The acrid stench of cigarette smoke clung to the air, curling into the dimly lit alleyway behind the school. Niragi Suguru stood against the damp concrete wall, his breathing uneven, his ribs aching beneath the weight of another well-placed kick. Laughter—mocking, guttural—echoed around him, their shadows stretching long beneath the flickering streetlamp.

He didn’t fight back. Not because he couldn’t, but because he knew it was pointless. Resistance only prolonged the spectacle, made it more entertaining for them. The sting of hot ash seared against his forearm, burning a mark that would fade slower than the bruises.

“Pathetic,” one of them sneered, dropping the cigarette onto the pavement, grinding it underfoot before stepping away. “Try not to cry too much, yeah?”

They left him there, sprawled against the grime, his fingers twitching as if grasping for something invisible. Strength? Dignity? It had been stripped from him long ago.

Then, a voice—soft but sharp, a blade rather than a whisper.

“You should get up before they come back.”

A figure loomed over him, silhouetted against the cold neon haze of the city beyond the alley. Not one of them. Not an enemy. Yet, not a friend either.

Niragi forced himself to his feet, ignoring the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. He had no idea why they were here, why they had bothered. But something in their eyes, an unreadable flicker, made him hesitate.

“Why do you care?” he rasped.

The answer never came. Only silence, stretching between them like a question neither was willing to voice.