Chapter 23
Baby shark… doo… doo… doo
The air in New York City was a physical weight, heavy with the threat of snow and the biting chill of the Atlantic wind channeling through the concrete canyons. It was a grey, slippery afternoon, the kind where the asphalt wears a sheen of black ice that hides in the shadows of the skyscrapers.
Liam stood outside the garage in Koreatown, his breath plumbing in white clouds before him.
He was geared up—not in his usual Italian wool coats, but in serious riding leathers.
Armored jacket, heavy boots, and his matte black Shoei helmet tucked under his arm.
The Sportster sat idling on the curb. It sounded different.
Before the modification, it had a polite, rhythmic chug.
Now, thanks to the wizardry of the mechanic in the back room, it had a deep, guttural growl. It sounded like a predator breathing.
"Be careful, Hollywood," Michael called from the garage door, wiping his hands on a rag. "The roads are slick. And that bike has a lot more torque than you're used to."
"I'm always careful," Liam promised, pulling his helmet on. The world muffled into a quiet, focused silence. He snapped the visor down.
He swung a leg over the saddle. The vibrations moved through him, distinct and powerful. He blipped the throttle. The response was instantaneous. No lag. No hesitation. Just a surge of pure mechanical aggression. Ran had been right; the bike didn't breathe through a straw anymore. It had lungs.
Liam kicked it into gear and rolled out.
He wasn't being reckless. He was a man of Shitsuke—discipline and control.
He merged into traffic, feeling the machine beneath him.
He took it up 5th Avenue, the engine purring as he navigated the sea of yellow cabs.
The power was intoxicating. A slight twist of the wrist sent him surging forward, filling the gaps in traffic with effortless grace.
He turned onto Malcolm X Boulevard, heading north into Harlem, testing the mid-range power.
The bike felt stable, planted, and incredibly fast. It was a masterpiece of engineering.
He felt a flash of gratitude for the sad, bruised mechanic who had poured his soul into these pistons.
He looped back down, cutting over to the Upper West Side, then swinging down Broadway.
The city lights were beginning to flicker on as the afternoon darkened prematurely.
He passed Rockefeller Center, the giant Christmas tree a blur of peripheral light.
He thought of Emi, safe in the penthouse with her sisters, probably laughing at something Chantel said.
He thought of the ring he had hidden in his safe—a design he had sketched himself, waiting for the right moment.
He was happy. He was the King of the City.
Then, the world broke.
He was crossing an intersection in Midtown. The light was green—a solid, undeniable green. Liam was moving at thirty miles per hour, respectable and legal.
From his left, a delivery truck, massive and white, roared out of the cross street. The driver was looking down at a phone, ignoring the red light that had been burning for five seconds.
Liam saw it. His martial arts training slowed time down. He saw the grille of the truck. He saw the terrified eyes of a pedestrian on the corner. He calculated the vector. If he braked, he would T-bone the truck and go under the wheels. If he swerved, he would hit the oncoming traffic.
There was only one option.
Lay it down.
It wasn't a panic move; it was a decision. Liam killed the throttle and jammed the rear brake, locking the wheel intentionally. He threw his weight to the left, forcing the heavy bike to the ground.
The sound was deafening—the scream of metal grinding against asphalt, sparks flying like fireworks in the grey afternoon. The bike slid out from under him, spinning away, turning into a projectile that slammed into the truck's bumper.
Liam slid behind it. The friction burned through his leathers. He was sliding on ice and grit.
He almost cleared the intersection. Almost.
His body spun on the slick road. He slid toward the traffic light pole on the corner. He tried to tuck his chin, tried to roll, but the momentum was too violent.
The back of his Shoei helmet cracked against the steel pole with a sickening, resonant thud.
His right leg caught the curb, the bone shattering under the torque. His ribcage slammed into the concrete base of the light.
The lights of Rockefeller Center went out. The roar of the city silenced. There was no pain, only a sudden, absolute darkness.
The phone call came at 4:12 PM.
Emi was in the kitchen, laughing as Chantel tried to explain the concept of "Vetkoek" to the sharks. The phone buzzed on the counter. Unknown Number.
"Hello?" Emi answered, still smiling.
"Is this Emi...?" The voice was professional, clipped, and terrifying. "We found this number listed as the emergency contact on a Mr. Liam Sato’s phone."
The smile slid off Emi’s face like water. The room seemed to tilt.
"Yes. I'm Emi. What happened?"
"Ma'am, Mr. Sato has been involved in a motorcycle accident. He is currently being transported to Mount Sinai West. He is unconscious."
Emi didn't scream. She didn't faint. She went cold. The ice she had lived in for five years in Pietermaritzburg returned, freezing her veins.
"Is he alive?" she asked. Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
"He is in critical condition. You need to come now."
Emi dropped the phone. It hit the marble floor with a crack.
"Sisi?" Anele asked, scared by the sudden silence.
Tracey was there in a second, grabbing Emi’s shoulders. "Emi? What is it?"
"Liam," Emi whispered. "The bike. The truck."
Tracey didn't ask questions. She went into general mode. "Chantel, get the coats. Anele, shoes on. Now! We are going."
The ride to the hospital was a blur of panic.
Emi sat in the back of the Uber, staring out the window at the grey city.
It felt cruel. How could the buildings still stand?
How could the lights still shine when the North Star had just gone dark?
Not again, she prayed, her hands twisting in her lap.
Please, God, not again. Don't let me lose him. I can't survive it twice.
She thought of Ran—the ghost who vanished. But this was worse. Ran had chosen to leave. Liam had been taken.
The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. It was a purgatory of beige chairs and muted television screens.
They had been there for eight hours.
Liam was in surgery. Multiple fractures in the tibia and fibula. Four broken ribs. A punctured lung. And the concussion—severe trauma to the occipital lobe. They had induced a coma to manage the swelling.
Emi sat in the corner, staring at a spot on the linoleum floor. She hadn't moved in three hours. She was still wearing her house slippers; she had forgotten to change.
Tracey sat beside her, holding her hand, rubbing her thumb over Emi’s knuckles.
"He is strong, Em," Tracey whispered for the hundredth time. "He is a Lion. Remember? He builds skyscrapers. He doesn't break."
"Everyone breaks, Tracey," Emi said, her voice hollow. "Even lions."
Chantel was pacing the hallway, looking pale and young. Anele was sitting on the floor at Emi’s feet, drawing a picture of a shark with a bandage on its head.
"Family of Liam Sato?"
A doctor in blue scrubs appeared. He looked exhausted.
Emi shot up. "Yes. Is he..."
"He’s out of surgery," the doctor said, pulling down his mask. "We set the leg. The ribs are taped. The swelling in the brain is stable. We’re moving him to the ICU recovery room. He should be waking up soon as the anaesthesia wears off."
"Can we see him?"
"Two at a time initially. But... given the circumstances, I'll let you all in for a moment."
The ICU room was dim, lit only by the rhythmic flashing of the heart monitor. Beep... Beep... Beep.
Liam looked small in the bed. It was terrifying.
He was usually so large, so commanding. Now, he was pale, wired to machines, his right leg encased in a heavy cast, his chest wrapped in bandages.
His head was bandaged too, covering the impact site.
Emi walked to the bedside. Her legs felt like jelly.
She reached out and touched his hand—the left one, the only part of him that didn't seem broken. It was warm.
"Hi, Architect," she whispered, tears finally spilling over. "You’re late for dinner."
He didn't move.
The door opened behind them. A woman entered.
She was elegant, dressed in a sleek black travel coat. She carried herself with a quiet, undeniable dignity. Her hair was dark, streaked with silver, pulled back in a severe bun.
It was Liam’s mother, Mrs. Sato. She had flown from Los Angeles the moment the hospital called her, chartering a flight, arriving like a storm front.
She stopped at the foot of the bed. She looked at her broken son, her face a mask of controlled grief.
Then, she looked at Emi. She saw the slippers.
She saw the tear tracks. She saw the sisters huddled in the corner.
She walked around the bed to the other side.
She placed her bag on the floor. She reached out with her right hand and gently began to stroke Liam’s hair, avoiding the bandages, soothing him with a mother’s touch.
Then, she reached across the bed with her left hand.
She didn't speak English at first. She just took Emi’s free hand. Her grip was firm, surprisingly strong.
"You are Emi," Mrs. Sato said softly. Her voice was like Liam’s—calm, structured.
"Yes," Emi choked out. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He was... he was coming to see me."
"Do not apologize," Mrs. Sato said firmly. "He was living. He rides that machine because he loves it. Accidents are chaos. We do not apologize for chaos. We endure it."
She looked at Emi, her dark eyes softening. "He talks about you. Every Sunday. He told me he found someone who understands the structure of silence."
Emi sobbed, squeezing the older woman’s hand. They stood there, united by the broken man between them—the mother and the lover, forming a bridge over his pain.
The silence in the room changed. The rhythm of the breathing in the bed hitched.
Liam’s fingers twitched in Emi’s hand.
"Liam?" Emi leaned in close. "Can you hear me?"
His eyelids fluttered. He groaned, a sound of deep, confused pain. The drugs were fading, and the reality of his shattered body was rushing in. He tried to shift, but the pain in his ribs stopped him with a sharp gasp.
"Don't move," his mother murmured, stroking his forehead. "Stay still, my son."
Liam’s eyes opened. They were unfocused, glassy. He blinked, trying to clear the fog. He looked at the ceiling tiles. He looked at the monitor. Then he looked to his left. He saw Emi.
"Emi," he croaked. His voice was a wreck, dry and broken.
"I'm here," she kissed his hand. "I'm right here."
He looked to his right. "Mom?"
"I am here too," Mrs. Sato said. "The whole world is here."
Liam tried to smile, but his face hurt. He looked confused. The room was tense, heavy with worry. Then, a small voice broke the tension.
Anele had crept up to the side of the bed, peering over the rail. She saw Liam’s eyes open. She remembered what Emi had told her once—that Liam loved sharks. And she knew only one song about sharks.
Softly, tentatively, she began to sing.
"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo..."
The room froze. Tracey looked horrified, about to hush her. But Liam’s eyes shifted down to the little girl in the pink jacket. A flicker of recognition sparked in his drugged gaze. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo," Anele sang a little louder, encouraged by his look. "Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo... Baby shark."
Liam let out a sound. It was a laugh. A painful, wheezing, broken-rib laugh.
"Mommy shark..." Liam whispered, looking at Emi.
Emi laughed through her tears, a hysterical, relieved sound. "Yes. Mommy shark."
"Grandma shark," Liam whispered, looking at his mother.
Mrs. Sato cracked a smile, the elegance dissolving into pure maternal relief. "Grandma shark indeed."
The tension in the room snapped. Tracey started laughing, wiping her eyes. Chantel giggled. Even the nurse checking the vitals cracked a smile.
"You're okay," Emi cried, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. "You're okay."
"Bike?" Liam wheezed. It was the first question of a true rider.
"Destroyed," Emi said. "Totally totaled."
"Good," Liam whispered, closing his eyes again as the exhaustion pulled him back under.
"Ran... is gonna be... pissed."
Emi frowned slightly. Ran? She assumed he meant the mechanic, the wizard he talked about. She didn't know the name.
"Don't worry about the mechanic," Emi soothed him. "Just worry about breathing."
"Love you," Liam murmured, drifting away. "Love... the sharks."
"Love you too," Emi whispered.
Mrs. Sato looked at Emi across the bed. She squeezed Emi’s hand again.
"He is strong," Mrs. Sato said. "He has Shitsuke. He will heal."
"We will help him," Emi vowed.
"Yes," the mother nodded, looking at the sisters, at Anele still humming the song, at the family that had filled the sterile room with life. "We will."
Outside, the snow began to fall again, covering the city in white.
The crash had been violent, a brutal interruption of their happiness.
But inside the room, the warmth was palpable.
The Architect had broken his bones, but the foundation he had built—the family, the love, the connection—had held firm.
And as Anele finished her song, leaning her head on the bedrail, the North Star flickered back to life, dim but steady, guided home by a song about a shark.