The slaps and kicks were a dull thunder against my ribs, my arms, my back. Each impact drove the air from my lungs in ragged gasps. I curled tighter, a useless ball on the rough wooden planks of the bridge, the world reduced to pain, the jeering voices ("Pathetic!" "Weakling!" "Cry, Princess!"), and the cold taste of blood in my mouth. My vision swam, tears blurring the cruel faces above me. I tried to scream, but only a choked whimper escaped. Defeat, cold and absolute, washed over me.
Then, a sudden shift in the air. A crackle, like static electricity, followed by heavy, thundering footsteps pounding the wooden planks. A giant shadow fell over us, blotting out the late sun.
"GET OFF HIM!"
The roar was deep, raw, vibrating with fury. It wasn't Ren's sharp anger or Riku's booming shout. It was primal. Unfamiliar, yet instantly recognizable.
Ryota and his cronies stumbled back, startled, their taunts dying mid-sneer. The shadow descended like an avalanche. A large fist shot out, not to strike me, but to block a half-hearted kick Taro was still aiming. Another arm swept Kenji aside with brutal, efficient force, sending him sprawling against the parapet with a grunt. Ryota, recovering faster, swung wildly, but his punch was met with a forearm block like iron, followed by a shove that sent him staggering backwards, eyes wide with shock. In seconds, the bullies were pushed back, scrambling away from the whirlwind of controlled violence, their bravado replaced by stunned fear.
I lay there, gasping, each breath a knife in my side. The world tilted precariously. I forced my head up, blinking through tears and dizziness.
Kaito Sato stood over them, chest heaving slightly. His usual arrogant poise was gone, replaced by a feral intensity. His knuckles were scraped raw, and high on his left cheekbone bloomed a fresh, dark bruise, stark against his pale skin – evidence of a recent fight elsewhere. His uniform collar was torn at the seam, and bits of dried grass clung to his sleeve and shoulder, as if he'd been rolling on the ground. His hair was disheveled, falling across his forehead.
For a single, frozen heartbeat, his eyes met mine. They weren't cold or mocking. They were wide, sharp, filled with a swift, startling intensity – a flicker of raw concern, maybe even shock at my state. It was there, undeniable, before a shutter slammed down. His jaw clenched, the familiar rigid mask of annoyance and disdain settling back into place, hardening his features. He looked away from me, his glare pinning the retreating bullies.
"You alright?" His voice was low, rough, stripped of its usual sneering drawl. It was flat, almost impersonal, but the lack of mockery was jarring.
I tried to nod, to say something, anything. But my body felt utterly wrecked. A violent tremor ran through me, making my teeth chatter. My arms were shaky, weak as water. My breath hitched in shuddering gasps that scraped my bruised ribs. It felt like the worst flu ache magnified a hundred times, sapping every ounce of strength I had left. The humiliation of being helpless under their blows was bad enough, but this deep, bone-aching weakness was terrifying. A cold dread joined the pain, sharper than the blows themselves. Why couldn't I even push myself up?
Kaito watched my struggle for a second, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he simply knelt beside me on the weathered planks. He didn't ask permission. He didn't offer platitudes. He just thrust out a large, calloused hand towards me, palm up. An offering. A command.
I stared at it, then back at his face. His gaze was fixed somewhere past my shoulder, towards the path home, his annoyance mask firmly in place. But the hand remained, steady. Swallowing a sob, ignoring the fresh wave of shame that washed over me for needing his help, I reached out. My fingers were trembling, weak. His hand closed around mine instantly. His grip wasn't gentle; it was firm, solid, almost crushing in its certainty. He hauled me upright in one powerful motion.
The world spun violently. My legs buckled. Kaito's other hand shot out, gripping my upper arm just below the shoulder, steadying me before I could collapse again. His touch was impersonal, efficient, yet undeniably protective.
"Don't move too fast," he warned, his voice still low and flat, but lacking its usual edge. It was almost… careful.
As I stood, swaying like a sapling in a storm, leaning heavily on the arm he hadn't let go of, the dam broke. Tears I'd fought back surged, hot and uncontrollable, spilling down my stinging cheeks. Tears of pain from the slaps and kicks. Tears of utter humiliation at being rescued by Kaito Sato, of all people, in this broken state. Tears of a deeper, colder fear – fear of this strange weakness invading my body, fear of what it meant.
Without another word, Kaito turned. He didn't look at me. He didn't check if I was following. He simply started walking, his stride purposeful but slightly slower than usual, his hand still firmly wrapped around mine. He held it not like a friend, not even like an acquaintance, but like someone escorting a much younger sibling who might wander into traffic. His grip was an anchor, grounding me against the dizziness and the tremors wracking my body. He led me off the bridge, away from the scene of my humiliation, towards the path that wound towards my neighborhood.
The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, painting the sky in deep, bruised purples and fiery oranges that somehow mirrored the ache spreading through my body. I stumbled slightly behind him, silent except for the ragged hitch of my breath and the occasional sniffle I couldn't suppress. My vision blurred at the edges with unshed tears and exhaustion. Each step felt like dragging anvils. Weak. Defeated. Exposed utterly before my fiercest rival.
The silence stretched, thick and awkward, broken only by the crunch of gravel under our feet and the distant murmur of the creek. Then, Kaito spoke, his voice barely above a murmur, pitched low, almost as if he wasn't talking to me at all.
"You're going to be okay." It wasn't gentle encouragement. It lacked warmth. It sounded more like a statement of fact, muttered under his breath, perhaps as much for his own benefit as mine. A reassurance against an unseen unease. His expression, glimpsed in profile as we walked, remained firm, jaw set, eyes fixed determinedly ahead on the darkening path. But for what? What was he determined about? Protecting me? Getting me home? Or something else entirely?
I didn't smile. I couldn't find words. All I felt was the cold residue of fear, the deep ache of humiliation, the terrifying strangeness in my limbs, and the profound, confusing silence that hung between us. It was weird. Disorienting. But the burning hatred I usually felt for Kaito Sato… it was absent. The fear of him was gone, replaced by a numb confusion.
In that heavy quiet, walking hand-in-hand with my rival under a bruised sky, a chilling realization settled deeper than the physical pain: I wasn't just losing the fight on the bridge.
I was losing the fundamental strength I'd always possessed, the strength that defined me. And Kaito, the arrogant, antagonistic star athlete I'd clashed with countless times, was suddenly the unexpected, unyielding shield standing between me and the encroaching darkness.