The day Atiyama turned 18 marked the end of his long wait for the state's help. Finally, he could leave the orphanage—escaping both abuse and neglect. He stood at the threshold, triumph swelling in his chest, only to feel that same triumph shadowed by doubt.
The rush of freedom was quickly followed by uncertainty: what had these years of conflict made him? Sister Hana's nurturing hope stood in stark contrast to the violence he'd embraced, and the shift unsettled him.
Even as he stepped outside, he wrestled with the fear that his strength was still defined by the cruelty he'd endured. His heart was still heavy with the loss of Sister Hana. He wished more than anything that he could tell her about the good news, that he finally had a place to call his own. She was the only person who ever made him feel human, who ever believed in him. He missed her so much, the pain of her absence still fresh after all these years .
Walking down the streets, Atiyama made his way back to the orphanage one last time. It was time to finally close that chapter, to make peace with his past. As he passed through the front gates, the familiar sight of the old building brought back a flood of memories. The orphanage stood like a monolith, its façade crumbling like the fractured pieces of his own past.
The brick walls, once vibrant with the laughter of children, were now chipped and faded, mirroring the countless emotional scars he carried. Windows, some shattered and others fogged with grime, were like the blurry memories of pain and struggle he had finally left behind. Every creak of the wooden floors inside echoed the relentless fight to survive, a melody of endurance that had played on loop all through his childhood.
He was halfway through the doors when it happened. Without warning, a fist came flying toward him. Atiyama's reflexes kicked in. His hand shot out and caught the punch with a sickening crack, holding it steady. He looked up in confusion."What the hell?" only to see the familiar face of Elijah, one of the staff members, staring at him in disbelief.
Elijah was a fermeiler face as he spent years reinforcing the pain of the orphanage. "You're past curfew," Elijah said, his voice sharp but controlled, yet a slight tremor betrayed his outward calm. His eyes narrowed as he saw the boy he once thought he controlled now towering over him.
There was a hesitancy, a hint of doubt, that he quickly masked behind a facade of authority. "Just because you're 18 doesn't mean you can do whatever you want in my building. Matter of fact… you're 18 now, right? That gives you six months from your birthday to leave the orphanage. And if I remember correctly…"
He paused, the grin spreading across his face almost forced, trying to maintain a hold over a situation slipping out of his grasp, "You've got about one month left."Atiyama's smirk widened at the revelation. "A month. I'm afraid I won't be staying here any longer. Today is the day I leave this prison forever."
The look in Elijah's eyes betrayed authority but also now a mix of underlying fear—he didn't know what he had just unleashed. Atiyama smirked, his confidence growing. "You're right," he said coolly. "I'm past curfew. But to be honest… I don't care."Elijah's face contorted in rage. "You damn disobedient, ungrateful child," he spat, stepping back and raising his fist. "I'll teach you respect."With that, Elijah swung at him, fists flying in a frenzy of wild, angry punches. Atiyama's smile didn't falter. He had been waiting for this moment for so long.
His body moved like a well-oiled machine, every dodge effortless. He sidestepped Elijah's wild swings, feeling the rush of anticipation in his veins. Then, in one fluid motion, Atiyama ducked under a punch, wrapped his arm around Elijah's torso, and suplexed him to the ground with brutal force. Elijah's body hit the floor with a sickening thud.
Atiyama's fists came down like thunder, each punch deliberate, not rushed. He wasn't going to kill Elijah; that would have been too easy, too quick. Instead, he wanted Elijah to taste every bit of the pain he had dished out. This was a reckoning for all the tormented years. Each impact was a silent but resounding judgment for the suffering inflicted upon Atiyama and the other children.
When Elijah's consciousness finally faded, leaving him bloodied and barely breathing, Atiyama stood over him. The grin at the corners of his lips wasn't of triumph or victory, but of something more complex. He didn't feel like a hero or a conqueror. What he felt was an altogether different kind of freedom.
As Atiyama turned and started packing up his things to head to his new home, he heard the distant sounds of shouting and commotion. Atiyama smirked, "Sounds like they found him." he finished packing and walked past the hall, but then froze. There, near the stairs, was Elijah—bloodied, with a broken nose, barely conscious. The staff were frantic, calling 911, but Elijah couldn't seem to remember anything. His eyes were wide, filled with confusion as he mumbled, "What… what happened? Who did this?"
As Atiyama turned to leave, the sunlight caught the bracelet Sister Hana had given him, causing it to shimmer gently. The touch of the sun on the beads triggered a wave of warmth through him. He paused briefly, feeling the texture of each bead slide against his wrist, a subtle reminder of the journey he had endured. Without glancing back, he headed towards his new life, where the soft glow of memory lighted every step forward. He turned and walked out of the orphanage without a second glance, heading toward the life he was about to build, a life far from the place that had once confined him.
Atiyama's life after the orphanage wasn't perfect, but it was better. He'd found a stable job at a logistics firm, with decent pay and a quiet apartment downtown. It wasn't much, but compared to the years of abuse and hunger at the orphanage, it felt almost like luxury. His coworkers were polite enough, his boss fair, and for the first time, no one yelled at him for every small mistake.
Yet, the safety felt hollow. Most days followed the same rhythm: wake up, shower, dress neatly, catch the 7:10 bus, sit through hours of spreadsheets and phone calls, grab takeout, hit the gym, shower again, sleep. Repeat. His world had order now, but little meaning.
The routine was both a comfort and a cage. One night, he stood in his dim kitchen, watching the microwave hum as it counted down his dinner. The faint smell of instant noodles filled the air. He leaned on the counter, staring blankly at the steam rising from the bowl. It reminded him of how his life used to feel—clouded, shapeless, always fading .
He told himself he was doing fine. Better, even. But the truth lingered underneath: the numbness hadn't left. It had just learned to wear a suit. Some nights, the silence pressed too hard against his chest, and he'd feel that familiar tightness, like grief that never healed.
He had survived. He had built something stable. But deep down, he still felt like a ghost drifting through the motions of a life he wasn't sure he wanted. That night, the rain fell hard. The streets glistened under the faint glow of streetlights as Atiyama walked home from the gym. His hood was up, hands tucked in his pockets, earbuds playing low music that barely drowned out the sound of water splashing under his shoes.
He turned down a narrow side street—a shortcut he always took. That's when he heard it: footsteps behind him, quick and uneven. He didn't think much of it at first, until a voice called out.
"Yo, you got a minute?"
Atiyama slowed, glancing back.
Two men stepped out from the shadows, their faces hidden beneath soaked hoodies.
One had a bat, the other a knife that caught the dim streetlight just enough to make his pulse spike. He said nothing, eyes steady. The years at the orphanage had burned fear out of him long ago."Don't make this harder, man."
The one with the knife said, voice shaky but trying to sound tough. "Just your wallet."
Atiyama exhaled, slow and calm. "You don't want this."
The guy with the bat laughed. "Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do, tough guy?"
The knife-wielder lunged first. Atiyama sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted hard—the blade clattered to the wet pavement. Before the man could yell, Atiyama drove his knee into his gut and threw him down. The second man swung the bat wildly.
Atiyama ducked under it and countered with a quick jab to the throat, followed by a kick that sent him sprawling into a puddle. It was over almost as quickly as it began. They were both groaning on the ground, gasping for air, trying to crawl away.
He sighed, looking down at them—rainwater washing thin streaks of blood from his knuckles.
"Told you," he muttered.
But then—he felt it. A sharp sting exploded through his side. He staggered forward, eyes wide, looking down to see the dark bloom spreading across his shirt.
A THIRED ATTACKER!!!—someone he hadn't seen!?!?—stood behind him, hand trembling around a knife slick with red.
Atiyama turned, fury flashing across his face. "YOU PIEACE OF SHIT!!!" he breathed, before the world tilted...
He swung once, landing a solid hit that sent the man stumbling back. The knife twisted deeper in his side as he fell to one knee.
The rain felt cold now, colder than anything he'd ever known. The world blurred, the streetlights bending and warping like a dream fading out. As his vision dimmed,
he felt warmth pulsing faintly from the bracelet on his wrist—the one Sister Hana had given him. It glowed softly through the rain, the light growing stronger as his heartbeat slowed."Guess I'll see you soon… Sister Hana," he whispered, the rain mixing with his blood as everything went black.