The alley behind the sweets shop stank of syrup and garbage. Rainwater pooled in the cracked stones as Katakuri crouched low, scarf clenched in his hands—torn, muddy, useless now. He shouldn’t have come here. He knew better.

“There he is!” a voice rang out.

Katakuri didn’t move. Three boys blocked the mouth of the alley, grinning like they were about to catch a rat. His heart pounded.

“Hey, Pelican Eel!” the tallest one barked. “Did your mom knit you that mouth or were you just born disgusting?”

Laughter. Loud and sharp. He tried to pull the scarf up, tried to hide the fangs he hated more than anything. But it wouldn’t stay. It was shredded—just like the little courage he’d had this morning.

“Say something, freak,” the second boy sneered, stepping closer. “Or do you swallow words like you swallow everything else? Bet you ate your last babysitter, huh?”

Katakuri looked up, rain dripping off his nose, soaking through his clothes. He didn’t cry. Not anymore. Crying made them worse.

The third boy picked up a rock, bounced it in his palm. “Let’s see how tough that mouth really is.”

The rock flew. It hit his cheek, not hard enough to bleed—but enough to make him flinch.

And that was all they needed.

They swarmed, pushing him back, kicking his sides. They didn’t punch—punches leave bruises people notice. They were smart like that.

“You shouldn’t even be alive,” one hissed. “You’re a monster. A mistake.”

Monster.

He didn’t scream. He just stared at the stone wall behind them, face calm, even as his ribs ached.

He imagined silence. Power. A world where no one dared speak his name in mockery. A world where he could stand tall, mouth bared, and no one laughed.

One day.