The morning sky was the color of ash — quiet, heavy, and cold.
Akira walked through the school gate like he did every day, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground.
He could already feel it — the stares.
They came before the whispers, like invisible arrows that struck from every direction.
But today felt different.
Sharper.
Like the silence itself was waiting for something.
---
At his locker, he reached for his shoes — and froze.
A single note lay folded inside.
He opened it.
> "You don't belong among us."
The letters were jagged, pressed hard into the paper — angry.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket, where other notes already rested. He never threw them away.
They were reminders — proof that he was still enduring.
He whispered to himself, almost like a prayer,
> "I'll keep walking."
---
When he entered the classroom, the air changed again.
Laughter died. Chairs stopped moving.
Akira didn't look up. He walked quietly to his seat — the same one near the window, alone as always.
He opened his notebook and stared at the blank page, pretending not to notice the way people leaned close to whisper.
"Did you hear?"
"They say it's true… he really—"
"Shh! He'll hear you."
The words slipped between the desks like poison.
Outside the window, the petals of cherry blossoms drifted down — light, peaceful, untouched by the noise of human cruelty.
---
At lunch, he stayed behind.
The classroom was empty now, filled only with sunlight and dust.
He took out his lunchbox, eating quietly. Every sound — the click of chopstick⁹s, the hum of the ceiling fan — felt too loud.
Until a sudden creak broke the silence.
He turned.
Someone stood at the door.
It was a girl from another class — Ami Takeda. He remembered her face faintly. She used to talk to Mira all the time.
Her eyes were sharp. Cold.
"Hey," she said. "If I were you, I'd go see the notice board."
Then she walked away.
---
He didn't move for a long time.
But something in her voice told him this wasn't just another rumor.
When he finally stepped into the hallway, he could already see the crowd forming ahead — students gathered around the notice board, murmuring.
As he approached, the whispering stopped.
And then he saw it.
Across the board, written in thick red paint that dripped like blood:
> AKIRA SATO
MURDERER
The letters burned in the sunlight.
No one said a word.
No one needed to.
He felt the weight of every stare, every breath, pressing down on him — like the world itself had turned against him again.
Someone laughed quietly from the back. Another person took a photo.
Akira stood still for a long time, staring at his name — his curse — until the noise around him faded into nothing.
Then, slowly, he reached into his bag, took out a piece of paper, and pinned it over the red letters.
The students leaned closer to read what he wrote.
> "Still breathing."
A hush fell over them.
He turned and walked away.
---
That evening, the rain returned — soft at first, then harder.
Akira walked home alone, his uniform damp, his scar faintly glowing under the streetlights.
The city looked blurred — lights bleeding through raindrops, like memories that refused to fade.
He entered his apartment, kicked off his shoes, and sat by the window.
The photograph of his family was still on the table — him, his mother, and his sister. Three smiling faces, frozen in time.
He traced his fingers over it, his voice quiet.
> "You'd hate me too… wouldn't you?"
He turned the photo face down.
---
His phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
> "You should have stayed gone."
He stared at it for a moment.
Then another message came.
> "Before someone gets hurt again."
The screen went dark in his hand.
Thunder rolled outside, shaking the window slightly.
Akira didn't move.
But deep inside, something changed.
Fear.
Or maybe anger — quiet, cold anger that had been buried too long.
Outside, lightning flashed — and for a brief second, his reflection in the glass looked different.
Darker.
---
He whispered to himself,
> "If they want me gone… they'll have to make me."
The next morning started like any other — gray sky, cold wind, silence.
Akira's footsteps echoed through the empty corridor. He always came early now; it was easier when the halls were quiet.
No whispers. No eyes. Just the sound of his shoes against the floor.
He reached the classroom door and stopped.
Something felt wrong.
The air — it smelled faintly of paint… and something else.
Metallic. Sharp.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
Across the blackboard, written in thick red strokes, were the words:
> "HOW MANY MORE, AKIRA?"
For a second, his mind went blank. The smell hit him again — stronger this time. It wasn't paint.
It was blood.
A few drops still slid down the chalkboard.
His heartbeat quickened. He stepped closer, and that's when he saw it — a dead bird, nailed to the frame above the board. Its small wings spread wide, crimson dripping from its beak.
The sight punched the air from his chest.
Someone had done this. Someone who wanted him to see it first.
---
The sound of footsteps came from behind him. A few students had arrived early.
Their gasps filled the room.
"What the hell—"
"Is that… blood?"
"Did he do this?"
Akira turned slowly, and the look in their eyes said it all.
Fear.
Disgust.
Accusation.
He opened his mouth. "It wasn't—"
But the teacher rushed in just then, followed by more students. The room exploded with noise.
"Everyone out! Out now!"
"Call the staff office!"
In seconds, the hallway filled with shouts and whispers.
And through it all, Akira stood still, his hands shaking slightly. The red words on the board burned into his mind.
---
By afternoon, the rumor had spread across the entire school.
> "Akira brought blood to school."
"He wrote that message himself."
"He's losing it again."
He didn't try to defend himself. He knew how pointless it was.
But this time, something about the whispers felt different.
They weren't just mocking. They were scared.
Someone was pushing things further — and Akira didn't know why.
---
After classes, he was called to the teacher's office.
The teacher's expression was tense. "Akira, I know this is difficult, but… the school can't ignore what happened. Until we find out who did it, please stay quiet and avoid attention."
He nodded. "I understand."
As he stood to leave, he noticed a student waiting outside the office.
A girl — neat uniform, confident posture, cold eyes that watched him like he was a stranger.
For a split second, their eyes met.
Something about her gaze made his stomach tighten — a strange, familiar feeling.
She looked away first and walked down the hall, teachers greeting her respectfully as she passed.
> "That's her," someone whispered nearby. "The prodigy from Class 2-A."
Akira ignored her.
But for some reason, his chest ached as he watched her leave.
---
That night, he sat by his window again. The photo on the table lay face-down, as always.
He replayed the morning in his head — the smell of blood, the message, the eyes staring at him.
It wasn't random. It was personal.
His phone buzzed. Another message.
> "You saw it, didn't you?"
"Next time, it won't be a bird."
Akira's hand trembled slightly as he typed back — the first time he ever replied.
> "Who are you?"
Three dots appeared. Then, after a pause:
> "Someone who knows what you really did."
The screen went black.
For the first time in months, Akira felt something worse than guilt.
Fear.
But beneath that fear, a flicker of something else stirred — anger.
The same quiet, suffocating anger that had lived in him since that night.
---
Lightning flashed outside, lighting up his scar.
He stood slowly, his reflection in the window staring back — tired, broken… but no longer afraid.
> "If they want to play," he whispered,
"I'll play."
End of Chapter 2