Disclaimer: I don't own Prince of Tennis or any of its characters.

Warning: some dark themes, YukiRyo, fem!Ryoma, Fuji!Nanjirō, Syuusuke (he is a warning himself, people).

Chapter One

Part One: Prologue

My name is Ryoma.

I am three
My eyes are swollen
I cannot see.

I must be stupid
I must be bad
What else could have made
My daddy so mad?

I wish I were better,
I wish I weren't ugly,
Then maybe my daddy
would still want to hug me.

I can't speak at all
I can't do anything wrong
Or else I'm locked up
All day long.

When I'm awake
I'm usually all alone
The house is dark
My folks aren't home.

When my daddy comes home
I'll try and be nice
So maybe I'll just get
No whipping tonight.

I look out the window
I just heard a car
My daddy is back
from Charlie's Bar.

I hear him curse.
My name is called.
I press myself
Against the wall

I try to hide
From his gleaming, evil eyes.
I'm so afraid now
I'm starting to cry.

He finds me weeping
and calls me ugly words.
He says that it's my fault
He suffers at work.

He slaps and hits me
And yells at me some more.
I finally get free
And run to the door

He's already locked it.
And I start to bawl.
He takes me and throws me
Against the hard wall

I fall to the floor
With my bones nearly broken,
And my daddy continues
With more bad words spoken.

"I'm sorry!" I scream
but it's now much too late.
His face has been twisted
Into an unimaginable hate.

The hurt and the pain
Again and again
Oh please God, have mercy!
Oh please let it end!

Finally he stops
and heads for the door
while I lay there motionless
sprawled on the floor.

My name is Ryoma.
I am three.
Tonight my daddy
murdered me.

- Misty Nicole Ramsey (A Poem Against Child Abuse)

Rinko Black was sure that her daughter was a small miracle. Believing so, the woman was sure to thank God every day.

Her young Ryoma was an incredibly beautiful and bright child – so much that Rinko sometimes had difficulty understanding it was her own baby. The toddler was sweet and always babbled about whichever subject that came to her innocent mind. Rinko could listen to her childlike voice all day.

"James," she called her husband, walking into the kitchen.

He turned around, briefly stopping his task of cooking dinner, and cleaned his hands in a towel.

"Yes, Rinko?"

The woman smiled at her husband. James Black was a handsome man with wavy blond hair and dark blue eyes – though none of his genes went to their daughter. No, of course they did not.

"Ryoma's diapers are ending, so I'm going out to buy more, okay?" As her husband's arms circled her waist, Rinko breathed his cinnamon scent. "We'll be back before dinner, I promise."

"Uh-hmm," was all he said before his lips fell over hers. For a few seconds, the woman felt as if she could stay this way forever.

As Rinko gathered her handbag and sat Ryoma on her hip, she observed her eternal baby's golden eyes. She sighed, closing her own deep brown eyes.

"Let's go, ne, honey?" Rinko said in a cheerful voice and Ryoma clapped in agreement. The toddler was a happy person.

As soon as the two got out of the building where they lived, Rinko whistled for a passing taxi. She entered the yellow car and asked the man to go to the nearest Walmart. Ryoma, sitting on her lap, giggled in contentment.

Rinko looked down at her daughter with loving eyes.

"You're happy, aren't you, my baby?" she whispered against her daughter's hair. James was blond and she was a brunette, but Ryoma's locks were unmistakably green-tinted black.

Of course James's genes hadn't passed to Ryoma – he wasn't the biological father. He was aware of this fact and accepted as the perfect husband he was. It had been the only way for them to have a child, after all.

"Mama," the toddler giggled once again.

Rinko continued smiling at her almost three-year-old daughter. It was a sad smile.

I wonder how Yoshiko is doing, she thought, observing New York through the car window. The last time she had seen her best friend was three years ago, when she craved to get pregnant more than anything in the world. But Yoshiko had gone back to her native country with her husband, three sons and one daughter after helping her.

I hope she's doing okay.

"The next street is full of trucks, ma'am, should we change course?" The taxi driver asked, tipping his head backwards to briefly look at her confirmation.

"Please, do." Rinko nodded.

The brunette remembered as if it were yesterday when she made an international call just to tell Yoshiko that the test had said positive, roughly two months after her departure.

"I'm happy for you," her Japanese friend had congratulated her. "I'll be sure to tell Nanjirō too." And her voice had been calm and kind as always.

Rinko snapped back to the present as the car abruptly swirled to the right – and it happened too fast. The brunette hugged her daughter as if her life depended on it, bending down and hiding her from view as an enormous truck collided with the yellow cab. The driver gave one last shuddering breath and died right on the stop. Rinko's head hit the seat in front of her as she protected Ryoma from the impact.

The woman coughed, vaguely noticing the blood dripping from her chin as she did so. Shards of glass from the broken window pierced her skin like a thousand needles and her head throbbed painfully – but her baby was safe. She coughed once again. Yes, Ryoma was safe.

"My sweet, sweet baby," she murmured against her daughter's small head, not minding the blood on her arms, on her chin, on her lips and on the top of her head.

Her baby was safe.

Her little miracle was safe.

"Mama?"

People shouted around the taxi. Rinko couldn't head them and didn't care much either way. Her breath was failing and her head hurt and she was gasping and her cough was wet and everything was fading… But Ryoma was safe.

"My little Ryoma…"

Rinko breathed deeply once more, the scent of vanilla and rain and blood hitting her senses. Ryoma smelled good. Ryoma was safe.

"Mama?" The toddler was strangely calm.

"Ryoma… my… Ryo…"

"Mama," the toddler started in a whiny voice. "Mama."

Ryoma called and called and called.

There was a long screech as someone forced the door open, but, by then, there was only a dead woman with a crying toddler on her arms.

"Where is my wife and my daughter?!"

James felt as if the ground beneath him had disappeared and he was walking on hurting fire. The walls were white and should have calmed him down, but they did just the opposite.

"Excuse me, sir," the woman behind the counter said in a professional voice. "You need to stay calm and tell me your name."

"The hospital just called me saying that an accident happened and my wife and daughter were involved and you want me to stay calm? Are you out of our mind?"

The woman's light eyes were penetrating. She – no doubt – had spoken to visitors like this one before.

"State your name and I may help you."

"James Black," the blond man blurted out, impatient.

The woman searched in her computer screen, "Room 203, fourth floor."

James ran as soon as he heard the directions. His heart was pounding madly inside his chest and his breath came in small gasps. The man had been cooking when the hospital called and he just left everything to run toward it.

There was a doctor in front of the door of room 203.

"Excuse me," James said, not sounding very polite, but not really caring about it. "Have you seen my wife and daughter? Rinko and Ryoma?"

He doctor appeared to be a middle-aged man and his expression was somber.

"Your daughter is sleeping inside the room – she was exhausted from the car accident and her throat is hurt from crying at the top of her lungs. Other than that, she's fine and health."

James should have been reassured from it. He should've felt better from this piece of information.

But he did not.

"And my wife? How is my wife?" He almost shook the doctor's shoulders in desperation.

"I'm sorry, sir. Your wife was dead before someone even called the ambulance."

James heard it. He couldn't believe it. The ground had already been missing – now he was falling down. The doctor continued talking and he numbly noticed it.

"The paramedics said that, from her position in the car, she died protecting your daughter. It was an honorable death, sir."

Although James was sure that the doctor said something more before walking away, he didn't listen to it. His body felt numb and, at the same time, on fire. His wife couldn't be dead. Not sweet Rinko. Not Rinko.

He met her after engineering school. She had been in a bar, laughing with some friends and having fun. She was beautiful and James could remember it as if it were yesterday. Their daughter was pretty, but no one could be as pretty as Rinko. No one could laugh like her or smile or talk or breath.

No one could make him feel so alive just by standing beside him.

No one could make him feel so dead just by not standing beside him.

It was as if a bucket of cold water hit him over the head. James entered room 203. Surely enough, Ryoma was sleeping on the hospital bed. She was as small as a toddler should be and the sheets appeared to swallow her whole.

The doctor was right: Ryoma was safe and sound.

His sweet, sweet wife had died protecting this small girl.

James Black smiled – but it wasn't his previously handsome smile.