He didn't speak.
Didn't even glance behind.
I just stood there a moment longer, letting the stillness breathe—and then walked.
Fatiba followed, unsure if he noticed, unsure if he cared. He moved with a kind of rhythm that didn't belong to the world around him, like a train on invisible tracks only he could see. The city noise—chatter, engines, wind—faded into background static.
Then he turned a corner.
And the tone of the street shifted.
The alley was narrow and damp, flanked by old vending machines and a half-collapsed wire fence. Graffiti scars covered the wall in sharp streaks, and there, in that forgotten slice of concrete, it was happening.
A group of older boys—teens just tipping into manhood, too big for their own anger—surrounded a much younger kid. The boy couldn't have been more than ten, lanky in the way only kids with empty lunchboxes are. His project lay in pieces at his feet—a Spinosaurus model made of cardboard, wire, and chipped paint, its long crocodilian snout crushed under a sneaker.
"Haha! This guy built a trash-ass dinosaur," one of them jeered.Another one snorted, poking the boy in the forehead with two fingers. "What even is that? It's not even a T-Rex, dumbass."
The younger kid's lip trembled, but he didn't cry.Not out of pride—but because he'd done it before.Too many times.He was past tears now. Past hoping.
That's when Shotaro stepped forward.
No words.
No threat.
Just presence.
It hit like cold air in a humid room—sharp, unsettling. One of the bullies turned, sensing the weight of someone behind them. Another laughed nervously.
"What the hell do you want?"
Shotaro didn't answer the jeer. He didn't spare a glance for the bullies.
He just knelt—slowly, as if the world had hit pause. As if gravity bent slightly differently around him.
His fingers brushed the ground. Then he picked up the shattered Spinosaurus model with a care so deliberate it felt out of place here, among concrete stains and spit-laced insults.
The snout was crushed in like a paper cup. The tail was bent awkwardly, wire exposed. One googly eye dangled by a half-thread of glue, still jiggling with ghost-life.
Shotaro held it in both hands. Turned it over, once. Twice. Like a doctor examining a patient with quiet respect.
"Spinosaurus aegyptiacus," he said, soft and deep, his voice warm with the rhythm of someone who liked knowing things. "Longer than a T-Rex. Semi-aquatic. Apex predator. Probably had a sail like a damn dorsal fin—superb swimmer. Lived around what we call North Africa, back in the Cretaceous."
The bullies blinked.
One of them laughed again, awkward now. "Dude, what?"
Shotaro didn't stop.
"Although the design keeps getting retconned by paleontologists," he added, standing up now, still cradling the broken model like it deserved a eulogy. "The Spino in Jurassic Park III—that one with the crocodile jaws and super buff arms? Total pop culture legend. Big dramatic energy. Totally inaccurate, but honestly, I kind of love it for that."
The kid on the ground stared up at him, lips parted slightly.
Shotaro looked over the crushed model, running a thumb along the tail stub. "The current theory is that it was way more aquatic than we used to think. Probably swam more than it walked. Kind of like a reptilian river hunter. Super cool. Real evolutionary flex."
He glanced over at the kid.
"You used green wire for the tail supports, huh? Smart choice. Makes the curve natural."
The boy didn't respond. His mouth just kind of trembled open.
Shotaro smiled, a soft, sideways curl of the lips.
"That's awesome, little man."
The alley was dead silent.
The bullies didn't know what to do. They weren't used to this. No threats. No shouting. No punches.
Just a tall, silver-haired kid geeking out over dinosaurs like the world wasn't watching.
Fatiba stood at the alley's edge, arms crossed. Watching. Studying.
There was something incredibly human about him. Not superhuman. Not aloof.
He didn't just defend the kid.
He validated him.
And in doing so, irritated the bullies more than any fist ever could.
The tallest one stepped forward, puffing his chest like a bird trying to pretend it had claws.
"Why the fuck are you ranting about dinos now?"
Shotaro finally looked at him.
Really looked.
Those crimson eyes weren't angry. They weren't even amused.
They were alive—bright, curious, and old in a way that made time feel like something optional.
"Just saying," he said, turning the broken Spinosaurus slightly in his hand, "a Spinosaurus is way cooler than you jackasses."
That hit like a stone in still water. A silence pulsed out from it. One of the bullies' mouths dropped a little. Another clenched his jaw.
"You—" the tallest began, finger jabbing, searching for some threat that might land. "Wait a minute. We may be generic bullies but we know damn sure not to mess with a dude who's like eight foot—"
"Seven feet eleven inches," Shotaro corrected smoothly, already reaching down to help the younger kid to his feet. "I'm already considered quite ugly for being this tall. Don't add another inch of mockery."
The tone was joking, almost self-deprecating, but the way he said it—flat and warm at the same time—left no room for argument.
The bullies scrambled. One muttered something about class, another about their "stupid group project," and within seconds they were all just awkward silhouettes turning corners, trying to pretend they hadn't just been disarmed by dinosaur trivia and casual confidence.
Shotaro turned back to the kid, crouched again, this time holding the broken Spinosaurus out.
"Have you ever tried building one with a wire skeleton inside a foam mold?" he asked, almost conspiratorial. "Gives you more flex without losing form."
The boy nodded slowly. Eyes wide. Still recovering from whatever the hell just happened.
Fatiba, watching from the alley mouth, didn't even realize she was smiling.
Because that was the moment. That exact one.
The moment she knew her dream had some meaning.
Maybe—just maybe—there were chances he could be the key to everything.
"This will be our little secret," Shotaro said to the kid with a half-smile, like it was a shared joke between heroes.
Then, without a hint of irony or explanation, he slid his hand under his crisp white school shirt—right to where his belly button should've been.
The boy blinked, confused. Fatiba leaned forward slightly, sensing something strange in the air.
Shotaro's expression didn't change. But his breath caught in his throat. A drop of sweat crawled down his temple. His pupils dilated ever so slightly.
Then he thrust his hand inward.
Not on his belly. In.
Flesh parted like water around stone. His fingers disappeared into himself, deep and unnatural, like he was reaching into a pocket stitched in skin by something that never asked permission from biology.
His jaw tightened. His mouth foamed just a little—not violently, not like a seizure, but more like steam escaping a pressure valve.
The boy gasped. Fatiba slapped a hand over her mouth.
Then, with a small exhale and a grimace, Shotaro pulled his hand out—gripping a compact, rolled-up repair kit, wrapped in red cloth and bound with a leather strap.
He shook the sweat off his brow and offered it to the boy casually.
"Glue's in the second pouch," he said like nothing weird just happened. "Don't overdo it or the tail won't swing right."
The boy reached out like he was touching a holy artifact. His fingers trembled as they closed around it.
Fatiba's heart pounded. Her mind raced.What the actual hell is he?
But Shotaro was already turning, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves, like he'd just returned a pen someone dropped—not performed a borderline cosmic parlor trick.
Then he paused.
He looked back at the boy.Just a little thing. No older than eight. Skinny arms, too-short socks, courage stitched sloppily into his spine.
"Hey, kid," Shotaro said, voice light but steady. "Do you have a dream?"
The boy blinked. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like a goldfish gathering hope."I… wanna to be a…"He paused, nervous—maybe ashamed."…a dino scientist."
"Paleontologist," Shotaro corrected softly, not with mockery but care. Like fixing a tag on someone's collar before a school photo.The boy nodded, storing the word in his growing vocabulary like it was treasure.
"That's a good dream, kid."Shotaro crouched down slightly so they were eye-level. His tall frame folding like a mountain bowing to a child."Dinosaurs are the coolest creatures that ever lived. Way cooler than anyone who mocks you for liking them."
The boy smiled—small at first, unsure. But it grew, slow and bright, like a sun warming up after a long night.
Shotaro stood up and turned again, the morning sun catching in his silver hair. He was already walking away when—
"W-what's your favorite?" The boy called after him, clutching the little red repair kit in both hands.Expecting maybe T-Rex. Maybe Velociraptor—the usual big names. Something cinematic.
But Shotaro stopped mid-step.
Paused.
One hand on his hip, the other pressing his knuckle under his chin. The classic Thinker pose—absurdly serious for such a question.
"…Mapusaurus," he said finally, without looking back."The earth lizard. The one that hunted together. Real pack hunters. Intelligent. Relentless. Lived in what is now Argentina."
Fatiba was still watching him go, the tail end of his trench coat catching a breeze, when it happened.
"Damn, he's co—" she began, half-whispering, half-smiling—
"HOLY SHIT, A COOL-ASS PENGUIN!! IN THIS ECONOMY?!" Shotaro's voice cut through the morning air like a cartoon hammer, flinging her perception against a brick wall.
She blinked.
He was pointing now—really pointing—both arms, full-body commitment, like someone discovering a UFO. His crimson eyes wide with childlike awe. "HOLY CRAP, IT SPEAKS—BOSNIAN!!?"
And with that, he was off—chasing the alleged penguin across the street, nearly tripping over a potted plant, still yelling something about international flightless birds and Balkan phonetics.
Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a salaryman dropped his coffee watching an 8-foot-tall teenager chase an invisible penguin while shouting in disbelief about Slavic dialects.
The world spun on, but Fatiba stood still, her brain in the process of rebooting like an old Windows machine forced to run on too many tabs. She had known him for…what, a day? Less?.
And already her entire framework for who this boy was had collapsed.
She had imagined someone tragic. The kind of quiet soul who sat in train stations alone, journal half-filled with cryptic poems. Someone haunted, burdened with the gravity of unseen wars. Maybe someone who whispered to ghosts. A rooftop brooder with lightning as his only friend.
But this?
This wasn't that.
Shotaro Mugyiwara didn't merely feel emotions—he overflowed with them, like a child who had bitten into every flavor of life's gumball machine and couldn't decide which one tasted more like joy.
He now stood in front of the penguin—yes, there was somehow a penguin, maybe real, maybe metaphor, maybe delusion—arms crossed, head tilted, utterly serious.
"Okay Mr. Cool-Ass Bosnian Penguin," he said, voice solemn like he was addressing a UN council. "What's your political opinion on queer rights, abortion rights, women's rights, the current Israel-Palestine conflict, socializing billionaire wealth, rising capitalism, the Russia-Ukraine war, illegal immigration, and religion?"
The penguin looked at him. Chirped.
Fatiba blinked.
It wasn't Bosnian. Not the language. It wasn't even human. But the way that bird trilled, clicked, and cooed—Shotaro nodded along as if he were receiving a full thesis.
"Damn," he whispered, reverent. "You know how many people would be mad at that opinion?"
He gently placed the penguin down. It waddled away, proud and unbothered, as if it had just settled the fate of nations with a chirp.
Fatiba stared, face in hands, groaning. "He can talk to animals now?"
"Yes I can," he said without turning around, wiping imaginary dust off his sleeves, voice casual.
Her eyes widened. She ducked back behind the brick wall, then stupidly—instinctively—started making low cat noises like a toddler playing spy in a cartoon.
"Come out," he called, deadpan. "I knew you were following me… for the last twenty minutes."
There was no venom in his tone. Just amusement. Like he had expected her the whole time and was simply waiting for her to catch up to the fact.
Fatiba emerged hesitantly, scarf pulled up over her mouth like it was some kind of emotional armor, thin and useless but comforting. Her shoes made a quiet click-tap against the uneven pavement, echoing more than they should in the quiet morning air that smelled faintly of exhaust, bakery bread, and the ever-present dust of a waking city.
She pointed after the penguin—a chubby, waddling silhouette getting smaller with each step like this was all somehow normal.
"That real?" she asked, squinting.
Shotaro shrugged, casually, like someone who had long made peace with the idea that the line between real and unreal was more of a suggestion than a rule."What is reality," he said with a breezy half-smile, "but the interpretation of truth?"
Fatiba's eyes twitched. "Stop trying to say deep philosopher shit to look cool. You look retarded."
"Sorry about that," he said instantly, rubbing the back of his head with that same goofy, sheepish grin, like a guilty dog caught eating homework.
She narrowed her eyes. "W–what was that?"
"What, the penguin? Cool-ass penguin who speaks Bosnian and has very questionable political views?"
"No! Before that."
He squinted, tilting his head. "A kid who likes Spinosaurus despite how retconned the creature has gotten over the years? Honestly, that's kind of brave."
She blinked, frustrated. "No! After that!"
He snapped his fingers. "Oh, right. Cool-ass penguin who speaks Bosnian and—"
"AHHHHHHH!!!" she screamed, arms flailing as she nearly launched herself into the sky out of pure emotional whiplash. "I meant, HOW did you do that belly button shit?! That—whatever the hell—when you pulled a whole-ass repair kit out like a fucking flesh pocket!"
He looked genuinely surprised now, like she was the one being weird.
"Oh. You might've said so." He gave a pout so exaggerated, it bordered on theatre. "You didn't specify."
"I DID SPECIFY, YOU DUMB FUCK!!" she shouted, pointing her finger so hard it could've cracked through dimensions.
Shotaro just tilted his head again, crimson eyes blinking like some curious animal. "Well, to be fair, your tone didn't carry a strong belly-button-related context," he said. "You gotta really commit to the phrasing."
Fatiba stared at him like she'd just caught a god sneaking snacks in a convenience store. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her scarf sagging off one ear, her mouth slightly open, trying to grasp the gravity—or absurdity—of what he'd just said.
"Okay, listen," Shotaro began, tone shifting into what might generously be called 'informational seminar mode,' hands gesturing like he was about to sell her the secrets of the cosmos. "I have a pocket dimension in my belly button."
He said it casually. Like he was telling her his favorite color.
"It houses stuff that I can pull out when I need it," he continued, tapping his navel through his crisp white shirt with a sort of reverent tap-tap, like knocking on a door no one else believed was there. "Been like that since my diaper era."
Fatiba blinked. "So you're like... Doraemon or some shit?"
Shotaro beamed. "I've been told that. But taller. And honestly better relathions with cats."
She rubbed her chin, now visibly intrigued. "Can I try pulling something out?"
"No," he said, immediately, eyes hardening a little.
"Why not?"
"You think there's no reason I don't just pull out everything I need from my belly button like some infinite vending machine?"
"There... is a reason?"
"Yeah," he said. And then came the shift. His voice dropped lower—not dramatic, not moody, just tired. Earnest. Like someone who's had to explain something awful way too many times.
"Every time I pull something out, it's like giving birth," he said. "Except a million times more painful. No drugs. No prep. Just raw nerves and pressure and muscle spasms. Sometimes I vomit. Sometimes I pass out. Always, I bleed."
He touched the hem of his shirt again, more softly this time. "Feels like my insides are being turned inside out and wrung like a wet towel. It doesn't matter if it's a screwdriver or a sword or a fucking juice box."
He looked at her, not with pity or melodrama, but honesty.
The street around them felt a little less busy, a little less loud. Somewhere in the background, traffic lights blinked like lazy gods. The air smelled faintly of warm bread and exhaust fumes. But neither of them noticed. Not really.
Not when the conversation had veered off into something that sounded ridiculous but carried weight under the humor.
Fatiba had asked quietly, her voice softer than usual, like she wasn't even sure she wanted to hear the answer.
"Yet you helped that kid?" she said. "Why?"
Shotaro looked forward as if the answer was already written on the sidewalk ahead of him.
"Because the smile on their face makes it worth it," he said.
And there it was again—that glimmer of sincerity that peeked out from his carnival of madness. That split-second crack in the ridiculous that let truth pour in. And it hit her. That dream last night. The white void. Her uncle's voice. The cryptic sentence echoing like gospel.
He is the key to everything.
She squinted up at him through the sunlight. He wasn't just some tall idiot with a bellybutton warehouse and a passion for Bosnian penguins.
He was special.
"Dammit," she muttered under her breath, "you're special."
He looked down at her, eyebrow raised. "How the hell did you know that?" His voice wasn't proud, more puzzled. "Yes, I am special. I have ADHD, schizophrenia, OCD, PTSD and autism."
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
"That's not what I meant when I said special," she groaned, dragging her hand down her face. "And wait—you're autistic?!"
"Yeah," he said, as if he were confirming he liked strawberries or could wiggle his ears. "I like caring about people more than me."
She stared at him.
A beat passed.
Another.
"…That's altruism, not autism, you stupid fuck."
He tilted his head, expression earnest. "Whatever… tomato… potato."
"Altruism and autism are not tomato-potato!" she snapped, flailing her arms in frustration like a bird trying to take flight out of anger. "It's fucking capsicum-guava!"
Shotaro blinked. "What's the connection between capsicum and guava?"
"WHAT'S THE CONNECTION BETWEEN AUTISM AND ALTRUISM?!"
People passing by looked over, startled. A pigeon flapped away violently. Somewhere, a pedestrian dropped their sandwich.
Shotaro chuckled, hands slipping into his pockets. "You're fun."
She stared at him, exasperated, breathless.
And then—despite everything, despite how weird he was, despite how much she wanted to strangle him—she laughed.
A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Not something rich people did at expensive parties.
Just… laughter. The kind that made her forget for a moment who she was supposed to be.
He joined in, and they walked, just two kids beneath a sky too big for either of them to hold.
The clouds were bruised with a hint of rain now—dull gray stretching across the sky like it had forgotten how to be blue. The city kept moving around them: tires rolling across wet asphalt, cyclists weaving between puddles, the occasional honk from someone in a hurry to be somewhere they didn't really want to go.
But for a strange little stretch of time and sidewalk, it felt like the world had hit a pause button. Just two kids walking. Him, towering and strange. Her, quiet and too full of thoughts for her own comfort.
"So why were you seeking me?" Shotaro asked suddenly, head tilted a little, like the thought had just caught up to his mouth. "You need something? You could've just called."
Fatiba gave a little hum, a non-committal sound, like she was chewing on her answer.
He kept walking, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. "Yeah, I mean, like… my number's kinda pasted everywhere. You know, the whole 'Man They Call' schtick."
That made her snort.
"Oh, so you're the infamous guy everyone calls when they need help with something," she said, smirking a little. "My guess was accurate, then. Considering you made a fool of yourself for me in class with that… drawing-on-your-face stunt. Getting the whole room to laugh at you instead of me."
Her tone was playful, but underneath it was something warmer. Something real.
"Don't you feel shame?"
He looked up, lips twitching like he was about to grin. But he didn't. Not quite.
"Shame," he repeated. Not as a question. Like he was trying the word on, testing its weight.
Then his voice dropped, not dramatic, not bitter. Just matter-of-fact.
"You can spit on me. Piss on me. Mock me. Kick me. Tear me down. Slander me. Laugh at me."
He looked at her.
"But none of it means anything if I just throw you into space."
That part made her blink. The casual absurdity of it. The weird honesty. That strange Shotaro logic that looped back around into something oddly profound.
The wind tugged gently at her scarf, teasing a loose strand of her hair against her cheek. Fatiba raised her arms, adjusting the fabric with practiced fingers, settling it back into place around her head. Her voice came low and even, like someone tossing a pebble into still water, not sure what kind of ripples would come back.
"You don't care much about people, do you?"
Shotaro didn't flinch. Didn't stop walking. But something shifted. A subtle thing in his posture. Like a string inside him had tightened ever so slightly.
He let out a breath, slow and even, eyes scanning the street like he was seeing things she couldn't. And maybe he was.
"Society once thought slavery was righteous," he said, almost idly. "Thought child marriage was holy. Thought widow burning was divine."
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It had that quiet weight—the kind that settles in your bones rather than your ears.
"Society always has something to say. It likes to pretend it's right just 'cause it's loud," he added, his hands deep in his pockets now, head tilted slightly down as they passed beneath the skeletal branches of a leafless roadside tree.
He paused at the edge of the curb, not to wait for traffic, but just to look at the puddles reflecting the cloudy sky.
"Grow up," he said softly, but firmly. "Make your own good or bad."
There was something ancient in the way he said it. Not age-old like a dusty sage, not preachy like a priest—but more like a kid who had been through too much and clawed his way out the other side with a patched-up soul and a homemade moral compass.
Fatiba didn't reply right away. The way he said it…it wasn't dismissive. It was tired. Like he wasn't saying she was wrong—just that the world had never given him the luxury of relying on it to be right.
She looked over at him.
He was just walking.
Not grandstanding. Not explaining. Not waiting for her reaction.
Just walking.
Suddenly he stops.
"Damnit he is here"
"WHo is here?"
The word hit the air like a dropped plate.
"Ninjew."
Fatiba blinked.
"I—what?"
Shotaro's head was slowly panning across the street like a security turret on edge, his body gone unusually still, like a wolf scenting something too quiet to be real. His fingers twitched at his sides. He squinted into empty space.
"He's here," he murmured. "I can feel it. The tension. The stutter in time. The static in the air." He spoke like someone reading braille off the wind. "He's fast. Too fast. He skips frames of time to move. Doesn't even blink."
She stared at him.
"You're telling me there's a ninja… who's Jewish…"
"Yes."
"…and he skips time like a YouTube ad?"
Shotaro didn't laugh. He didn't smile. His expression stayed painfully serious.
"You don't understand. He's dangerous. He trained under twelve masters in twelve traditions. He assasinated in Jerusalem, vanished in Kyoto, and once defeated te army of North Korea." Shotaro turned, crimson eyes locking onto something invisible. "They say he only attacks when the plot goes quiet."
Fatiba opened her mouth to say something, stopped, closed it, then said:
"Okay, chapter break. I need a chapter break."
And Shotaro just nodded grimly.
"Yeah. Me too."
Somewhere, a bird cawed.
Somewhere else, the sky pulsed slightly—as if a frame had been skipped.