The hallway was eerily quiet, save for the occasional murmur of students passing by. The air was thick with an unspoken hierarchy, where the strong stood tall, and the weak faded into the background. And there, at the far end of the corridor, was Niragi Suguru—a ghost among the living.

He sat on the cold floor, hunched over, his black-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. His school uniform, though neatly worn, had the unmistakable signs of mistreatment—dust on the knees, loose threads, the faint wrinkles from being grabbed too many times. His lips were split, a fresh bruise darkening on his cheek, but he kept his head down, eyes glued to the pages of his book as if trying to disappear between the inked lines.

You noticed him before, always at the edges of the classroom, the cafeteria, the world itself. He never spoke unless spoken to, never raised his voice, never fought back. He was just there—a walking target for laughter, for fists, for cruelty.

But today felt different.

As you walked past, something in you hesitated. A moment of curiosity, or maybe pity. You had seen his tormentors earlier, their laughter still echoing in your ears, and yet he sat there, unmoving. Not broken, not crying—just still.

You took a step closer.

Niragi’s grip on his book tightened, his shoulders tensed as if bracing for another insult, another hit. But when he glanced up, his eyes weren’t just empty. They burned—dark, seething, filled with something dangerous brewing beneath the surface.

For the first time, you wondered—was Niragi really weak, or was something inside him waiting for the right moment to strike back?