just decluttering my plot bunny dump again (sry) this is a peek at akashi's life before red rum, to shed light on how he got into the business

disclaimer; i dont own knb

Akashi is eighteen when his father first hands him a gun.

"Seijuuro," his father calls, though the lack of inflection in his voice leaves them with no room for further argument, "You understand, don't you?"

"You can't do this," his grandmother protests weakly. His voice is thin, her figure frail – he looks so much like his mother. "He's too young, Masaomi, you can't–"

Her words are cut off by the sound of wracking coughs. Blood trickles through her fingertips, escaping in small gaps that mark the distance between her mouth and her hand. She struggles and forces herself to continue, but the rest of her pleas fall onto deaf ears.

"Treatments cost money," his father reminds him tersely, voice curt. "You will find the Akashi business to be very lucrative, should you wish to follow my orders."

"And if I wish to follow otherwise?"

"Then you may discover what it means to taste regret, should you ever fail to toe the line."

"Understood."

His father leaves without another word. The door clicks shut behind him and echoes starkly against the deafening silence.

"Sei-chan?" his grandmother calls warmly, tone soft and lilting with an ache that is oh so familiar. Akashi turns his head and almost catches himself searching for a face framed by curls of crimson hair. Really now, the resemblance is striking.

"Yes, grandmother?" he asks, and opts to dim the lights.

"I hope you may forgive my son-in-law for his rudeness. It is my fervent hope that you do not scorn your own father for willing this family into a fate that will bear bloodstains on your hands."

"Nonsense," Akashi says. "In fact, I feel very fortunate to have been born into the Akashi clan."

She nods. "If it is too much for you, however," she pauses to take in a wheezing gasp for air, "you do not need to take over as his successor so soon. You should savor your youth, my dear, before time robs you of everything else in its wake."

Akashi hums absently at the matriarch's advice, his fingers running over cool metal as he traces the ridges along the gun barrel.

Then again, since when has age ever been a factor in his decisions? He was not a child, contrary to society's choice of norms. The concepts of weapons did not faze him in the slightest. He has wielded scissors since he was five, knives at the age of twelve, and blades at sixteen. Surely he will not cower at this mere upgrade now that he has reached the legal standard two years later, when he has come of age.

"Yes, grandmother," he replies before he smiles, mismatched eyes glinting in the darkness. "Thank you."