The school bell had rung over an hour ago, but Kaito Ishida still wandered the empty halls, his bag slung over one shoulder and his eyes half-lidded with boredom.
He didn't have any friends to rush home to. No club activities. No crushes waiting by the gate.
Just himself.
And maybe dinner.
"What should I cook tonight?" he murmured as he exited the back gate. "We still have that leftover rice… Maybe fried rice? Or curry again…?"
The streets were quieter than usual. It was the kind of stillness that made you feel like something was about to happen—but not in the exciting, movie-kind of way. The sky was starting to darken, not from sunset… but from something else.
Kaito slowed his pace.
That's when he saw it.
A thick black smoke curling up into the air, far in the distance. Dark. Heavy. Wrong.
His heart stuttered.
"Where is that coming from?" he said aloud, blinking. He turned to a man who had also stopped to stare. "Excuse me, do you know what that is?"
The man looked concerned but calm. "I'm not sure. Looks serious. Could be a house fire."
Kaito nodded, whispered "thank you," and then bolted.
His feet slapped the pavement hard, faster than they ever had in gym class. He didn't know why, but something deep in his chest—something primal—told him to run.
And as he turned onto his street, he felt the breath leave his body.
His home—the one with the crooked mailbox and the blue potted plants outside the door—was burning.
Kaito ran past the caution tape, past the crowd of neighbors, past the firefighter shouting for him to stop.
He didn't hear them.
He could only hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
"Mom!? Dad!? Riku!? Aiko!?"
The front door was wide open, smoke curling from inside. He stumbled through the scorched entryway, coughing, eyes stinging.
Everything was charred. Broken. Twisted.
He moved room to room, panic mounting with every step. Until he found them.
They hadn't died in the fire.
They'd been murdered.
His mother and father lay side by side, blood staining the tatami mats. His Big brother, Riku, looked like he'd tried to protect Aiko. His hand was stretched out toward her… but he hadn't made it.
Kaito froze in place. The heat pressed against his skin, but he couldn't feel anything.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed to the floor, shaking, unable to even scream.
"Who… did this?" he thought. "Why…?"
But there were no answers. Just smoke. Blood. And silence.
The days after were a blur of police reports, whispers from distant relatives, and the cold, mechanical voices of social workers.
Everyone was sorry for his loss.
But no one wanted to take him in.
After the funeral, he stood alone in front of his family's graves, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. He didn't cry. He couldn't.
Tears felt like a luxury when you didn't even have a home anymore.
His old landlord came by weeks later. "I'm sorry, kid. But the rent's overdue. I can't keep the place for free."
Kaito had no job. No savings. He barely had clothes.
He became another forgotten kid sleeping on benches, drifting between shelters, avoiding eye contact.
Two months passed like this.
He stopped counting days.
And then, a miracle—though he didn't believe in them anymore.
The Hoshino family.
They'd lost a son years ago. When they met Kaito at a shelter, they saw something in him. Maybe it was kindness. Maybe it was pain they understood.
They took him in. Fed him. Gave him a bed.
"Welcome to our home," Mr. Hoshino had said, smiling warmly. "You don't have to say anything. Just rest."
Their daughter, Yumi, a year younger than Kaito, had been quiet but kind.
Kaito didn't say much at first. He didn't trust it. The warmth. The softness of the blankets. The fact that someone cared.
But slowly, he allowed himself to breathe.
Even if just a little.
The new school didn't feel like a new start.
Word spread fast. The "burned house kid." The "orphan."
He tried to keep his head down, but it didn't matter.
People pointed. Whispered. Laughed.
"You know he lives with strangers now?"
"Pathetic. Can't even afford to live on his own."
He could take it. Just barely.
But one day, he saw Yumi being cornered.
She had tried to defend him.
That was her mistake.
"Back off," she shouted. "He didn't do anything to you!"
A slap silenced her. Kaito saw it.
And froze.
He wanted to scream. To move. To do something. But his body felt paralyzed, fear gripping his spine.
Later that night, he couldn't look her in the eye.
He hated himself.
The bruises got worse. The bullying became routine. Until he stopped going entirely.
He told the Hoshinos he was just tired. Sick. Maybe he was both.
He stared at the ceiling of his room and whispered, "What am I doing here?"
But no one answered.
Weeks later, something inside him cracked.
He got out of bed.
"I'll cook dinner today," he told Mrs. Hoshino quietly.
She smiled. "Are you sure?"
He nodded.
He left the house, breathing in the cold Tokyo air. He walked down the street, his steps still unsure, but present.
At the store, he picked out vegetables—chicken, carrot, potatoes and simple ingredients
The cashier smiled. "Doing the cooking tonight?"
"Yeah," Kaito replied, voice barely above a whisper. "Trying something new."
"Good luck, then."
He smiled faintly. "Thanks."
As he walked out, he heard it.
Bang!
A gunshot echoed from the next street.
Kaito turned his head sharply.
People screamed. A man held a gun. A young girl was trapped.
Without thinking, Kaito dropped his groceries and ran.
"Hey! Drop it!" Kaito shouted.
The man turned, startled.
Kaito tackled him. The struggle was messy. Untrained. Desperate.
Another shot rang out.
Kaito stumbled, blinking.
Warmth bloomed across his chest. Red. Spreading.
The girl screamed. Loud. Desperate. But no one came.
Kaito smiled through the pain. "I'm… glad I could save someone."
His body collapsed. The world faded. The last thing he saw was the girl's tear-streaked face.
"Sorry I couldn't be stronger…"