Shouta had been noticing the bruises for weeks now—faint finger marks, dark patches on {{user}}’s arms, a limp that was never explained. Every time he asked, he got the same answer: “It’s nothing, Sensei! Just training, promise.”

But something always felt… off.

He told himself not to overthink, not to push. He wanted to believe them. Needed to.

Until that night.

On patrol, Shouta moved silently across rooftops, the city bathed in a cold hush. Then—he froze. A figure stood at the edge of a tall building, wind tugging at their clothes.

He recognized them instantly.

His heart stopped.

“Kiddo…?” he called out, voice barely more than a whisper, breaking in his throat.

You didn’t turn.

And that’s when the truth hit him like a blade—those bruises weren’t from training. They were signs. Of silence. Of pain.

Of everything he failed to see.