"Yesterday was a weird day," Kuro thought, lying on his bed half-asleep. "That guy who escorted me to school... Hugo. He's quite an odd character."
He sat up and glared at his desk. There rested an empty sheet of paper, waiting to be filled.
Kuro remembered a lively girl a little younger than him, but they could still be called the same age by an observer.
"Remember to write to me every single day, okay?!"
The girl's voice rang in Kuro's head, and he had not broken his promise. He did just that.
> "Dear Shiro...."
He was done with everything—his letter, his shower, his breakfast, and his cleaning—but instead of going straight to Callista, he stopped the moment he opened the door. And he waited, staring at the house across the road. He waited... and waited. What was he waiting for? He didn't know. Perhaps he did, but chose not to acknowledge it. After eight minutes, he sighed and started his journey to CA.
He walked this time, the setting familiar to him—buildings that clung to each other, cobblestone paths, and a bleak, unsettling air.
"Yeah, I remember this place. It's where—" his thoughts were cut short as he witnessed the exact same scene he saw yesterday: three men, one little girl. But this time, her cheap dress had become rags. Her face was bloodied, her left eye black and swollen. She had no strength to plead or cry out.
Kuro saw this, and instead of pitying the girl, he pitied the three men—grown adults abusing a little kid. It was sad that a man would shamelessly harm a child all for the sake of money. What was beating up the child going to do? Why not simply approach the law and take legal action? He stared at the men from a distance in disgust and continued his stroll.
"But it doesn't matter. It's not my problem."
One of the men spoke.
"Hey, where's your little pal? He promised us money. That's the only reason we didn't tear up your little damn house!"
He slapped the child with his huge hand and knocked her hard to the ground.
Kuro flinched.
The girl was producing tears, but not a single sound came out of her. She tried to speak but lacked the strength. The man lifted her by her hair, and the other two men took turns slapping the poor little girl.
One slap!
Two!
Three!
Kuro caught up to the men in front of him and passed them like nothing was happening. The moment he took one step ahead of them, he was hit with an unbelievable guilt—a guilt like he'd never felt before.
"Why do I feel this way? I haven't done anything wrong, so why do I feel so dirty?" he asked himself.
Then, the words of the young man from yesterday echoed in his head:
"Seeing an opportunity to do good and choosing not to is just as bad as any sin."
Kuro turned around and approached the men—not out of care or love, not out of responsibility, but to rid himself of the guilt that clawed at his throat.
As one of the men was about to slap the girl again, still holding her by the hair, a fist smashed into his face like a hammer, twisting his nose sideways. It was Kuro's hand. He had taken a battle stance.
The man staggered back, bleeding, confused, and most of all—furious. He dropped the girl, and all three men turned their attention to the 17-year-old boy.
"Just who the hell do you think you are, punk?!" screamed the man with the broken nose as he charged.
"You'll pay for that, kid!"
He threw a punch aimed at Kuro's face. Kuro dodged it and countered, driving his fist into the man's left ribcage.
Before he could strike again, two strong hands grabbed his left arm, then two more grabbed his right. He had forgotten about the other two men—and now he was about to pay.
The little girl lay on the ground, unconscious. Not a soul was in sight, except for a few people watching the scene through their windows, too scared to do anything about it
Yes—Kuro was doomed.
The injured man threw a brutal punch up into Kuro's jaw. His head snapped back, and he heard a sharp ringing as three of his teeth flew from his mouth. Blood poured like a fountain.
"Hahaha! Let me give it a go!" The injured man switched places with the one holding Kuro's right side.
Kuro barely had time to think. The man threw five rapid punches straight into his face. Kuro took them all.
What the hell did I do? Why am I in this situation?
Blood dripped from his chin. He was losing too much. His knees weakened. He was slipping.
"Oh, the hero's falling asleep. Let's wake him up, boys!"
The man on Kuro's left tightened his grip on Kuro's upper arm and tricep, then began to twist and push the arm in opposite directions. Kuro's elbow screamed in protest as pressure mounted. First a pop—then a creak. He could feel the tendons pull, the bones strain like a steel cable about to snap.
Kuro's eyes went wide.
He watched in slow horror as his own elbow bent backwards.
The joint dislocated with a sickening crack—followed by a splintering SNAP as his forearm bone shattered under the force.
His scream shattered the air.
The arm dangled, limp and warped, the hand twitching involuntarily. It swung like a meat pendulum, and every slight movement sent white-hot fire down his nerves.
"Argh, stop!... Please!"
The pain was cosmic—like his very soul had cracked.
He kicked. He thrashed. But the men didn't let go.
They beat him again.
Fists to his ribs.
Elbows to his gut.
One blow even drove into the side of his neck.
He was bleeding. His ribs—definitely cracked. One eye was swelling shut.
The world was spinning.
He was fading.
How did it come to this?
What did I do to deserve this?
Is this what I get for trying to do good?
Why didn't I just ignore that damn brat?
It wasn't my business.
I could've walked away. I could've stayed clean.
Kuro's eyes closed.
Were they closing from fatigue? Or was he simply giving in?
He wasn't sure.
Then—he opened them.
And everything had stopped.
The men froze in mid-motion. The birds above remained still. Leaves that had once fluttered from the breeze now hovered mid-air. The world itself stood still.
Time had stopped.
Kuro couldn't move. Couldn't blink. Couldn't breathe.
But something could.
A small, beautiful, silver insect floated inches from his face, flapping. Its wings were long and patterned like stained glass.
Then came a voice—not one, but many. A man. A woman. A child. All speaking at once, as if layered together:
"CLAIM THAT WHICH IS YOURS, KUROKAWA PADDINGTON."
That phrase alone was about to change Kuro's life forever.