The autumn air bit through Akira Hayashi's oversized sweater as he crouched in the corner of the school courtyard, his breath fogging the lens of his telescope. Jupiter's moons were particularly vivid tonight or they would have been, if the school's flickering courtyard lamp hadn't washed out the sky. He adjusted the focus knob, muttering under his breath. "Io's volcanic activity should be visible if the atmospheric distortion…"
A pebble skittered under his sneaker.
His knee jerked, knocking the tripod. The telescope wobbled, and Akira lunged to catch it, but his notebook slipped from his lap instead. Pages of equations and star charts fluttered across the pavement like confetti.
"Nice save, Four-Eyes," called a voice from the nearby bench. Two boys in soccer jerseys snickered, their phones glowing in the dim light.
Akira's cheeks burned as he scrambled to gather the papers. His glasses slid down his nose, fogging again as he exhaled sharply. Rule #1 of survival: Stay small. Stay quiet. Never let them see you sweat… even if you're bench-pressing a small car after school.
"Hey, Spaceman," one of the boys drawled, kicking a crumpled soda can toward him. "Find any aliens yet? Maybe they'll abduct you."
Akira ducked his head lower, shoving the last page into his bag. "N-no. Just… Jupiter."
The boys erupted into laughter. "Bet Jupiter's got better WiFi than your mom's basement!"
He didn't look up until their footsteps faded. By then, the courtyard was empty, save for the hum of the faulty lamp and the rustle of dead leaves.
The dojo was tucked behind a ramen shop, its sign so faded it read KO O instead of KOBO. Akira shouldered the creaky door open, the smell of old wood and sweat hitting him like a comfort. He peeled off his sweater, revealing a threadbare tank top, and tossed it onto a pile of dusty sparring pads. His reflection in the cracked mirror caught him off guard—messy hair, glasses smudged, but shoulders taut with muscle that defied his slouch.
Grandpa's voice growled in his memory: "Straighten up, kid! You look like a shrimp who lost its shell."
He tightened the wraps around his knuckles and launched a jab at the punching bag. The chain groaned.
"Weak," he muttered, shifting his stance. Another punch. The bag swung wildly.
"Strength isn't for showing off," Grandpa had barked during their first lesson, twelve years old and trembling. "It's for protecting what matters. Now quit crying and hold the plank."
Akira's fists flew faster, the rhythm steadying him. High kick—his sneaker connected with a satisfying thud. But as he pivoted, his glasses slipped. He fumbled to catch them, fingertips grazing the frames just as a shadow flickered in the hallway.
He froze. "H-hello?"
Silence.
Probably a rat. Or the wind. Or…
He shoved his glasses back on and grabbed his water bottle, chugging until the dread in his throat dissolved.
The walk home was all flickering streetlights and half-hearted rain. Akira's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, unwrapping a protein bar—chocolate peanut butter, his vice—as he trudged up the apartment stairs.
His thumb swiped the screen absently.
School Forum Alert: WHO IS THIS MYSTERY HOTTIE?!
The protein bar lodged in his throat.
The photo was blurry, taken through the dojo's grimy window, but there was no mistaking the angle: him mid-kick, tank top riding up, abs on full display. The caption screamed: Spotted at the old Kobo Dojo! Is this a new transfer student?!
Comments exploded beneath it.
User1: OMG those ARMS???
User2: I've seen him before. Total delinquent vibes.
User3: Nah, he's gotta be a model. Look at that jawline!
Akira's pulse roared in his ears. He stumbled into his apartment, slamming the door behind him.
"You okay, kid?" Grandpa Hiroshi called from the kitchen, where he stood frying dumplings in a stained apron.
"F-fine!" Akira croaked, sprinting to his room.
He yanked the curtains shut, as if the internet itself could see him. The protein bar wrapper crumpled in his fist.
Invisible. You were supposed to stay invisible.
But the photo glowed on his screen, undeniable.
Somewhere in the city, Sakura Fujiwara squinted at her own phone, a hamster nibbling popcorn from her palm. "Wait… that's the guy from the courtyard!"