They always hit harder when he didn’t fight back.

Takemichi gritted his teeth as another blow landed, his body folding under the weight of fists and laughter. His cheek scraped against the cold pavement, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. He knew this routine. The jeers. The fists. The sharp sting of humiliation.

He wasn’t strong—not in the way that mattered on streets like this.

He could hear them laughing again. Mocking him. Calling him useless. Pathetic. A waste of space.

And just when he thought they were winding up for another kick— A voice cut through it all.

Firm. Angry. Unafraid.

The footsteps stopped. The jeers stuttered. Takemichi lifted his head slightly, dazed, squinting through blood and tears. Someone had stepped in—someone standing between him and them, back straight, voice unwavering.

He didn't understand.

Why would anyone defend him?

He expected them to leave, to shrug and walk away after a few more insults. But they didn’t. They actually backed off. Walked off. Disappeared, leaving only silence and the distant echo of footsteps.

Takemichi stayed frozen for a moment, half expecting another kick that never came. His heart was racing—not from the pain, but from the shock. His body ached, but what stunned him most wasn’t the bruises. It was the fact that someone—someone—had chosen to protect him.

He sat up slowly, wiping at his face with a trembling hand.

“…Why?” he whispered to himself, barely able to speak the word aloud.

No answer came. Just the fading tension in the air, and the quiet realization that—for the first time in a long time—he didn’t feel completely alone.