My name is Deaver Dransart, a second-year high school student.
On the surface, my life was peaceful. I was the student council president, entrusted with keeping order among my peers. It was the dream I had fought for—a dream of normalcy, of belonging.
But reality was cruel. My parents had abandoned me to the slums, and every step toward this life was carved out of hardship. I endured hunger, loneliness, and despair, all for the chance to wear this uniform and call myself a student.
I envied my friends. They had families waiting at home, warm meals, laughter. I had nothing but the fragile bonds I thought I had built with them. One day, curiosity gnawed at me—I wanted to know what they truly thought of me. So I lingered behind, listening in secret.
What I heard shattered me.
To them, I was not a friend. I was a vessel, a tool for their joy, someone to lean on but never truly care for.
That night, I asked myself: What is justice?
If bonds are false, if kindness is hollow, then perhaps justice is nothing but a lie. Yet even so, I resolved to protect others. If I could not be loved, I would at least be a shield.
Three days later, I proved it. A stray dog darted into the road, a truck barreling toward it. Without hesitation, I pulled it to safety. In that moment, I felt pride—I was still a hero.
But heroes attract shadows.
Days later, men came to me, their eyes sharp, their voices venomous.
"Where is that dog?" one demanded. "It swallowed our smuggled diamond. Tell us where it is—or die."
I refused.
The beating began. Bones cracked, limbs twisted, blood spilled. They broke me piece by piece, until even my skull was shattered beneath a blunt weapon.
And yet… death was not the end.
Deaver Dransart may have fallen, but the hero within him did not die.