Science says that, in the seven seconds just before a human's death, they witness their entire life again.

As was such with Voltaire Hiwatari from the moment that the cold liquid entered his bloodstream and searched through his veins for the man's steely heart.

In spite of what he said, he had regrets. Many concerning his daughter and the ill-fated accident that had claimed her and her husband. And it was all his fault. But Voltaire, for his entire life, had denied this and instead put the blame on the boy.

Kaya Hiwatari was Voltaire's greatest treasure. Though he'd hoped she would replace him in his business, she instead studied to become a veterinarian.

Voltaire didn't mind he was instead proud, as she graduated too of her class and went to start her own office and industry. Alongside being a vet, she ran a medical company that also provided charity worldwide. It was a steadily growing business, and Voltaire was more than proud to support it. He advertised and helped build her company and charity, helping both humans and other creatures alike.

If he'd been so proud of her, how could a single man make all those expectations come crashing down?

After she had married Alexander Pope, he abandoned his daughter. He didn't approve of this man, a poor soul working three jobs to pay his rent, fired twice already and having a criminal record. Lopsided glasses. Grey-blond hair. But Kaya was crazy for his eyes, a proud and bright, royal red that he saw in his grandson with every glance.

"I'll take care of her, sir," he'd promised, but Voltaire had instead banned them from returning to his house.

Kaya was so angry with his disapproval, and he let her. Meanwhile, he shunned them and their corporation, their good causes, their very existence - until he heard the news.

The call had come by accident, from a confused nurse. He was in his office when his cell phone rang. "Hello? Mr. Hiwatari, your daughter's water recently broke."

The rest of the conversation had provided a rushed explanation of a detail that Kaya and Alexander had deliberately forgotten: his daughter was pregnant.

The next hour, meanwhile, was a hurried visit to the hospital - just out of town, and it took hours to get to with distance and traffic.

By the time he'd arrived, they'd already left. "As soon as the child was born, they took the baby and drove off," explained a confused nurse. "It was ill-advised, but they departed after hearing that you were coming."

Hearing that broke Voltaire's heart more than anything. His resolve was quick: he would catch up to them and apologize, thousands of times over, if it just meant that he could hold, even once, his baby grandson.

He saw them in the traffic. He nearly didn't recognize them until they pulled their bodies from the accident.

The car was tipped on one side in a ditch, with police and officials swarming the scene. A reporter stood to the side, talking in a low tone. Voltaire recalled driving past, thinking what a shame it was, until he saw one of them holding a crooked pair of large-lens glasses, smashed by the accident.

He leaped out of his car and staggered over to the rubble. Some people tried to stop him, push him back, but he surged forward, muttering "that's my son. That's my son."

Kaya's body was twisted in a strange way, and her eyes were dull. Her face was covered as they wrapped the body in a sheet and wheeled her away.

It took some convincing for the authorities to realize who he was, identify him as a relative, and finally let him through. He kissed both Alexander and Kaya's pale cheeks, wishing them comfort in death. That was when the cry caught his attention.

A young female officer was holding the baby boy, but quickly surrendered him to Voltaire. "He's yours, now, if you'll take him."

Voltaire had gazed at the child as he embraced him, and the infant suddenly began to wail, as if sensing the distressful commotion that had just taken place around him.

"He's completely unscratched," reported a baffled authority. "You're free to care for him.

Something dark and cold had settled over Voltaire Hiwatari as he gazed at his boy. The accident sent a deep cut of grief through his heart, so great and terrible that he resorted to the side of him that after under apathy: the businessman. Voltaire Hiwatari was just a businessman who would operate in shadow.

But soon, came an era of a sport called beyblade. He heard a legend of its impressive power, from a fellow friend named Boris, and the two deigned to work together.

His daughter's orphanages became training centres. The company she left behind, Pharmaceutical Caring, became the secretive BIOVOLT, with Boris as its head. The factories and buildings they operated in now created beyblades, machinery and weaponry. All the beauty his daughter had created, he turned into something both great and terrible.

"Your son has impressive beyblading skills for one so young," Boris noted one day in a casual lunch meeting, just the two of them at Hiwatari Mansion, plus an ignorant Kai beside them, spinning a beyblade about in boredom.

"He could succeed in our training program, I believe," Boris suggested slyly, before adding hastily, "minus the punishments. There's no need for him to go through that."

"Why not?" Voltaire was well aware of how cold he sounded. "He's nothing special. Just another worthless child, born of my blood. There's no reason for him to deserve special treatment." He fixed his grandson with a steely glare; Boris must have detected the hatred that coursed through it, because he decided with a smirk: "I'll have him in by tomorrow, sir."

The next few years would be hard for that boy. And yet, Voltaire regretted none of the decisions that led him to this dark path until the moment of his death. Why hadn't he considered these consequences? Why couldn't he have acted differently? Why couldn't he have intervened and prevented all this?

You can't intervene in something you caused yourself, he told himself.

All this in seven seconds; all this thought formulated just before Voltaire Hiwatari's death. If only he had reflected on this sooner, would things have been different?

A flash called death claimed his mid and body as the chemical reached his heart. His last thought was of the family he'd mistreated so badly, whether they were in heaven, hell or simple death, and if he would join them.


... gee, that was just depressing. I'm so sorry to put you through all that, but thank you for reading this story. Read, review, do what you must. Eat chocolate or something if you're really depressed. But I though this would be a sweet way to finish things off... And here you are.

I've been kind MIA on the site before I decided to publish this story. I just wrote it all in one shot, which took a couple hours, but I'm good.

SITSAN's back in the house! :)