-truth. He hadn't suffered as she had, but he knew her story. He knew what Takeshi Murakami would do, knew the abyss she was about to fall into. And now, with the Six Eyes and the power they brought, he wouldn't let that happen.

"Play it again."

Kouki hesitated.

"Play as if no one is listening. As if there's no competition, no judgment, no defeat."

He leaned back, crossing his arms.

"Just play."

Then, with a graceful motion, she turned to the piano once more.

"If you want to listen… then listen."

And so, her fingers danced across the keys again, and the music filled the room once more.

Yohan smiled, watching her intently.

Time seemed to lose all meaning inside that music room.

Seconds stretched like honey, melting into minutes that flowed like a serene river. The minutes, in turn, expanded into imaginary hours, as if the universe had paused just to listen. And the hours… those became entire days in the minds of those who surrendered to the magic of the music.

Because that's what music did—it warped time, touching the souls of those who heard it.

The genre didn't matter. The technique didn't matter. What mattered was the emotion overflowing from every note—capable of awakening joy, nostalgia, pain, or hope in anyone willing to feel it.

And at that moment, Kouki Yukishiro's music wasn't just an arrangement of sounds—it was a cry for help, a muffled scream that had finally found ears to hear it.

As the last chords dissipated into the air, lingering like a final sigh, Kouki remained still, his hands trembling slightly over the keys. His heart raced as if he had just run a marathon.

That was when Yohan approached.

"See? Your talent hasn't faded. It's grown weak, but it's still alive."

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet laden with a certainty that resonated deep within her.

Kouki turned slowly, as if afraid to break the spell of that moment.

And then, Yohan saw it.

A smile.

Small. Shy. Trembling.

But it was a smile.

And with it—tears.

They streamed silently down her face, wetting her pale cheeks, like a gentle rain washing away years of pent-up pain. She didn't sob, didn't struggle—she just cried, as if she could finally breathe after being submerged for so long.

Yohan said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Instead, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder—a simple gesture, yet one that spoke louder than words ever could:

I'm here.

You're not alone anymore.

And so, Kouki let herself break.

Her shoulders shook, her body leaned forward slightly, but she didn't hide. Didn't run away. For the first time in so long, she let the pain out, note by note, tear by tear, until nothing remained but a relieved heart and a talent that, after all, had never truly died.

And Yohan?

He just stood there.

Present.

Steady.

Because sometimes, all someone needs…

Is someone who will listen.

...

The bell rang, echoing through the halls, marking the end of break time, and the corridors soon filled with hurried students returning to class. Yohan walked beside Kouki, keeping a casual pace as they talked about music—or rather, he talked, and she responded with brief nods or timid words, but without the tension she used to carry.

That's when he noticed.

The stares.

They weren't discreet. They weren't just curious. They were intense, almost invasive—as if he had suddenly grown wings in the middle of the hallway.

Even worse—the whispers.

"Is that him...?"

"Looks like it."

"But what's he doing with Yukishiro?"

"Since when does she talk to anyone?"

Yohan frowned behind his dark sunglasses.

'What a bunch of weirdos.'

In their minds, it somehow made sense that a "strange" person like Kouki—isolated, quiet, the school's outcast—would suddenly be walking and exchanging words with someone. But what bothered him was that all the attention was directed at him, not her.

As if his mere presence beside her was something...

Unbelievable.

Kouki seemed to notice the awkwardness, her steps growing more hesitant, her fingers tightening around the strap of her backpack.

"They're staring at you..." She murmured, almost unintentionally.

Yohan arched an eyebrow.

"At me?"

She gave a slight nod, avoiding eye contact with the other students.

"You're new. No one knows who you are, but... you seem different."

Different?

Ah.

The Six Eyes.

Even hidden behind dark lenses, those eyes carried a unique presence—something that instinctively drew attention, even if no one could explain why.

Not to mention his posture, his aura... Everything about him screamed that he wasn't just some ordinary student.

Yohan sighed inwardly.

'Great. Now I'm the weird one.'

But he didn't care.

If they wanted to stare, let them stare.

If they wanted to whisper, let them whisper.

He wasn't here to please anyone.

"Well, I guess I'd better get used to it, then." He said it out loud, making Kouki blink in surprise. "Because I don't plan on stopping hanging out with you just because of some stupid stares."

Kouki froze for a second, as if she didn't know how to react to that.

Then, almost imperceptibly…

She smiled.

It was small. Nearly invisible.

But it was there.

Yohan responded with a smile of his own before walking ahead, completely ignoring the gazes that still followed them.

After all, he had more important things to worry about.

Like, for example…

What the hell he was going to do about Takeshi Murakami.

The voice of their teacher, Mika Adachi, cut through the hallway chatter, catching both of their attention.

"Hey, Gojo and Yukishiro, can you come here for a second?"

Kouki was the first to react, turning immediately toward the teacher.

"Yes, Adachi-sensei?"

Yohan, still scanning the curious looks around them, hesitated for a moment before following Kouki—not because he wanted to, but because something in her posture made him realize that she needed him to be there.

Teacher Mika was holding a stack of books so tall it almost obscured her face. She adjusted her glasses with a quick motion before speaking:

"It's just that I wanted to talk to Aira Shiratori, but I don't know where she is. Can you go find her and tell her to come see me?"

She wobbled the stack of books slightly, as if that explained everything.

"Naturally, I'd go after her myself, but I've got a few things to take care of. So… can you do this for me?"

Yohan felt the air beside him grow heavier.

Kouki stiffened.

Aira Shiratori.

The name sounded like a trigger.

Yohan discreetly watched Kouki's hands—her fingers tightening slightly, an almost imperceptible tremble. He knew what it meant. Aira was the person who had defeated Kouki in that piano competition years ago. The rival who, unintentionally, had been the spark that began Kouki's descent into the abyss of insecurity.

And now, their teacher was asking them to go right after her.

Yohan almost refused. He almost made up an excuse, considered taking the task alone—anything to spare Kouki from facing that painful memory.

But then—

"It's fine."

Kouki's voice was soft but firm.

Yohan turned to her, surprised.

She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the teacher, and though her hands still trembled slightly, her expression was resolute.

"We'll find her."

Mika Adachi smiled in relief.

"Thank you, you two are angels!"

And before Yohan could say anything, the teacher was already disappearing down the hallway, her stack of books wobbling precariously.

The two of them stood there in silence until Kouki finally took a deep breath and turned to Yohan.

"Shall we go?"

He studied her for a moment.

She was trying. Trying to face the past. Trying not to run away.

And if she was willing to do that, who was he to stop her?

"Let's go." He agreed, adjusting his glasses.

But as they walked, his mind was already working on another problem.

Because if Aira Shiratori was involved...

That meant the plot of Dandadan was already in motion.