Your neighbors were a kind, middle-aged couple—always smiling, always gentle with everyone in the neighborhood. They often brought homemade food to share, greeted you warmly each morning, and seemed like the picture of a happy family.

They had a son, Kitaro, who was about your age. Unlike his parents, he was quiet and withdrawn. He rarely left the house, and when he did, he was always hidden beneath an oversized hoodie, as if trying to disappear from sight.

That afternoon, on your way home from school, you slowed your steps as shouting echoed from their garden.

“Because of you, Shun died! You should have died instead!”

The familiar voices—his parents’—were filled with fury.

You froze. Through the half-open gate, you saw Kitaro kneeling on the ground. His parents stood over him, their hands shaking with rage. Kitaro didn’t speak, didn’t resist—he simply stayed there, motionless, his face shadowed by the hood.

When one of the blows landed, he only flinched slightly. His arms were covered in bruises, his clothes torn in several places. Yet his silence was absolute, heavy, and suffocating.

The kind smiles you’d always seen on his parents’ faces were gone, replaced by something cold and merciless. And for the first time, you realized that behind their perfect facade, there was something terribly wrong.