Prologue

The school bell echoed in Isamu’s ears as he stepped out into the dim light of the setting sun. The horizon was painted with streaks of orange and crimson, the colors bleeding into the darkening sky like fire spreading across paper. Yet the beauty of the evening did little to ease the weight on his chest. His bag hung heavy over his shoulder, but it wasn’t the books inside that dragged him down—the dread of what awaited him at home.

He turned into the alleyway, his usual long route. The walls on either side towered like skyscrapers, and the graffiti splattered on them seemed more alive than anything else in this part of town. Trash littered the path, and the faint stench of rotting food and old beer cans clung to the air. The familiar scent churned his stomach, but he kept walking, his steps steady despite the sinking feeling growing in his chest.

His thoughts wandered to his father, slumped on the couch as always, the TV blaring some meaningless game show he probably didn’t even watch. The scent of cigarettes and cheap whiskey would cling to the furniture, the walls, and the very air in the apartment. Isamu could already hear the mumbled curses, the glass bottle rolling across the floor when his father inevitably passed out. If he were lucky, his father wouldn’t bother looking at him tonight.

But luck wasn’t something Isamu believed in anymore.

His mother wouldn’t be home—not yet. She was probably out with her friends at one of the bars downtown, laughing too loudly and spending the last of their money on drinks and nonsense. She’d come home late, smelling like perfume and alcohol, stumbling into the apartment as if she owned the world. And if she bothered to notice him, it would only be to complain.

“You’re so useless, Isamu. Why do I even bother? You can’t even make something of yourself.”

Her words echoed in his mind, sharp and cruel, cutting deeper than she’d ever understand. He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, his knuckles whitening. The worst part wasn’t even the insults—it was that she was right there in front of him, yet she felt further away than the stars above.

A shout rang out behind him, snapping him from his thoughts. Isamu turned his head to see a group of boys from school loitering near the corner of the alley, laughing and shoving each other. One of them caught his eye and smirked.

“Hey, Kobayashi!” the boy called, his voice dripping with mockery. “Going home to Daddy’s liquor cabinet again?”

The others laughed, their voices grating against Isamu’s nerves. He didn’t respond, didn’t even slow his pace. Words like that didn’t hurt anymore—not after everything he’d already endured. He kept his gaze forward, his jaw clenched as he forced his legs to keep moving.

“Yeah, keep walking,” another boy called. “Not like you’ve got anywhere better to be.”

Their laughter faded into the distance as Isamu left the alley behind, stepping onto the cracked sidewalk leading to his apartment complex. The building loomed ahead, its faded paint and broken windows reflecting the life he lived inside it. He paused at the entrance, staring up at the dimly lit windows. The faint hum of a television seeped through the walls, mingling with the muffled sounds of arguments from neighboring apartments.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The stench hit him first—cigarettes, alcohol, and something sour he couldn’t place. The living room was exactly as he’d expected: bottles scattered across the floor, an ashtray overflowing on the coffee table, and his father sprawled on the couch, an empty bottle dangling from his hand. The television flickered with muted static, casting an eerie glow across the room.

Isamu stepped over the mess, careful not to make a sound. His father stirred slightly, muttering incoherently before sinking back into his stupor. Isamu’s stomach twisted as he looked at the man who was supposed to be his parent, his protector. Instead, he was nothing more than a shell, a reminder of everything Isamu didn’t want to become.

He retreated to his room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it. The faint light from the streetlamp outside filtered through the cracked blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. His room was small, with barely enough space for his bed and a rickety desk, but it was the only place that felt remotely his own.

Dropping his bag to the floor, he sank onto the bed and buried his face in his hands. The weight of everything pressed down on him, threatening to crush him. He wanted to scream, to cry, to fight back against the life he’d been given. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the sounds of the apartment surrounded him.

Isamu lay motionless on the bed, his mind running in circles. The muffled sounds of the apartment felt like an endless drone—a broken record of misery. He closed his eyes sheepishly, trying to block it out, to escape, even if only for a moment.

Then, his phone rang suddenly, making him flinch. He sat up quickly, reaching for the cracked device on his desk. The screen lit up with a familiar number—his mother’s.

He hesitated before answering, knowing full well this call wasn’t going to bring anything good.

“Hello?” he said, his voice quiet, barely audible.

“Where are you?” her voice slurred slightly, and he could hear the chaos of laughter and music in the background. She didn’t even give him a chance to respond before continuing, “I told you to clean the apartment before I got home, didn’t I? Or are you so useless that even that’s too hard for you?”

“I just got home,” Isamu replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. “I’ll clean it now.”

“You’d better,” she snapped. “I don’t want to come back to the same pigsty your father’s turned it into. You think I work so hard just to live in filth?”

He didn’t bother pointing out that she didn’t work, that she spent whatever money they had on herself while he scraped by on hand-me-downs and skipped meals. Arguing with her never led anywhere—it would just make things worse.

“Okay,” he said simply.

The call ended abruptly, and he let the phone drop onto the bed beside him. His hands trembled slightly, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He stood up and stepped back into the living room, the air thick with smoke and despair.

The mess was overwhelming—empty bottles, cigarette butts, and crumpled fast-food wrappers that littered every surface. His father was still sprawled on the couch, snoring loudly now, oblivious to everything.

Isamu grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen and started picking up the bottles, one by one. The glass clinked together as he worked, each sound sharp and jarring in the otherwise quiet room. He moved quickly, hoping to finish before his mother got home.

But luck, as always, wasn’t on his side.

The front door slammed open, and his mother stumbled inside, her heels clicking unevenly against the floor. Her hair was disheveled, her makeup smeared, and her eyes sharp with irritation.

“You didn’t even finish cleaning?” she spat, her voice rising with every word.

“I was just about to—”

“Don’t you dare talk back to me!” she shouted, cutting him off. Her hand shot out, slapping the trash bag from his grip. Bottles rolled across the floor, one shattering against the edge of the coffee table.

“What’s all the noise?” his father grumbled from the couch, finally stirring. His bloodshot eyes landed on Isamu, and a scowl twisted his face. “What the hell are you doing, boy?”

“I’m cleaning,” Isamu said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You call this cleaning?” His father pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but towering over Isamu. The stench of alcohol on his breath was overpowering. “You’re just as useless as your damn mother says you are.”

The first blow came before Isamu could react—a hard slap across his face that sent him stumbling backward.

“Get up!” his father barked, his voice filled with anger and frustration.

Isamu scrambled to his feet, but another blow followed—a punch to his stomach that knocked the air out of him. His mother stood in the corner, watching with crossed arms and a sneer on her face.

“Maybe that’ll teach you to stop being such a burden,” she said coldly.

Isamu’s body ached with every hit, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t fight back. He just took it, the pain blending into the numbness that had become his constant companion.

When his father finally tired and collapsed onto the couch, Isamu dragged himself to his room. His vision was blurred, and he refused to shed tears.

He locked the door behind him, collapsing onto the floor as his legs gave out. His whole body throbbed, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache inside him.

He stared at the cracked floorboards, his mind a storm of anger, sadness, and hopelessness. Deep down, a small ember of something began to burn—something that refused to be extinguished.

One day, he promised himself. One day, he would escape this place. He would leave behind the suffocating apartment, the hateful faces of his parents, and the life that had been forced upon him.

But until that day came, he would endure.

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