CHAPTER 7
The Day It Didn't Hurt Anymore
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The bruises faded.
On his mother's arms.
On his own.
Even the ones on his neck—where they once forced a collar and wrote on his skin—began to disappear.
But not inside.
Inside, they stayed.
---
Naoki didn't eat breakfast the next morning.
His mother didn't ask why.
She didn't mention the food going cold, or the way he avoided her eyes.
She just said, "Be safe," as he walked out the door.
Her voice trembled.
She knew something had changed.
But she didn't ask what.
She never asked.
---
The school gate loomed like a mouth, wide open, ready to devour him again.
Students milled about like it was any normal day.
Laughter.
Running footsteps.
Backpacks swinging, voices rising.
He passed through it all like a ghost.
Until—
A shove.
A trip.
He hit the ground hard.
Books spilled.
His glasses flew off.
Laughter again.
So familiar it was background noise by now.
One of the boys crouched beside him, picked up his notebook.
"The puppy's diary?"
He flipped through the pages.
Naoki didn't reach for it.
Didn't beg.
Not this time.
Just sat up slowly, staring into nothing.
"Creepy stuff in here," the boy said.
"Numbers? Are these grades? Or body counts?"
Laughter.
More laughter.
And then—he felt it.
The faint tug of a smile.
On his own lips.
The boy paused.
"What? You think this is funny?"
Naoki stood.
His glasses were gone.
Everything was a blur.
But it didn't matter.
"I don't feel anything," he said.
The boy blinked.
"What?"
Naoki tilted his head, mocking.
"I said… I don't feel anything."
He took the notebook back.
No resistance.
He brushed dirt from his uniform, then walked away.
---
It wasn't bravery.
It wasn't strength.
It was emptiness.
Pure, terrifying emptiness.
They couldn't touch what wasn't there anymore.
---
That afternoon, Naoki found an old gym bag buried in his closet.
Inside, dusty sneakers.
Worn sweatpants.
He changed.
He left the house without a word.
And ran.
Through the park.
Up the hill behind the station.
Around the abandoned track where stray cats lingered.
His lungs burned.
His legs screamed.
But he didn't stop.
---
Weeks passed.
He studied in silence.
He ran every night.
He lifted weights at an old gym downtown, where no one asked for his name.
He researched.
About trauma.
About pain thresholds.
About recovery.
About revenge.
He watched documentaries on war.
Read books on cruelty.
Fell asleep to interviews with men who'd survived things even worse than him.
Not to heal.
To understand.
---
One night, after a long run, he stood in front of the mirror.
His hands were rougher.
His shoulders broader.
His face still young—but his eyes…
Dead.
Focused.
Cold.
He picked up the notebook.
Flipped to a new page.
Nine.
Then paused.
For the first time, he added something new.
A sketch.
Not a perfect
one. Just a quick, rough drawing.
A mask.
Plain. Blank. Empty.
End of Chapter 7