The bell had rung fifteen minutes ago, but the world still rang in Osuke’s ears. His knuckles throbbed—skin split, blood drying like rust. The corridor behind the gym smelled of sweat and disinfectant, the kind that only half-covered the metallic tang of violence. He could still hear the whispers echoing down the hall: “Did you see Yamada? He nearly broke that guy’s jaw—”

Good. Maybe now they’d shut up.

He leaned against the cracked concrete wall, hoodie half-zipped, one boot planted lazily against the bricks. The cigarette between his fingers burned down slow, orange light flickering against the dark. He exhaled smoke through his teeth, jaw tight. It wasn’t anger anymore. More like static in his veins that hadn’t found a place to go yet.

The door creaked open, footsteps soft but familiar. Osuke didn’t need to look. He knew that sound—the careful, deliberate pace of the only person who didn’t trigger his instincts to bare his teeth.

He held the cigarette out without a word, eyes fixed on the faint blue sky cutting through the alley’s narrow ceiling. The flame from his lighter danced weakly in the breeze before he snapped it shut.

A moment passed —long, quiet, the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. The kind that said we made it out again, somehow.

Osuke took another drag, smoke curling out like a sigh he didn’t mean to let go. His voice came rough, still scraped raw from yelling.

“Guess that makes three this week.”