One hit. Then another. A third.
The concrete beneath Kai was wet, cold, and smelled of rusted metal. Someone stomped on his ribs while another laughed. Too many voices. Too loud. Until it all blurred into one shapeless noise.
He lay there, wrapped in silence like every other time, counting in his head. One. Two. Three. Four. You'd think he was counting the hits, but it was just his breaths, shallow, uneven, forced out of a body too small for all that weight. Each one sounded the same. Each one hurt the same — or maybe not at all.
More kicks followed. Left ribs. Right ribs. Arm. Leg. Temple.
"Look at him! He's not even reacting! Scream already, you bastard!"
A boot hit his shoulder and flipped him onto his back. The flickering streetlight brushed across his face — a skinny boy, bloodstained and shaking, with eyes too calm for someone being beaten half to death. His silver-white hair had turned red again. Same as always, he thought.
One of them spat on him."Leave him. It's pointless, Marko."
The laughter faded, and the rain stayed.
Kai moved only when the cold water reached his cheek. Slowly, no trembling, no groaning. The rain was louder now, almost as if it wanted to drown everything else out. He stood up, swaying, his clothes soaked in blood, bones probably cracked. The lights at the end of the alley stretched into blurry lines. His knees gave way for a moment, but he didn't fall. He just stood there, motionless, like a forgotten statue.
A drop of blood hit the pavement. Then another. Then nothing.
He breathed through his nose — no shiver, no pain, no fear. Only that dull awareness that it had happened again, and that it didn't matter.
"Why don't I feel it? What does it even mean to feel? Fear, maybe? Should I laugh because I'm still alive, or cry because I look like this? Should I be angry? Should I want revenge? But why? What's the point of revenge when there's nothing left inside me?"
His voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the rain.
He looked up. The rain slid down his face like tears he didn't have. His honey-yellow eyes looked pale, almost white.
He started walking, no direction, no thought. He passed an old kiosk with wired-up windows. The air smelled burnt. Two men stood outside smoking, their voices hoarse and drunk. One coughed blood into his hand and wiped it on his pants.
They said if looks could kill, this city would be empty — but here, looks didn't need to.
Further down, a trash bin burned. Three kids warmed their hands around it. One lit a plastic bottle and laughed when the flame turned blue.
The buildings were old and covered in graffiti — street names, gang tags, insults, love declarations, all layered over each other.
A police line blinked red and blue at the next corner. Another murder. Nothing unusual here. And where there's crime, there's always prostitution. Women stood on corners, waiting for men who only knew how to hurt.
Behind every second window, a TV flickered. Some apartments played music. Others screamed.
The city reeked of cold oil, cheap alcohol, and burnt meat. A city where kids grew up too fast because they had to. Where pain was normal, and pity was weakness.
Kai knew every street, every door to avoid, every light that never went out. Everyone fought here — not to win, but to survive.
And somewhere beneath this city, there was a place where men tore each other apart while others cheered.
The Pit.
Kai had never seen it, but sometimes he swore he could hear it — deep under the concrete, like the city's second heartbeat.
He pulled his hood lower. The rain mixed with sweat on his forehead. Each step echoed hollow but steady.
"Two years…"
He didn't know why he thought that. Maybe because nothing had felt real since then.
The door to his apartment creaked as he pushed it open. No lights, just the hum of the old fridge. He kicked off his shoes, left them in the corner. Water dripped from his hair onto the floor. His shoulder popped; he pushed it back into place like it was nothing.
On the table stood a half-empty glass of vodka beside a cigarette dying in a glass ashtray.
"You're late."
The voice came from the couch — rough, tired, drifting. His mother lay there, thin dress, makeup smeared, the TV flashing silently. She looked at him once, then away.
"Was it those guys again?"
He shrugged. No answer.
She laughed softly, without joy. "You're just like your father. Never say a damn thing. One day I'll be picking your body off the street, Kai."
Then she finished the vodka and closed her eyes.
He stood there, silent. The sound of water dripping from his hair filled the room.
In the bathroom, the mirror was cracked — thin spiderwebs across the glass. He washed his face, cold water, cold blood. The cut on his lip opened again, a thin red line. He looked at himself — pale, calm, eyes too old for his age, scars crossing a body too weak to carry them.
A twitch. A flash. Rain. Voices. "Kai, run!" A blunt hit. A scream. Then nothing.
He pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat was uneven, not from pain, but from something else.
"What were you thinking, Yuto? What did you feel?"
The hum of the fridge filled the silence again. He took a slow breath, looked at the mirror, and whispered, "Two years…"
The water kept running. Drip. Drip. Drip.
He passed by her again, quietly, and closed the door to his room.
It was small — a bed, a desk, an old monitor sitting on a pile of books. The wallpaper peeled at the edges, one corner held together with tape.
He sat on the bed and dropped his bag; a puddle formed on the floor. His eyes landed on a controller, cracked plastic, a missing button, dust on the wires. Next to it, a game case without a cover. A faded label: Co-Op Save 1.
He picked it up and held it for a moment. The soft click of the console filled the room, followed by a startup sound he knew by heart. He closed his eyes.
Rain. Neon. Two kids sitting on the floor, cables tangled across the room. Yuto laughed, too loud for the hour. "Bro, you suck at this game." "Shut up, I'm learning." "You've been saying that for three years, Kai!" They both laughed. Yuto bumped his shoulder. "When we make it, we'll win everything, right?"
Kai nodded. Back then, it felt like something real.
Then the memory flickered. Hits. Voices. Rain on asphalt.
"Kai, run!"
He opened his eyes. Back in his room. The game case slipped from his hand and hit the floor. The screen glowed blue — no signal.
He sat still. His breathing was calm, almost too calm. He couldn't tell what was heavier — the memory, or the emptiness it left behind.
He lay down. The bed creaked, almost like it was breathing. Outside, the city kept humming, somewhere a dog barked. Kai stared at the ceiling until the cracks began to move — like veins, like roads, like something still alive even when everything else wasn't.
He closed his eyes.
"Two years…"
The rain hit the window harder.
"Nothing will ever be the same again."