The afternoon sun had long begun its descent when Rakan Sakurai found himself pressed against the rough brick wall of the school's back courtyard, his breath tight in his throat, his body stiff.
There were four of them. Five, if he counted the one standing a little farther off, watching with disinterest—just there to be there, like a spectator who wouldn't dirty their hands but wanted to see blood on the pavement anyway.
Rakan had learned by now not to say much.
Not that it mattered. They talked enough for all of them.
"Think you're better than us, huh?" The biggest of the bunch, a stocky kid with a too-wide smirk and a history of getting away with everything, jabbed a finger against Rakan's chest. "Walking around all quiet like you're too good to even look at people."
Rakan didn't flinch. Not at the finger. Not at the way the others stood just behind him, waiting. He had heard this before.
He said nothing.
"Not gonna talk?" The boy clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Always acting like you're so different."
Rakan's jaw tensed. He was different, but not in the way they thought. It wasn't in the way he walked, or the way he talked, or the way his face looked just a little off from the rest of them. It was something deeper, something he couldn't put into words.
And they hated him for it.
One of them scoffed, shifting on their heels. "Probably thinks he's too good to even defend himself."
Rakan met their gaze, steady, unwavering. "That's not it."
The boy's expression darkened. "Oh? Then what is it?"
Rakan exhaled slowly. "It wouldn't change anything."
The first hit wasn't unexpected.
A fist to the stomach, just under the ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. A calculated blow—one that hurt, but wouldn't leave a mark that teachers could question. Rakan doubled over slightly, not because he wanted to, but because his body made him.
Laughter. The kind that wasn't real, just a series of sharp exhales and teeth flashing in the light.
"Yeah? Not gonna change anything?" The stocky boy grabbed a fistful of Rakan's collar and yanked him up, forcing their eyes to meet. "Still think that?"
Rakan didn't answer.
A second hit, this time to his cheek. His head snapped to the side, the taste of metal flooding his mouth.
The voices around him blurred.
Words turned into static, indistinct and meaningless. They had already decided what they wanted out of this. He wasn't part of the conversation anymore.
A shove. He barely registered his body hitting the pavement.
The blows came less like punches now, more like gestures—casual, almost bored. A foot pressed against his back, not quite hard enough to break anything, but enough to remind him that it could.
Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over.
One of them said something about being late for cram school. Another laughed, as if this had all just been some passing amusement, something to do before heading home.
And then they were gone.
Rakan stayed where he was, facedown in the grass, listening to the distant hum of cicadas, the sound of the school's front gates clanking as they left.
His body ached in a way he was used to, a way he didn't fight anymore. He pressed his forehead against the ground, breathing through the dirt and the scent of trampled grass.
It was quiet here.
And that feeling returned.
That wrong feeling.
The air thickened, curling around him, pressing in, watching, waiting.
His fingers twitched against the grass.
It had been happening more often lately. These moments, these shifts in the air that made his skin prickle, that made the world around him feel just a little too still, a little too hollow.
But it never did anything.
Not really.
Just pressed down on him like a weight no one else could feel.
He swallowed and forced himself to sit up.
The bruises would form later. His knuckles stung where they had scraped against the pavement, and he could already feel the slow trickle of blood from his lip.
It didn't matter.
He just needed to get up.
The world was cruel. People were cruel. He had known that for a long time.
But—
His mother's voice. Her laughter. The way she smiled, even when things were difficult, even when she thought he wasn't paying attention.
There were still good things in the world.
He just had to remember that.
Rakan exhaled and wiped at his face, smearing dirt and blood across his sleeve. He would clean up before going home.
His mother didn't need to see this.
He stood, wincing slightly, and walked away—leaving behind the ghosts in the grass, the weight in his chest, and the shadows that stretched just a little too far when no one was looking.
Rakan didn't go straight home.
He took the long way.
Past the empty practice fields, where stray soccer balls still lingered in the corners. Past the vending machines behind the gym, their fluorescent glow flickering faintly in the dimming light.
It gave him time.
Time for the sting in his lip to dull, for the stiffness in his side to settle into something bearable. Time to breathe, to shake off the weight pressing into his chest.
The school's back entrance led into a narrow alley, quiet except for the distant hum of traffic from the main road. Rakan walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, his steps steady but slow.
The convenience store was just a few blocks down.
He pushed open the glass door, the artificial chill of the air-conditioning washing over him.
A few people glanced his way—just quick, passing looks. No one lingered.
The cashier barely acknowledged him, too busy scrolling through their phone behind the counter.
Good.
Rakan moved to the back, grabbing a small pack of wet wipes from the shelf. He could already hear his mother's voice in his head, telling him to carry some around like she always did.
He never listened.
He pulled a few bills from his pocket, placing them on the counter without a word. The cashier rang him up without looking, sliding his change back across the counter.
He left without taking it.
Outside, under the glow of a streetlamp, he tore the pack open with his teeth and wiped at his face. The cloth came away streaked with red and dirt, smearing faintly against his fingers.
His reflection stared back at him from the store window.
Messy hair. A faint bruise forming just under his cheekbone. A face that looked too much like his father's.
Rakan turned away before the thought could settle.
He wiped the last of the blood from his knuckles and tossed the crumpled packet into a nearby bin. His mother wouldn't notice anything now.
The walk home was quiet.
The neighborhood had already settled into its evening rhythm—lights on in the apartments, the muffled sounds of television drifting through open windows. A couple of kids ran past him on the sidewalk, laughing, their voices high and sharp against the cooling air.
Rakan didn't react.
He reached his building, taking the stairs two at a time. His key turned in the lock with a quiet click.
The door swung open.
Warm light spilled out from inside. The smell of food, faint but familiar, drifted through the small space.
His mother was humming in the kitchen, her voice soft, absentminded.
She turned at the sound of the door, her smile immediate, bright.
"You're late today," she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Did you stay after school?"
Rakan nodded, toeing off his shoes. "Something like that."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "You hungry?"
He should've been.
But his stomach still felt tight, unsettled.
"I'll eat later," he said, forcing a small smile. "Gonna shower first."
She didn't push.
"Alright," she said, turning back to the stove. "Don't take too long, or the food'll get cold."
Rakan made his way down the hall, shutting the bathroom door behind him.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.
The bathroom light buzzed faintly above him.
He turned on the faucet, letting the water run cool over his hands, watching as the last traces of blood swirled down the drain.
The bruises would fade. The ache in his ribs would ease.
Tomorrow, everything would start again.
Rakan exhaled, gripping the edges of the sink.
That feeling was still there—faint, lingering.
Waiting.
Watching.
But for now, he ignored it.
He turned off the water, peeled off his shirt, and stepped into the shower.
Letting the heat wash everything else away.