The morning sun filtered through the kitchen window of the Kiryuu household, casting a honeyed glow over the simple wooden table where a family of four sat in comfortable silence. Steam rose from bowls of miso soup, carrying the scent of seaweed and bonito, while grilled salmon glistened with droplets of soy sauce.
Rei Kiryuu, a boy of fourteen with a frame so slender his school uniform seemed to hang from him like a curtain, picked at his rice with methodical precision. His movements were measured, deliberate, as if he feared occupying too much space, making too much sound. Across from him, Haru Kiryuu—older by two years—ate with the easy confidence of someone who belonged in his own skin. His athletic build filled his different-school uniform, the fabric straining slightly at the shoulders.
"Rei, you're doing that thing again," Haru said without looking up, a smile playing on his lips.
"What thing?" Rei's voice was soft, barely disturbing the air.
"Eating one grain of rice at a time. You'll be here until lunch."
Their mother, Saki Kiryuu, chuckled as she placed another serving of tamagoyaki on the table. "Leave him be, Haru. He's savoring it." Her eyes held that particular warmth reserved for mothers observing their children's peculiarities with fond exasperation.
At the head of the table, Dr. Akihiko Kiryuu peered over his newspaper, his glasses perched low on his nose. "Statistical anomaly," he murmured, more to himself than anyone. "If Rei maintains his current consumption rate of 0.8 grains per second, he'll finish breakfast precisely as the school bus arrives. Remarkable efficiency, really."
Rei flushed. "I'm not that slow."
"No, you're not slow," Haru said, reaching over to ruffle his brother's dark hair. "You're a deliberate strategist. Right, Dad?"
"Mmm," Akihiko acknowledged, turning a page. "Though strategy won't help if you miss the bus entirely."
The family banter continued—a gentle back-and-forth of inside jokes and comfortable teasing that spoke of years woven together in this modest home. Rei watched them, a faint smile touching his lips. This was his sanctuary: the clatter of dishes, his father's absent-minded medical observations, his mother's laughter, Haru's effortless charm that seemed to light up rooms.
Haru stood first, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Off to the land of eleventh-graders," he announced. "Try not to think too hard today, Rei. It's bad for your delicate constitution."
"My constitution is fine," Rei muttered, but the retort lacked force.
After Haru left with a wave and the sound of his bicycle tires on the pavement, Rei pushed his chair back. "I'm going to… you know."
Saki sighed. "Again? Right when the bus comes?"
"It's a biological imperative," Rei said with mock solemnity, disappearing down the hall just as the distinct rumble of the school bus approached their quiet street.
The bus waited, engine idling with a patient, metallic sigh. From the front door, the driver—a weary-looking man in his fifties with a permanent crease between his brows—glanced at his watch and shook his head. This was routine.
The doorbell chimed.
Saki opened it to reveal Ayaka Shinozaki standing on the doorstep, her school uniform crisp, her smile brighter than the morning sun. At fifteen, she carried herself with a confidence that seemed forged rather than born, her cheerful expression not quite reaching the watchful depths of her eyes.
"Auntie!" Ayaka greeted, bowing slightly.
"Ayaka, my dear! Come in, come in. He's doing his morning ritual."
Ayaka's laughter was like wind chimes. "The biological imperative?"
"The very one." Saki shook her head with affection. "Rei! The bus is here! And Ayaka's waiting!"
From down the hall, a muffled: "Coming!"
The driver leaned out his window, his expression one of long-suffering resignation. "Every morning," he said to no one in particular. "Like clockwork. The principal's going to have my head one of these days." He didn't sound angry, just weary, as if this small delay was another stone in the cairn of life's minor burdens.
Rei finally emerged, bag hastily slung over one shoulder. His father's voice followed him from the living room: "Did you wash your hands?"
"Yes!" Rei called back, his cheeks pink.
Ayaka grinned. "Thoroughly?"
"You're both terrible," Rei mumbled, but he was smiling as he slipped on his shoes. For a moment, as their eyes met, something flickered across Rei's face—not romantic affection, but the warm, complicated blush of someone seen completely by another human being. Ayaka's laughter at his father's question was familiar, a thread in the tapestry of their shared history.
They hurried to the bus, the doors hissing shut behind them just as the driver muttered, "Miracles do happen."
The interior of the bus was a microcosm of Midoriyama High's social ecosystem. At the front, studious types reviewed notes; in the middle, groups chattered about weekend plans; and at the back—
Rei felt the atmosphere shift as they walked down the aisle. Three boys from his class occupied the last row. Their uniforms were intentionally disheveled, ties loose, top buttons undone in calculated rebellion. As Rei passed, one of them—a boy named Kaito with sharp features and colder eyes—made a show of crumpling a page from his notebook.
"Oops," Kaito said, his voice carrying. "My hand slipped."
The paper ball flew, not with force, but with precision, bouncing off Rei's temple. A few snickers rippled through the surrounding seats.
Rei kept walking, his shoulders tightening, eyes fixed on an empty seat midway down the bus. But Ayaka stopped. She turned, her cheerful expression hardening into something else entirely. Her hand snapped out, catching the second paper ball before it could reach Rei.
"Your hand seems to have a chronic slipping problem, Kaito," she said, her voice sweet but edged with steel. "You should have that checked. I hear Dr. Kiryuu is taking new patients."
The back of the bus went quiet. Kaito's smirk faltered. Ayaka held his gaze for three long seconds before turning and following Rei to their seats. The message was clear, delivered without raised voice or physical threat, yet somehow more potent for its restraint.
As the bus pulled away from the curb, Rei stared at his hands in his lap. "You don't have to do that," he whispered.
"I know," Ayaka said, her usual smile returning as she looked out the window. "But someone has to."
***
The memory surfaced, unbidden, as Rei watched the suburban streets blur past. He remembered being eight, playing in the small garden behind his parents' clinic. A commotion at the back entrance—his father's urgent voice, his mother's footsteps quickening.
He'd peeked through the doorway to see an old man, bent with years and worry, cradling a girl in his arms. The girl was Ayaka, though he didn't know her name then. She was burning with fever, her skin pale, her breathing shallow. The old man's hands trembled as he handed her over, his eyes darting around as if expecting pursuit.
"Please," the man had whispered, his voice cracked with desperation. "She has no one. I found her sick on the roadside. I can't… it's not safe for her with me."
Before Dr. Kiryuu could ask questions, the man placed an envelope on the examination table—containing enough cash for immediate treatment—and fled into the gathering dusk. The only explanation was a note, scrawled in shaky handwriting: *This child has no parents. I am not her guardian, nor her grandfather. I found her ill and wandering. Being with me puts her in danger. Please care for her.*
For weeks, Rei's parents searched for the old man, asking discreet questions, checking with local authorities. Nothing. The man had vanished as completely as morning mist.
During that time, something tender and fierce bloomed between Saki Kiryuu and the sick, silent girl. Rei would watch from the doorway as his mother brushed Ayaka's hair, humming soft songs, or as his father checked her temperature with professional gentleness. When Ayaka finally spoke, her first words were "Thank you," whispered to Saki with such profound gratitude that Rei's mother had wept.
They offered her a permanent home. But Ayaka, even at eight, possessed a stubborn independence. At fourteen, she made a deal: she would find work, rent a small apartment, and care for herself. Her foster family could support her until then, but she would not be a burden. The Kiryuus protested, but Ayaka stood firm, her small frame radiating an unshakeable will.
She left a year ago, but returned regularly—for meals, for advice, for the simple comfort of family. Rei admired her more than he could articulate. To him, she was what strength looked like: not the absence of fear, but the decision to move forward despite it.
"He asked about you again," Rei said softly as the bus approached Midoriyama High.
Ayaka's attention snapped from the window. "Haru?"
"He said you should come for dinner on Friday. Mom's making katsudon."
A faint blush colored Ayaka's cheeks—the only crack in her composed exterior Rei ever witnessed. Her feelings for Haru were an open secret, one she wore with a mixture of defiance and vulnerability.
"I'll be there," she said, then quickly changed the subject. "You ready for the math test?"
Rei's stomach tightened. "As ready as I'll ever be."
He didn't mention the other test awaiting him—the daily assessment of navigating hallways without incident, of eating lunch alone without appearing lonely, of existing in a space that seemed to reject his very presence.
***
Midoriyama High was a creature of concrete and noise. The hallways echoed with the cacophony of slamming lockers, shouted greetings, and the relentless current of adolescent energy. Rei moved through it like a ghost, his presence barely registering on the social consciousness of the school.
He was, by all academic measures, competent. His grades hovered in the respectable B range, neither remarkable nor concerning. Teachers noted his quiet participation, his completed homework, his tendency to shrink when called upon. He was a footnote in classroom dynamics—the boy who sat by the window in the third row, whose name sometimes escaped his instructors until they checked their seating charts.
Lunch period was its own particular theater. Rei found his usual spot at the far end of the courtyard, beneath the skeletal branches of a cherry tree that wouldn't bloom for another month. He unwrapped his bento, the careful arrangement of rice, vegetables, and tamagoyaki a small masterpiece of his mother's love.
He'd taken exactly three bites when shadows fell across his food.
"Rei," Kaito said, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. "Eating alone again? That's sad, man."
Rei kept his eyes on his bento. "I don't mind."
"We were thinking," Kaito continued, leaning against the tree. "You're friends with Ayaka Shinozaki, right?"
A cold trickle of dread seeped down Rei's spine. "She's a family friend."
"Right, right." Kaito's smile didn't reach his eyes. "See, some of the guys were wondering if you could hook us up with her number. She's got this… energy, you know? That fierce thing. Bet she's wild in—"
"No," Rei said, the word sharper than he intended.
Kaito's expression hardened. "What was that?"
"I said no. I'm not giving you her number." Rei's hands trembled slightly, but he kept them in his lap.
One of Kaito's friends—a hulking boy named Goro—stepped forward. "Who do you think you are, talking to Kaito like that? You're nothing. A stick insect with a rich doctor daddy."
"I'm not giving you her number," Rei repeated, his voice barely audible now.
Kaito's foot shot out, kicking the bento box from Rei's hands. Rice and vegetables scattered across the concrete. "Oops. My foot slipped. Just like my hand on the bus."
The laughter of Kaito's friends was a harsh, discordant sound. Rei stared at the ruined food, his mother's careful work now dirtied and wasted. Something hot and sharp rose in his chest, but he swallowed it down, the familiar taste of humiliation.
"What's going on here?"
Ayaka's voice cut through the laughter like a blade. She stood at the edge of the courtyard, her posture straight, her eyes fixed on Kaito with a calm that was more threatening than any shout.
"Just having a conversation," Kaito said, though he took a half-step back. "Your little pet here was being unfriendly."
"Rei is not a pet," Ayaka said, moving to stand between them. "And you're done here."
For a moment, it seemed Kaito might push the issue. His jaw tightened, his fists clenched. Then he snorted, a derisive sound. "Whatever. Come on, guys. The air's getting stale."
They left, but not without Goro deliberately stepping on what remained of Rei's lunch as he passed.
Ayaka watched them go, then knelt beside Rei. "Are you hurt?"
He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"For what? Existing?" Her voice softened. "Here, we can share mine."
They sat together under the tree, Ayaka dividing her own bento between them. It was against the rules—students weren't supposed to be in other classes' areas during lunch—but neither cared. They talked of inconsequential things: an upcoming school festival, a new café that had opened near the station, Haru's latest basketball game.
The reprieve was short-lived.
"Shinozaki!"
Mr. Tanaka, Ayaka's homeroom teacher, stood at the courtyard entrance, his face flushed with irritation. He was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a permanent air of dissatisfaction, as if the world consistently failed to meet his expectations.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, striding toward them. "This isn't your class area. And you—" He turned his glare on Rei. "Are you two in some kind of relationship? Because school rules clearly prohibit—"
"We're not in a relationship," Ayaka said, standing. Her voice was calm, but Rei could see the tension in her shoulders. "Rei is like my brother."
"I don't care what he is to you," Tanaka snapped. "Rules exist for a reason. Return to your class immediately."
Something in Ayaka seemed to fracture then. The careful composure she maintained, the cheerful facade—it cracked, revealing the steel beneath.
"Rules," she repeated, her voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "Like the rule that says teachers should protect students from bullying? Because I've been watching for weeks, Mr. Tanaka. I've seen Kaito and his friends target Rei. I've seen them trip him in hallways, steal his notes, whisper things that make him flinch. And where were you? Where are any of you teachers when the rich kids' sons decide someone is their entertainment for the semester?"
The courtyard had gone silent. Students stopped eating, stopped talking, their attention fixed on the confrontation.
Tanaka's face darkened. "How dare you! You have no right to question—"
"I have every right," Ayaka said, her voice rising now, carrying across the courtyard. "When you turn a blind eye because a bully's father donates to the school, when you punish the victim for reacting but never the aggressor for acting—what does that make you? It makes you complicit. It makes you a coward."
The slap echoed.
Tanaka's hand had moved faster than anyone expected, striking Ayaka's cheek with enough force to turn her head. A red mark blossomed on her skin.
Rei stood, a protest forming on his lips, but Ayaka raised a hand without looking at him. Her eyes remained locked on Tanaka, and in them, Rei saw something that chilled him: not pain, not anger, but a deep, weary recognition, as if this moment confirmed something she had long suspected about the world.
"For that," Tanaka said, breathing heavily, "and for your insubordination, you're suspended. One week. Now get out of my sight."
Ayaka didn't cry. She didn't shout. She simply turned, collected her bag, and began walking toward the main building. At the courtyard entrance, she paused and looked back at Rei, giving him a small, sad smile before disappearing inside.
***
The week that followed was an exercise in silent endurance.
Without Ayaka's presence, the school's ecosystem shifted. Kaito and his friends grew bolder, their taunts less subtle, their "accidents" more frequent. Rei became a ghost in the machine of Midoriyama High, moving from class to class with his head down, speaking only when required, occupying as little space as possible.
He didn't report the bullying. The reason was both simple and complicated: reporting required belief—belief that authority would act justly, that consequences would follow wrongdoing, that the world operated on a system of cause and effect where cruelty was punished and vulnerability protected. Rei had seen Ayaka's suspension. He had seen teachers look away. He had learned, through quiet observation, that some truths were too inconvenient to acknowledge.
On Thursday, Kaito approached him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Hey, Rei. We got off on the wrong foot. How about we start over? Come hang with us at lunch."
It was a transparent trap. Rei knew this. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to run, to find a hidden corner of the library and wait out the lunch period. But another part of him—a smaller, lonelier part—whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was genuine. That perhaps the universe offered occasional mercies.
"Okay," he said, the word tasting like ash.
They led him not to the usual courtyard, but to the back of the school grounds, near the old equipment shed—a place rarely frequented during lunch. The air was cooler here, shaded by the school building, carrying the damp scent of recently turned earth.
"So," Kaito said, his friendly demeanor evaporating like morning dew. "About Ayaka's number."
Rei felt the ground tilt beneath him. "I told you, I'm not giving it to you."
"See, that's the thing," Kaito said, taking a step closer. "I don't think you understand how this works. My brother's in tenth grade. Kagen. Maybe you've heard of him?"
Rei had. Everyone had. Kagen was a legend in certain circles—not academically, but socially. He moved through Midoriyama with the casual authority of someone who owned the space he occupied.
As if summoned, a figure emerged from behind the equipment shed. Kagen was older, taller, with a muscular build that strained against his uniform. His hair was carefully styled, his eyes the same cold gray as Kaito's, but with an added layer of calculation.
"This the kid?" Kagen's voice was deeper, smoother than his brother's.
"Yeah," Kaito said. "Won't cooperate."
Kagen studied Rei as one might study an insect. "My little brother wants something from you. Who are you to say no?"
Rei's mouth was dry. "He wants to harass a friend of mine. I won't help him do that."
For a moment, Kagen looked almost impressed. Then he backhanded Rei across the face.
The world exploded in white pain. Rei stumbled back, catching himself against the rough brick of the school wall. His cheek burned, his vision swam.
"You'll tell the teachers?" Kagen asked, his voice conversational. "Go ahead. See what happens."
What happened next was a blur of pain and humiliation. Kagen's friends—older boys with harder eyes—joined in. Not a beating in the traditional sense, but something more intimate, more degrading. They pushed him, pulled at his clothes, whispered things that made Rei's stomach churn. At one point, Kagen pinned him against the wall, his face inches from Rei's.
"You're nothing," Kagen whispered, his breath hot against Rei's ear. "A stain. You should be grateful we're even paying attention to you."
Something broke then.
Not Rei's body—though that would bear bruises later—but something deeper. A dam holding back a reservoir of silent anger, of swallowed words, of bento boxes kicked across courtyards and paper balls bouncing off temples and laughter that followed him through hallways. It was the memory of Ayaka's red cheek, of her quiet dignity as she walked away suspended. It was the knowledge that no one was coming, that heroes existed only in stories, that sometimes the only person who could stand up for you was yourself.
Rei's vision tunneled. The world reduced to sensory fragments: the scent of Kagen's cologne, the rough brick against his back, the distant sound of a soccer game from the front field. And then, something else—a shift in his own consciousness, as if a switch had been flipped in some dark, unused corner of his mind.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He moved.
His head snapped forward, connecting with Kagen's nose with a sickening crunch. Kagen staggered back, howling, blood streaming between his fingers. Rei didn't pause. He launched himself at Kagen, not with technique or skill, but with the raw, desperate fury of a cornered animal. His fingers clawed, his teeth sank into Kagen's forearm, his knees drove into soft tissue.
It was ugly. Brutal. Primitive. There was no art to it, only a frenzied release of everything he had swallowed for years. Kagen, larger and stronger, tried to fight back, but Rei was everywhere at once—a whirlwind of nails and teeth and primal noise. He didn't feel the blows that landed on him. He didn't hear the shouts of Kagen's friends. There was only the target, the source of his pain, and the need to make it stop.
He got Kagen on the ground, his hands around the older boy's throat. Kagen's eyes widened with something beyond pain—with fear. His hands came up, not to strike, but to push at Rei's face, and in doing so, his fingers tangled in Rei's hair.
Except it wasn't hair.
It came away in Kagen's hand—a dark, expensive-looking hairpiece. Underneath, Kagen's scalp was sparse, patchy, the vulnerability shocking in contrast to his previous menace.
For a moment, everything froze. Rei, still straddling Kagen, stared at the wig in the older boy's hand. Kagen stared back, his expression one of naked horror. And then, from deep in Rei's chest, a sound emerged—not laughter, exactly, but something darker, more guttural. A release of tension so profound it bordered on hysteria.
He slammed Kagen's head against the ground, not hard enough to cause serious injury, but with enough force to render him still. Then he stood, breathing heavily, blood dripping from a split lip, his uniform torn, his knuckles raw.
Around him, Kagen's friends had started forward, their faces twisted with rage. But they stopped as a new presence made itself known.
"That's enough."
The voice was quiet, but it carried an authority that halted movement. A boy stood at the edge of the gathering crowd—taller than most, with a build that suggested not just athleticism, but density, like a mountain compressed into human form. His hair was orange, cropped short, his eyes blue and observant. He wore the Midoriyama uniform, but somehow it looked different on him—less like a student's clothing and more like a uniform in the military sense.
"This was a one-on-one," the boy said. His name, Rei would learn later, was Kurobane. But everyone would call him Jaws. "You don't interrupt
One of Kagen's friends, a brute named Ryo, sneered. "Who the hell are you to give orders?"
He charged.
What happened next was difficult to process. Jaws didn't seem to move with particular speed, yet Ryo was suddenly on the ground, clutching his arm at an unnatural angle. Another boy lunged, and he joined Ryo a second later, crumpling with a choked gasp. Jaws hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't changed expression. He simply… neutralized them.."
Does anyone else," Jaws said, his eyes scanning the remaining boys, "want to test whether I'm qualified to give instructions?"
Silence.
He turned his attention to Rei, studying him with a clinical detachment. "You're hurt."
Rei became aware of the pain then—a symphony of aches and sharp stings across his body. He nodded, unable to speak.
"Go to the nurse," Jaws said. Then, to the crowd: "This is over. Anyone who speaks of it faces me."
The authority in his voice was absolute. Students began to disperse, casting backward glances at the scene: Kagen unconscious, his wig lying discarded beside him; his friends nursing injuries; Rei standing amidst the wreckage, breathing hard; and Jaws, a quiet sentinel observing it all.
As the crowd thinned, Jaws approached Rei. Up close, he was even more imposing, not just physically, but in the stillness he carried—a calm that felt deep and dangerous, like the quiet before a tectonic shift.
"You fight like an animal," Jaws said, his voice low. "No technique. All instinct."
Rei swallowed, tasting blood. "I… I didn't mean to…"
"I'm not criticizing," Jaws said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and offered it to Rei. "Instinct can be refined. Controlled." His dark eyes held Rei's. "What's your name?"
"Rei. Kiryuu Rei."
Jaws nodded, as if filing the information away. "Clean yourself up, Kiryuu. This is only the beginning."
He walked away then, leaving Rei standing in the cooling afternoon, the handkerchief clutched in his trembling hand, the taste of blood and freedom equally sharp on his tongue.
Somewhere, in another part of town, Haru Kiryuu felt a strange unease—a brother's intuition, perhaps. He glanced at Ayaka, who was watching the street with a worried expression.
"He'll be fine," Haru said, though he wasn't sure he believed it.
Ayaka didn't answer. She was remembering a much younger Rei, seven years old, facing down a neighborhood dog that had cornered a kitten. The dog was three times his size, snarling, saliva dripping from yellowed teeth. Rei had been crying, trembling, but he hadn't backed down. He'd picked up a stick, shouted with a voice raw with fear and determination, and advanced. Not with skill, but with a terrifying, desperate courage.
The dog had backed down first.
"I know," Ayaka said softly. "But I worry about what happens when he stops being afraid."
In the schoolyard, Rei looked at his reflection in a window. His face was bruised, his uniform torn, his eyes wide with shock. But beneath the shock, something else flickered—a recognition, faint but undeniable, of a self he hadn't known existed. A self that could bite back.
He didn't know yet about the organization Jaws commanded in the north of the city. He didn't know about the past decisions his parents had made that would soon cast long shadows. He didn't know that Kagen's humiliation would demand retaliation, or that his own awakening would attract attention from quarters he couldn't imagine.
All he knew, standing there with blood on his knuckles and a strange calm settling over him, was that something had changed. The fragile shell he'd inhabited for fifteen years had cracked. And whatever emerged would not be so easily contained.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the schoolyard. Somewhere, a bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Students began streaming back toward the buildings, their chatter filling the air, oblivious to the small, significant fracture that had just appeared in their world.
Rei Kiryuu took a deep breath, straightened his torn uniform as best he could, and walked toward the main building. His steps, for the first time in memory, did not hesitate.