Katsuro Shiba had never once been the main character of anything. Not in his class. Not in his life. He walked the halls of Ishikawa High the way shadows crawled across pavement—unnoticed, stepped on, and fading the moment light hit them.
He was fat. That was the first thing people saw. Not his grades. Not his near-perfect memory. Not the fact that he never once turned in a late assignment or talked back to a teacher. None of that mattered. When you looked like him, you became a target before you spoke.
His uniform shirt strained at the buttons. The second one from the top had popped off three weeks ago and he still hadn't found the courage to ask for a new one. He kept his head down as he walked to class, shoulders slightly forward, as if trying to curl himself into something smaller, something less visible.
The classroom smelled like sweat and old plastic chairs. Katsuro's seat was near the back, second from the window. That made him an easy target when the teacher wasn't looking. He sat down and pulled his notebook out.
Katsuro Shiba sat at the very back of class 2-C, second row from the window. His desk was scratched. Gum was stuck underneath. It smelled faintly of vinegar and dust — like the ghosts of old sweat and spilled drinks. He never touched it more than he had to.
He didn't speak unless spoken to. And even then, he knew better than to say much.
His body was too big for the uniform. His buttons strained. His pants bit into his thighs when he sat down. Whenever he shifted, the plastic chair creaked — and that sound, more than anything, made him want to disappear.
"Hey, lardball."
Katsuro's heart sank.
"Oi, Shiba-kun," another voice chimed in, lighter, crueler. "Did you eat your homework again?"
Laughter. It came from the left side of the room. Ryota and Kensuke, of course. He didn't even have to look. He could picture them already. Smirking. Leaning back with feet kicked out. Uniforms loose, confidence dripping off them like sweat.
He didn't respond. Just stared at his desk. One thumb rubbed at a chipped corner.
That only made it worse.
A crumpled ball of paper hit his head. Then another. Then a pencil, hard and sharp against the back of his ear. He flinched. The class wasn't paying attention to the teacher. They never were when it came to him.
He clenched his fists under the desk. Not in anger — but to stop them from shaking.
"You know," Ryota said, fake-pity in his voice, "I heard he used to be skinny. Before he started eating his feelings."
Kensuke added, "He eats everything except the will to live."
More laughter. Some of it from the girls.
He wanted to vanish. To evaporate. He used to pray for it. Used to think, maybe if he suffered enough, the world would cut him a break. That maybe the gods would notice.
They never did.
He heard the teacher's voice in the background, dull and drifting, like a radio playing in another room. No one cared. Not really. Not when it was him.
The bell rang. Relief.
He waited. Always the last to leave. Let the wave of noise and footsteps wash out. When the classroom emptied, he moved. Slow. Quiet. Bookbag slung over one shoulder.
Outside, the sky was a flat gray. It fit. Concrete buildings stretched around the school like walls in a maze. No color. No sound but distant traffic.
He made his way around the back of the gym, past the old vending machine that hadn't worked since spring. That's where he usually went. Just to be alone. Just to not be seen.
But today, someone was there.
A girl.
She stood near the fence, her schoolbag gripped tight in both hands. Her eyes wide. Cornered.
Three boys surrounded her. Not classmates — these were older. Delinquents. Uniforms half-worn. Cigarettes tucked behind ears. One of them leaned too close, smirking.
"Come on," the tallest one said. "Just your number. We're being nice, right?"
"N-no, please..." she muttered.
Katsuro froze. He should've turned around.
She wasn't screaming. She wasn't even looking at him.
This wasn't his business.
And yet—
"Hey."
His voice came out hoarse. Thin.
All three turned.
The girl did too.
He regretted it instantly.
One of the boys snorted. "Huh? Who the hell are you?"
Katsuro's legs wanted to leave. But something in his chest — something soft, stupid, and stubborn — kept him still.
He stepped forward. "Leave her alone."
Silence. Then laughter.
The tall one cracked his knuckles. "This fatass got a death wish or something."
They didn't hesitate. They came at him. First a shove. Then a punch to the gut. Air left his lungs. Another hit — across the face. His cheek exploded with heat.
He hit the ground hard. Gravel scraped his arms. He curled into himself, but they didn't stop. A kick to the side. Another to the back.
He didn't cry out. Just waited.
Eventually, they walked off, laughing. "Should've minded your own business, freak."
The girl hadn't run. She was still there, her face pale.
He forced himself up, slowly. Blood on his lip. One eye already swelling.
"You okay?" he asked, voice broken.
She nodded. Quiet. Then whispered, "Thank you."
He didn't say anything. Just turned and limped away.
His body ached with every step. Pain blossomed with each breath. But there was something else underneath it.
Something warmer. Strange.
Not pride.
Not strength.
Just a flicker of… something.
He walked toward the trees behind the fence. It was quieter there. Where no one went.
And that's when he saw it.
Half-buried in the dirt. A strange metal plate. Cold. Glinting faintly under the clouds.
Curious, he reached down. Picked it up.
It pulsed.
Not visibly. Not with light. But he felt it. Like a second heartbeat. Inside his palm.
He stared.
Symbols flickered across the surface, carved deep:
+[LOCK]=
△{GEAR}->
≣[KEY]✓
->◇?
Then—
His vision blurred.
A whisper in his skull.
System initializing...
And the world around him paused.