Chapter 8
The night sky stretched endlessly over the city, a canvas of darkness punctuated by artificial stars, neon signs, flickering streetlights, and the distant hum of airships. A cool breeze slithered through the streets of the Underborn, the slums where ambition and desperation walked hand in hand.
Here, sleep was a luxury few could afford. The elite and the criminals, the dreamers and the damned all of them shared the same air beneath the three moons of Zebc.
Footsteps echoed through the narrow alleys, lost in the symphony of murmured deals, drunken laughter, and the occasional distant scream. In this place, power was currency, and survival was the only law that mattered.
Someone lithe and small darted through the alleys of the Underborn, weaving through the maze of filth and shadow. The boy's breath came quick, his heartbeat a frantic drum against his ribs. He passed tattered shops with flickering signs, their windows clouded with grime, their goods questionable at best. The scent of cheap alcohol, smoke, and sweat clung to the air.
The streets were alive with the usual chaos, ladies of the night whispered sweet promises to passing men, while their well-dressed handlers watched from the shadows. Drunken laughter clashed with hushed threats, the undercurrent of danger ever present.
It was a night like any other in the Underborn.
"Get that little boy!" a voice bellowed, rough and laced with fury.
A gang of men tore through the alley, their leader's thick finger aimed directly at the fleeing child. The boy dark-skinned, wide honey gold eyes, a messy mini fro on his head and no older than eight ignored them, his focus locked ahead.
He hit a stack of crates without slowing, using the momentum to jump off a cart to push himself higher to his target. His hands caught the ledge of a crumbling rooftop, fingers straining against the rough stone.
"Shit! He's climbing!" one of the goons growled.
"Then get up there after him!" the leader snapped.
The boy didn't wait to see if they would follow. With one final pull, he hauled himself onto the rooftop and ran because if he stopped, even for a second, he knew he was dead.
The chase wove through the city like a living thing, twisting and turning down narrow alleys, across crumbling rooftops, and through the tangled mess of the Underborn. The men pursued with brute force, crashing through obstacles, shoving aside bystanders, their shouts filling the night.
But the boy, he was different.
He moved like a shadow, slipping through gaps too tight for a grown man, vaulting over stalls and fences with an ease that bordered on unnatural. His small frame twisted midair, flipping off walls, rebounding off ledges, and ducking under reaching hands at the last second.
His heart pounded, but his body felt weightless, his movements effortless, instinctual. He didn't have time to think about it, but deep down, he knew this wasn't just skill. This was something more.
But the boy paid no mind to his feeling not at a time like this. Not with the angry men still nipping at his heels, their curses growing louder, their frustration boiling over.
"Damn it; how is he moving like that?!" one of them shouted, winded but determined.
The boy didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. Aiger kept moving, darting through gaps, leaping over debris, twisting his body in ways that barely seemed human but it wasn't enough. Slowly but surely, they were closing in.
The freshly dressed goons weren't just some clueless thugs; they knew these streets as well as he did. They lived in the Underborn too, and no matter how slippery Aiger was, they had the numbers.
He turned a corner, only to skid to a stop.
Blocked.
Spinning on his heel, he looked for another escape, but the alley behind him was already filling with bodies. Dark silhouettes stepped out of the shadows, cutting off every path. He was trapped.
Aiger's breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven beats. His honey-gold eyes flicked around for an opening, but there was none.
His slim frame frail, malnourished stood out against the towering figures that surrounded him. Fear threatened to root him in place, but his fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. He wouldn't freeze. He couldn't.
The lead goon stepped forward, adjusting the gaudy ring on his finger before slicking back his hair. He was taller than the rest, his suit well-fitted despite the filth of the streets. A sleazy smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes dripped with bloodlust.
"You got some legs on you, boy." He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as his men tightened the circle. "But I'll tell you what; give back what you stole, and I'll only break your limbs."
His voice was calm, almost amused, as though this was all a game to him.
Aiger swallowed hard, his throat dry. Fear pressed against his ribs, heavy and suffocating, but defiance burned in his gaze.
His hands curled tighter.
"It's not boy or kid." His voice was hoarse, but steady. "It's Aiger. And I don't have what you're looking for."
The goon leader quirked a brow, adjusting his cuffs as if Aiger's response barely registered.
"Then why run?" he asked.
Aiger narrowed his eyes. "Because we're in the Underborn, and a gang of thugs pointed at me and started chasing."
Silence.
Then, a sigh. The leader shook his head, exasperated.
"Well," he mused, flexing his fingers, "truth has a way of revealing itself with a little bloodshed."
Without another word, the men lunged.
Aiger moved on instinct, his body already reacting before his mind could catch up.
The fight had begun.
Aiger moved through the group of grown men like water. Fluid, untouchable. He bobbed and weaved between their attacks with practiced ease, slipping past grasping hands and clumsy swings. Whenever an opening appeared, he struck back, a quick jabs to the ribs, sharp kicks to the legs, but his hits barely fazed them. These men were well-fed, battle-worn brutes, while Aiger had spent his life scraping by, fighting on an empty stomach. His attacks did little more than annoy them.
Realizing this fight wasn't one he could win, Aiger's sharp eyes darted around, searching for an escape route.
"The hell is this kid on?" one of the grunts growled, his voice laced with frustration and the sting of embarrassment as Aiger effortlessly dodged another attack.
"This bastard's slippery," another spat, cracking his knuckles in irritation.
Aiger used the brief pause to create some distance, his breath coming quick and uneven. He took in his surroundings a forgotten courtyard, walled in on all sides with crumbling brick and rusted metal. The only exit was a narrow alley, now blocked by the gang's leader, who stood there watching his men struggle to subdue a single prepubescent boy. His expression was one of quiet amusement, but there was something dangerous lurking beneath it, a predator waiting for his moment to strike.
Aiger clenched his fists, his mind racing. He wasn't about to roll over and let them take him. He just needed an opening, one chance to slip past them.
Aiger's sharp eyes locked onto a rusted milk crate sitting in the corner of the abandoned courtyard. Puzzle pieces clicked together in his mind, forming a plan. His fingers tunneled into the dirt, scooping up a handful of it while his other hand slipped into his tattered boot, retrieving a small blade.
"Seven in my way. Eight, if I count their boss, but he's just watching for now. If I can reach that crate, I can use the wall to climb up and escape."
He exhaled slowly, steadying his nerves. "You got this, Aiger."
Nearby, the leader of the gang took a deep pull from his pipe, exhaling a thick cloud of violet smoke through his nose. His gaze swept over the scene with a mixture of amusement and irritation.
"You idiots, stop playing around. If this kid gets away, it's your asses," he muttered, his voice lazy but laced with authority.
The atmosphere tensed. The gangsters clenched their fists, knowing the fight was about to reach its climax.
"Enough waiting!" one of the lackeys snapped, his patience wearing thin. He charged, gripping a metal pipe. "The little shit pulls a knife and thinks he can take us on?!"
Aiger didn't answer. He sidestepped the incoming swing and flung the handful of dirt into the man's eyes.
"That's one."
Without hesitation, he sprinted forward, slipping past another thug's grasp. One of them lunged to tackle him, but Aiger twisted into a front flip, avoiding the attack while kicking off the goon's shoulder to propel himself forward. He ducked low, weaving through his enemies like a shadow, keeping his focus on the only exit.
The last obstacle in his way was a woman wielding a whip. The moment she spotted him breaking through, she lashed out, the whip slicing through the air with lethal precision. Aiger dodged instinctively, each movement effortless, as if he already knew where she would strike.
Her frustration mounted with every missed attempt.
"You little—!" Snapping her wrist, she aimed low. This time, the whip coiled around Aiger's ankle, yanking his legs out from under him.
His body was airborne.
She smirked and reeled him in, her fist cocked back, ready to deliver a devastating punch.
But Aiger had survived worse.
He spun in midair, reversing the grip on his blade. As she swung, he twisted his body at the last second, narrowly dodging her fist. His knife flashed in the dim light—
And buried itself into her eye.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the courtyard.
The woman collapsed, clutching her face as crimson seeped between her fingers. Aiger didn't spare her a glance. He had no time to waste. The others were already closing in.
But it was too late. He'd reached his escape route.
With a burst of speed, he leaped onto the crate, then used the wall as a springboard, propelling himself toward the top. His fingers grasped the edge–
Just as a shadow blurred in front of him.
The gang leader crushed his pipe between his teeth, fury flickering in his cold eyes.
"Damn it—!"
The old man moved faster than Aiger could comprehend. One moment, he was standing still. The next, he was right in front of Aiger, his thick fingers curled into a fist.
For a split second, their eyes met.
The man expected fear.
Instead, he saw something else.
Aiger's knife was already positioned for a counterstrike, his golden eyes gleaming with pure, unfiltered killing intent. His gaze was so sharp it felt like it could cut steel.
For the first time that night, the old man hesitated.
But the speed difference was overwhelming.
The gang leader twisted effortlessly, slipping past Aiger's attack and driving his fist square into the boy's chest.
Aiger's body shot backward like a ragdoll, skipping across the ground like a stone over water. He slammed into the far wall with a sickening crack.
The courtyard fell into silence.
The old man exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he gazed at the crumpled figure of the boy. Aiger's chest was caved in form the punch that landed, his body bruised and bloodied. A fresh pool of red dripped from his lips.
"Tch… Used too much strength," the old man muttered.
The woman Aiger had blinded staggered forward, her face twisted in rage.
"I'm gonna kill that little son of a—"
"Stand down, Thorne," the old man ordered, his voice flat. "Search him. Find the bands he stole."
The goons obeyed, closing in on Aiger's motionless form.
"Am I dying?"
Aiger's thoughts wavered as he peered at the blurry figures surrounding him. His vision was spotty, fading in and out, but clear enough to make out the goons closing in. Fear took root deep in his chest, growing into something vast and suffocating. He wanted to move,desperately, but his body refused to obey.
That fear twisted into unchecked panic.
Rough hands began searching him, patting down his bruised and battered body. He felt their fingers dig through his pockets, press against his ribs, even violate his personal space.
"No, no, no!"
"He doesn't have it, Joron," one of the goons reported, pulling away.
Joron, the white-bearded leader, stroked his chin before taking another slow drag from his pipe. Violet smoke curled from his nostrils as he exhaled, his expression unreadable.
A sigh escaped his lips. "My boss is gonna kill me for this."
"So what do we do with him?" The same thug asked. His tone was casual, like they were discussing trash disposal. "Do we kill him?"
Aiger watched the conversation unfold, his body racked with excruciating pain. Every breath felt like dragging shattered glass through his lungs. His mouth was dry, but the thick, coppery taste of blood filled it, spilling past his lips, dripping down his chin.
Still, he forced himself to speak.
"P-please…" His voice was little more than a rasp, fragile and weak.
Joron and his men barely reacted, barely even acknowledged him.
Aiger swallowed hard, trying again. "Please… a med-medic…" Each word burned his throat, like it was scraping away at what little life he had left.
"I didn't… steal… your money…" He wheezed, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "Medic… p-please…"
The gangsters stared at him, their faces devoid of sympathy.
And then Thorne stepped forward.
Her boots hit the ground with a heavy thud, thud, thud, a trail of dried blood marking her path. Aiger's attack had taken her eye, what remained now was a hollow, furious wound. Her amethyst gaze burned with unfiltered rage.
"You arrogant little shit," she spat.
Aiger barely had the strength to lift his head before her iron grip latched onto his scalp, fingers digging deep into his matted hair. She yanked his face up to meet hers, his honey-golden eyes, hazy with exhaustion, locked onto her singliar, hate-filled glare.
"You dare beg for your life?" Her voice trembled with barely contained fury. "As if you didn't just take my damn eye?!"
Her fingers tightened.
"I'd strangle you right now, but that'd be too quick." Her lips curled into a sneer. "No… you're gonna bleed out here, slow and painful."
Aiger wasn't listening anymore.
His mind had only one thought left. Live.
"M-medic…" he whispered, barely a breath.
That was the final straw.
"You bastard!" Thorne's rage exploded. She slammed her fist into Aiger's face, then again, and again. Her boot came down next, kicking him, stomping him, her screams lost in a haze of pain and fury.
Aiger could do nothing.
His body convulsed with every hit, but he was long past feeling each individual strike. It all melted together, just pain, endless pain.
"Enough, Thorne. We're wasting time."
Joron's voice cut through the air, calm, unbothered.
Thorne halted mid-kick, chest heaving. "What? This bastard took my eye!"
"Sounds like a you problem." Joron exhaled another puff of smoke, already turning away. "We're done here."
Thorne opened her mouth to protest but was silenced with a sharp glare.
Reluctantly, she let go, yanking her boot back with one last snarl. Then, one by one, the gangsters walked away, their leader vanishing into the smoke of the Underborn.
Aiger lay motionless, his breath shallow.
They were gone.
But the pain remained.
His body trembled, every breath harder than the last. His vision darkened, black spots growing larger and larger. He was dying, and he knew it.
"I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die!"
His mind screamed, his chest ached, his eyes stung with unshed tears.
And then—
A figure appeared.
Bright green hair, vibrant against the filth and decay of the Underborn.
Aiger barely registered her presence before a soft, confident voice reached his ears.
"Don't worry. You'll live."
He forced his lips to move. "Who…?"
The girl smiled.
"The name's Lily."
Darkness took him.
Takumi pov
My eyes snapped open, only to be met with a blinding light. I winced, sucking in a sharp breath as I sat up in an unfamiliar bed. But I barely registered my surroundings. My mind was still reeling, trapped in the dream I had just woken from.
Lily.
"Why now? Why the hell was I remembering this now?!" I thought.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair.
Before I could gather my thoughts the sound of foot steps distracted me, the curtain around my bed was yanked open.
"Takumi!"
My sister's voice cut through my daze, sharp with concern. Aiko's emerald eyes, our father's eyes, searched my face, her worry plain as day. She let out a deep sigh of relief, but I barely had time to process it before I noticed something clutched in her hand.
I frowned. "What are you doing here, Aiko?"
"I came to change the ice pack on your he—"
"How long have I been out?" I cut her off, my tone sharp. I didn't need her to finish, I had already pieced it together. I just got my ass handed to me by people who couldn't even wield Trion.
My fingers dug into my scalp, frustration burning through me like acid.
"A little over an hour," Aiko whispered.
My head dropped, shame pressing down on me. I had been completely outmatched in combat. I hated this feeling, the same one I had when I first met Lily, the same one when Zebc was lost the war, and now again. That crushing, unbearable helplessness. My teeth clenched, and my grip tightened in my hair.
"Takumi, are you okay?" I hear my sister ask.
"Where are my shoes?" I ignored her concern, forcing my focus elsewhere. As I swung my legs over the bed, I waited for her answer.
"Takumi, where are you going?" Aiko's voice wavered.
"Anywhere but here," I muttered.
"Takumi, just wait! Mom's in the principal's office—"
I found my shoe easily as they were by the bed I was on. So I left the room, passing the "Nurse's Office" sign as I stepped into the hallway. My only goal was to find the exit, I needed to get out of this place.
As I made my way down the halls, I passed the principal's office. Raised voices echoed from inside, sharp and tense.
Curiosity got the better of me. I slowed my pace and peered inside, trying to see what was going on.
"Why aren't these criminals in prison?! This is the second time they've attacked my son! The first time, he ended up in a coma!"
"Criminals?!" a woman snapped, her voice sharp with outrage. "Your son willingly walked into a restricted zone. Don't blame my kid for your son's mistakes."
I recognized the woman instantly, she was dressed far more formally than anyone else in the room, even more so than the so-called principal. From what I understood, principals here were more like deans in my world, except with even less authority.
My mother stepped forward, her gaze locking onto the businesswoman, her expression unreadable. There was something familiar about her, a resemblance that clicked the moment I saw her, Shihara standing behind her. So this was his mother.
Shoko, my mother stood tall despite the anger radiating off her. Her voice was laced with venom as she pointed an accusatory finger. "We both know that your son and his friends are known bullies. And you raised them to be that way. You're raising hyper-violent criminals."
I leaned in slightly, my eyes shifting to the side, spotting the trio of idiots—Shihara, Bito, and Eida. Their parents stood beside them, just as smug and self-assured.
A slow, condescending smirk curled the edges of Shihara's mother's lips. "Hyper-violent criminals?" she repeated mockingly. "It was your son who threw the first punch at Mrs. Iguri's son before class even started. That's why they retaliated at lunch. Maybe instead of lashing out, you should teach your son not to put himself in danger so often."
My mother clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. She was shaking with barely contained fury, but she couldn't find the words to counter the woman's twisted logic.
"My son isn't violent," she finally managed uttered.
"Are you sure you know your son?" the woman shot back smoothly.
That was it. I was done listening to this.
"Do you even know yours?" I cut in, my voice low but filled with anger.
The room went silent. All eyes turned to me, the principal, the parents, the so-called students.
"Takumi..." my mother whispered, but I wasn't about to back down.
Shihara's mother raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
I scoffed. "Excuse yourself. The only reason I punched idiot number two over there was because he and his little lackey were circling me. I felt threatened, so I acted. And all of it started because they were bullying Oshida."
"So you struck first," she said, completely unfazed. No denial. No argument that her son wasn't a bully—just pure, smug deflection.
"Yeah." I answered without hesitation.
A meek voice suddenly spoke up. "So you're the one who broke my son's nose?"
I turned to see Mrs. Iguri. She had an air of submissiveness, the complete opposite of Shihara's mother, who radiated control and power.
Shihara's mother didn't even wait for me to respond before turning to my mother, her smirk widening. "So, there we have it. Your son started it, Mrs. Kage. Maybe you should redirect all that misplaced rage into disciplining him. You wouldn't want to raise a criminal."
My mother looked down, shame flickering across her face. A part of me felt guilty for putting her in this situation, but a much larger part of me was too fed up to care.
The moment was shattered when a voice called out from down the hall.
"Hey, Mom…Takumi just left the nurse's office and stormed off somewhe—"
Aiko's voice trailed off as she spotted me, taking in the scene before her.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she muttered, "Bitch."
Only one person heard it.
"What the fuck did you just call me?!" Shihara's mother exploded.
This time, my mother didn't whisper. She didn't hesitate. She didn't even think.
"You fucking bitch!" she roared.
It shocked me. This woman, who had been nothing but kind, desperate for my attention over the past few months was suddenly a force of pure, unfiltered rage. She wasn't just angry; she was furious. And she was defending me.
Even though, technically, I had started the fight, she wasn't defending what I did, she was defending the fact that I wouldn't have done it without a reason.
The argument spiraled into a full-blown shouting match, the two women hurling accusations and insults at each other with unrestrained fury. I just stood there, watching, listening, taking it all in.
So this… is what a mother's protection feels like.
Then, just as the tension threatened to boil over—
"Enough!"
The principal's voice cut through the chaos like a knife, silencing the entire room.
He stepped forward, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. He was a tall, slim man with jet-black hair streaked with gray. I had never met him before, but he carried himself with the weight of authority.
"We've already spoken to the staff and students to get a clear picture of what happened," he said, his voice firm. "Mrs. Gou, multiple witnesses confirmed that your son and his friends were harassing Oshida. Takumi intervened. However, he also threw the first punch, which escalated the situation into the cafeteria fight. Based on the evidence, both parties are at fault and will receive appropriate punishment."
Shihara's mother scoffed. "And what punishment would that be, Mr. Takumara?"
"Two weeks' suspension."
A chorus of protests erupted instantly.
"What—" Bito's mother started, but Mr. Takumara raised a hand, silencing her.
"I don't care for your complaints," he said, voice like steel. "We have a zero-tolerance policy for fighting. Your sons ganged up on a student with a known history of being bullies. You should be grateful they're only being suspended. You may leave now."
And just like that, the parents and their bratty kids were dismissed, forced to take their leave.
Only my mother, Aiko, and I remained.
Mr. Takumara turned to Eida, who still lingered in the room. "Eida, you can wait in the teachers' lounge until your father arrives. He's already been informed of your situation."
Eida scoffed but left without argument, leaving only the three of us with the principal.
A heavy silence filled the room before my mother finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You know what they did, Mr. Takumara. It's plain to see, they took my son into that restricted zone and left him there to die."
The principal let out a long sigh. "Shoko… I believe you. And trust me, I want to act on it. But the court found them innocent. This is the first report against them in months. I can't expel them for that unless I want to get sued and lose my job."
My mother's eyes burned with defiance. "So what if I sue you?"
Another sigh. This one even heavier. "Ms. kage you are dismissed."
She didn't say anything else. She just turned, motioning for Aiko and me to follow as she stormed out the building.
We entered the car in silence. Aiko slid into the front seat beside our mother while I took the back without a word.
The drive home was uneventful, the tension thick and suffocating. No one spoke. The hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal were the only sounds filling the car.
When we finally pulled into the driveway, I saw that our father was already home.
I didn't acknowledge him. Didn't say a word.
I just headed upstairs, shutting the door behind me. I instantly went into push-ups, distracting myself from the loss.
I was arrogant in my endeavor. Why? I asked myself.
Yes, I hated bullys people who only reigned over people who couldn't or wouldn't fight back. I hated it with a passion, undoubtedly, but the way I acted like I could take them. In which I thought I could, but I was beaten simply due to luck, nothing more. It was coincidence that they put me in a situation that limited my symbol.
No.
It doesn't matter if it was luck or not; it's such a loser mindset to try to make the loss seem inconsequential when in reality, it was embarrassing. I acted like I was still a Keeper, one of the most powerful people of Zebc.
It seems I have forgotten what it means to be weak.
I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn't notice sweat beginning to drip off my nose. My muscles began to burn like charcoal on a grill. I became lost in my pursuit of strength, of power.
I have always hated weakness because the weak always lose.
I always lose.
It was the lack of strength that got Lily killed. It was that lack of strength that caused me to be a burden to Euphemia. It was that lack of strength that caused Zebc to be killed. My whole life has been riddled with weakness, constantly needing to be saved. That's why I loathe weakness, that's why I loathe my old self.
I'll push myself harder than anyone else, I'll sweat more than them, I'll bleed more than anyone else. I'll push until my muscles feel like magma and my bones ache to their being.
To get rid of this old me that I have returned to—, his weak, feeble me, the me I so desperately loathe.
Sweat dripped from my nose, a single droplet turning into a steady downpour as I pushed my body to its limit. My arms trembled, every muscle burning as I struggled to reach the apex of my push-up. With a sharp, ragged breath, I forced myself upward, only for my strength to give out. A dry heave escaped my lips as I collapsed onto my back, my chest rising and falling in heavy gasps.
My mouth was parched, the dryness scratching at my throat.
Water.
Dragging myself off the floor, I left my room in search of the kitchen, my body aching with every step. As I neared the doorway, voices drifted through the hall, low, tense, familiar.
"I don't want him at that school. I can't—I won't have my boy in danger," my mother's voice trembled with frustration.
"I know," my father responded, his tone calmer but no less firm. "It pisses me off too, knowing they get to walk around free after what they did. But that school has the Boarder's protection. A lot of agents go there, that's why we put ours there. For their safety."
My fists clenched at my sides, my jaw tightening.
"So what?" my mother snapped. "Either he's protected from otherworldly threats or from kids who should have some goddamn home training and basic decency? And on top of all that, do you really think Takumi would've hit that Bito bastard without a damn good reason? He's always been well-behaved, never violent."
"Look, I get it," my father sighed. "But he's alive. Awake. And as much as I hate to say it, that school is still the safest place for him. Safer than any other school, at least when it comes to dimensional threats."
"I just…" My mother's voice wavered. "Tetsumi, I don't know what to do anymore."
The room fell into silence for a moment before my father spoke again, slower this time, as if choosing his words carefully.
"The real issue here isn't just the school," he said. "It's those kids. If the school won't do anything about them, then for Takumi's own safety, we have to. He just got out of the hospital, he shouldn't be getting into fights right now."
There it was again.
Weakness.
Once again, I was something fragile. Something breakable. Something that needed to be saved.
Like hell I would be.
Like hell I needed to be.
I stepped into the kitchen, making my presence known as I headed straight for the refrigerator. The tension in the air was palpable as my parents turned to look at me.
"I don't need your protection," I said, yanking the fridge open. "I'm not switching schools. I'm no coward."
"Takumi," my father said, his voice steady but firm. "This isn't about you being a coward. It's about your safety."
I scoffed, grabbing a bottle of water. My safety? When had that ever mattered before?
But instead of arguing, I twisted the cap off and took a long drink, letting the silence settle between us.
My father exhaled through his nose, his gaze steady. "Takumi, this isn't up for debate. You were just in the hospital. You don't need to be throwing yourself into more fights."
I let out a short laugh, bitter and sharp. "And what? You think moving me to another school is gonna change that? You think that'll magically make me safe?" I shook my head, gripping the water bottle so tightly the plastic crumpled under my fingers. "You act like I'm some helpless kid who needs to be protected at all costs."
"Takumi, that's not what we're saying," my mother cut in, softer this time, like she was trying to calm me down. "We just—"
"Then what are you saying?!" I snapped, slamming the bottle onto the counter. "That I should run? That I should just avoid everything because I might get hurt again?"
"You almost died, Takumi!" My mother's voice cracked, her frustration giving way to raw emotion. "I sat by your hospital bed for months, wondering if you were ever going to wake up! Do you have any idea what that was like?!"
I flinched, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.
Weak.
I could hear it in her voice. In the way she looked at me. I was something to be pitied. Something fragile. Something that had to be shielded from the world because I wasn't strong enough to handle it myself.
Just like before.
Just like always.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay even. "I can't live my life being afraid of what might happen."
"This isn't about fear," my father said, his tone firm but not unkind. "It's about being smart. Right now, you're not—"
"Not strong enough?" I cut him off, my chest tightening. "That's what you want to say, right? I'm too weak. I can't handle myself. I need to be protected."
"That's not what we—"
"But it's what you mean," I cut in. My nails dug into my palms, my breath coming faster. "That's how it's always been, hasn't it? I'm the one who needs saving. The one who's never strong enough when it matters."
"Takumi…" My mother took a step toward me, but I took one back.
I couldn't do this.
I couldn't stand here, drowning in their concern, in their worry, in the weight of their expectations. I needed to move. I needed air.
Without another word, I turned and walked away.
"Takumi, where are you going?" my father called after me.
"Out."
"Takumi, wait!" My mother's voice was desperate, pleading, but I ignored it.
I grabbed my shoes, shoving them on as I stepped out the door. The cold air hit me like a slap, sharp and bracing, but I welcomed it.
I took off running.
My breath came fast, my muscles still aching from earlier, but I pushed through. The pavement blurred beneath me, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I needed this. The burning in my legs, the air tearing through my lungs, it was better than the suffocating weight of that house.
Better than the reminder of what I was.
What I wasn't.
I wasn't strong enough. Not yet.
But I would be.
No matter what it took.
No matter how much I had to break myself to get there.
I would be strong.
I had to be.
And I wouldn't stop until I was.
I clung to those thoughts as I ran, my legs pounding against the pavement with full force. The houses and trees blurred together, melting into streaks of color as my speed increased. My vision narrowed, tunnel-like, shutting out everything but the road ahead. My emotions, the ones I had tried so desperately to suppress, spilled out with every stride.
HONK!
A car came dangerously close, its horn blaring, but I barely registered it. My body reacted before my mind did, I leaped over the hood without breaking stride.
Somewhere along the way, I had left the quiet familiarity of my neighborhood and crossed into the bustling city streets. The sidewalks were crowded, filled with moving figures, their faces nothing more than vague blurs as I weaved through them. I didn't slow down. I didn't stop. I kept running, dodging and slipping past people as if they were obstacles in a course rather than pedestrians going about their day.
This wasn't like my usual jogs.
No, this felt like running. Running away. From what, I wasn't sure. From them? From myself?
The dam holding back my emotions had begun to crack.
"No. I already made peace with this. So why—why the hell do I feel like this?!" I yelled to myself, my voice swallowed by the wind.
But no matter how many times I told myself I had accepted it, the cracks only deepened. Like a spider weaving its web, the fractures spread, slow, methodical, inevitable. The more I tried to patch them, the more they splintered.
I didn't know how long I had been running, but my body was beginning to break. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, my legs felt like lead, and my lungs burned like they were being scorched by the sun itself. My breath came in ragged, desperate gulps.
Then, out of nowhere, my foot caught uneven pavement.
I stumbled, barely catching myself against the rough bark of a tree. My palms scraped against it, and I let my weight sink against the trunk, gasping for air. My body was exhausted, but my mind raced with relentless, suffocating thoughts.
I didn't understand what I was feeling, not because the emotions were foreign, but because I was afraid to face them. Afraid of what I'd find if I dug too deep.
And that fear infuriated me.
I clenched my fists, staring at the tree with burning frustration before letting out a cry of pure rage. My knuckles met the bark with a sharp crack. Pain shot through my hand, my skin breaking under the force, but for the briefest moment—my mind was quiet.
So, I did it again.
And again.
And again.
Blood smeared against the oak, dripping down the rough bark in crimson streaks. The pain shot through my nerves like an ice bath, sharp yet grounding. It was soothing.
I reeled my fist back once more, my knuckles split, my skin raw, every nerve screaming in protest. I wanted the distraction. I wanted to lose myself in the pain.
But instead of striking wood, my fist hit something warm.
Calloused fingers wrapped around my bruised hand, halting my movement.
"Y'know, if you break your hand, it'll be pretty hard to get into Border."
My vision cleared as the voice reached me. I blinked, my breath still ragged as I looked up.
A man stood before me, a relaxed smile on his face, his teal-tinted sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His light brown hair fell in two long bangs on either side of his forehead. He held my bleeding fist with an ease that made it clear he had stopped me effortlessly.
I followed his gaze to his palm, my blood stained his skin.
As if realizing this at the same moment, he loosened his grip slightly, allowing me to yank my hand back.
"Who the hell are you?" I snapped, venom lacing my voice, my scowl deepening.
He only chuckled, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish expression.
"You forgot your savior that quickly?"
That made me pause.
Savior?
I frowned, my mind scrambling for answers. Then it clicked.
"Jin," I muttered, realization settling in.
"Bingo," he said with a casual grin.
I narrowed my eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I was just passing by and saw you. Figured you might want this."
Reaching into his brown jacket, he pulled out a card and held it out to me.
I stared at it for a moment before taking it hesitantly.
A recruiter's number.
"It has a direct line to a Border recruiter. You can schedule an appointment, get an inside look at what we do, how the admission process works. Thought you might be interested."
I turned the card over in my fingers, still processing everything.
"How did you know I wanted to join Border?" Skepticism colored my voice.
Jin smirked. "Educated guess."
I let out a quiet scoff, still gripping the card. My knuckles stung, my skin hot and raw, but I ignored it.
"Oh, and you should probably get your hand checked. You're bleeding everywhere," he added, already turning to leave.
I watched him for a second, my mind still spinning, before something in me snapped.
"Hey! That's it?! My hands are shot to hell, and you're just gonna walk off? You don't think I'm some fragile kid who needs protecting?"
The words spilled out before I could stop them, and I hated how they sounded. Weak. Bitter. Like I was begging for some kind of validation.
Jin didn't fully turn to face me, but he glanced back just enough for me to see his lone, visible eye behind his tinted glasses.
"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for, Takumi."
That was all he said before waving lazily over his shoulder and walking away.
I scowled.
That guy annoyed the hell out of me.