Chapter Text
Cherry blossoms danced lightly through the crisp April air, their delicate petals drifting like gentle snowfall, a stark contrast to the graffiti-covered walls of Furin High School. The structure was four stories tall and dominated the skyline of the neighborhood—solid, imposing, and unapologetically rough around the edges. Vibrant images of graffiti covered nearly every available surface, declaring bold, territorial warnings, challenges, and boasts in colors so bright they were almost defiant. The front gates stood open, a silent dare to any new student brave or foolish enough to step through.
Kurosawa Sumire stood silently beside Endo Yamato and Takiishi Chika, calmly taking in the chaotic tableau unfolding before them. She wore the required school jacket buttoned neatly, emerald-green embroidery highlighting the jacket’s collar and sleeves, complemented perfectly by her own emerald camisole beneath. Her long, dark red hair cascaded freely down her back, framing sharp gray eyes rimmed with heavy eyeliner. A pleated skirt grazed her thighs, paired with sleek black high-heeled boots that gave her a quietly intimidating edge.
Endo wore his uniform jacket casually slung open, revealing a fitted black tank top underneath, accentuating his athletic physique. Black designer jeans hugged his legs, secured by a belt with a flashy silver buckle. His expensive sneakers completed the image—casually rebellious yet effortlessly stylish. His black hair remained artfully disheveled, and his seafoam-green eyes glittered mischievously, delighted at the palpable tension emanating from the surrounding groups.
Beside them stood Takiishi, the very image of cool indifference and simmering potential violence. His vibrant red hair stood out boldly against the sea of black uniforms, spikes falling artfully into piercing gold eyes. The black jacket accented his lean form, beneath which he wore a soft white t-shirt, partially obscured by a striking studded choker necklace. Tastefully ripped black jeans led down to ankle boots, expensive and sharply styled. He stood as if utterly detached from the unfolding chaos, yet the subtle tightening of his jaw suggested curiosity, perhaps even anticipation.
Clusters of students were already gathering across the yard, sizing each other up with openly wary expressions. Alliances were silently forged in the flash of exchanged glances, challenges quietly extended through lingering stares. A complex hierarchy was already forming, built on intimidation, strength, and sheer bravado. Among them all, the trio stood notably smallest—just the three of them, yet radiating a silent confidence that immediately drew attention.
Endo cracked his knuckles dramatically, grinning wickedly. “I can already tell this is gonna be a lot more fun than middle school.”
Sumire’s sharp gaze scanned the groups, noting the shallow bravado, the false confidence masking uncertainty and weakness. There weren’t many girls—not a big surprise—yet one group of fellow first years stood out starkly from the rest. They were not posturing, not glaring at others with arrogant disdain. Instead, five boys stood together in casual camaraderie, relaxed, comfortable, and confident in their collective strength.
At the center was a striking boy with short white hair, his posture open, his smile bright and genuine, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to his companions. His presence seemed magnetic, pulling those around him into orbit. His companions listened intently, absorbed in every word he spoke.
Sumire quickly assessed them—one boy stood out, slender and feminine, confidently wearing a skirt and stiletto-heeled boots, black-and-red dyed sleek against his sharp cheekbones. Beside him stood another boy, equally striking, clad in fitted black leather pants, his hair bleached blonde and spiked dramatically. Next to him was a shorter boy who hid beneath the hood of his hoodie, body language guarded yet quietly intense. Lastly, a tall, thin boy wearing glasses listened calmly, his long dark ponytail cascading down past the back of his neck.
Sumire’s curiosity sparked—these were no ordinary delinquents. Yet before she could ponder them further, Takiishi suddenly began walking toward the entrance without a word.
Sumire exchanged a quick glance with Endo, who shrugged lightly, clearly entertained, and followed closely behind. She sighed quietly, but quickly caught up, the three stepping in unison across the threshold into Furin High’s hallways.
Inside, the school pulsed with chaotic energy. Hallways stretched long and dimly lit, littered with peeling posters, scattered trash, and remnants of past confrontations—holes punched into plaster, paint scraped off lockers, cracks spiderwebbing through windows. Students lounged against walls and lockers, openly eyeing newcomers with thinly veiled hostility or wary curiosity. The faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered in corners, mixing with the metallic tang of aged graffiti paint.
Classroom 1-1 lay at the end of the main corridor, and Sumire quietly slid open the door, stepping inside behind Takiishi and Endo. The classroom was as worn as the rest of the building, desks covered in faded marker scribbles and chairs mismatched from years of replacements. Sunlight streamed warmly through wide windows, illuminating a haze of dust motes that hovered lazily in the air.
Takiishi immediately claimed a seat beside the window, settling into it with practiced ease. His elbow rested casually on the desk, chin propped lazily in his palm, eyes already drifting beyond the glass to the falling blossoms outside. Endo dropped himself into the seat directly beside him, stretching with a satisfied sigh. Sumire quietly took the seat behind Takiishi, maintaining their tight, protective cluster.
Other students filled the room with noisy chatter, each group fiercely marking their territory. Sumire noticed, to her intrigue, that the white-haired boy from earlier now sat across the room with two of his crew—the feminine-looking boy in the skirt and the punkish boy with blonde spikes. They leaned toward each other, voices lowered in quiet, intimate conversation.
Suddenly, the classroom door slid open with a harsh scrape, silencing the students instantly. In strode their homeroom teacher—a tall, imposing man whose appearance perfectly matched the school’s delinquent reputation. He wore a black leather jacket that strained slightly across broad shoulders, his dark hair slicked back in a style straight from a yakuza film. Sunglasses rested on his sharp-featured face, pushed dramatically to the top of his head as he tossed a clipboard heavily onto the battered teacher’s desk.
“Alright, shut up and sit down,” he growled, voice rough yet oddly amused. He glanced down at his clipboard and began calling names with bored efficiency. Sumire listened carefully, making mental notes of the unfamiliar names that echoed around the room until, finally, he reached the trio she had been observing.
“Umemiya Hajime,” the teacher called.
The white-haired leader raised his hand lazily, smiling cheerfully. “Here!”
“Hiragi Toma,” he continued.
The spiky-haired punk grunted, raising his hand briefly. “Yeah.”
“Tsubakino Tasusu.”
The feminine boy adjusted his hair lightly, voice smooth and confident. “Present!”
The teacher nodded absently, continuing down the roster as Sumire quietly committed their names to memory.
Endo turned slightly in his seat, leaning toward her, eyes glittering playfully. “Interesting crowd already, huh, Sumire-chan?”
She hummed quietly, casting her gaze toward the trio across the room. “Those three don’t look like everyone else here.”
Endo’s grin sharpened knowingly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Even better.”
Sumire exhaled softly, eyes sliding back toward Takiishi, who was still gazing outside, seemingly oblivious. His expression remained impassive, yet beneath that familiar blankness was the faintest flicker of interest, curiosity, anticipation—a hope, maybe, for a challenge strong enough to ignite that elusive spark within him.
Something to give meaning to his otherwise empty existence.
As cherry blossoms continued drifting gently past the window, Sumire felt the unspoken tension humming beneath the classroom chatter. Their journey at Furin High had begun.
— ԃყιɳɠ ҽɱႦҽɾʂ —
The first few weeks of Furin High felt less like the start of an academic year and more like the first round of an open-ended war.
No one said it out loud, but it was clear from day one—Furin wasn’t just a school. It was a battlefield, a proving ground, a crucible where egos collided, reputations were forged in blood, and the weak learned how quickly they could be reduced to spectators in a game they didn’t know they were playing. There were no official announcements, no posted rules, but everyone knew them.
Fight to win. Don’t show fear. Never back down.
Their first year exploded with skirmishes—clashes behind the gym, in alleyways beside the school, even full-on brawls in the courtyard. The first years were hungry and desperate to climb, to matter. The upperclassmen, equally territorial, responded with ruthless suppression. But despite the chaos, two names started circling the rumor mill faster than anyone expected.
Endo Yamato and Umemiya Hajime.
Both only first-years, yet neither needed the shelter of a crowd or the fear tactics of reputation. They earned attention with their fists—and with something far more dangerous: charm. Endo’s smile was sharp as a blade, always on the verge of a joke, his laughter echoing through the schoolyard even as his knuckles cracked against someone’s face. Umemiya, by contrast, was bright and bold, his cheerfulness masking a deadly sharpness beneath the surface. His group was small, but loyal—like a tightly coiled spring waiting for the moment to unleash.
So far, there had been no direct confrontation between the two factions. But it felt inevitable. Sumire had seen enough battlefields of middle school gangs to recognize a brewing storm.
She walked the school halls with quiet composure, her long red hair tied up most days, her uniform jacket buttoned with precision. Her heeled boots clicked evenly against the tile floors as she trailed after Takiishi and Endo. She didn’t make friends. She didn’t join the girls whispering in clusters or laugh at jokes in the back of the classroom. She didn’t need to. Her loyalty lay with the two boys she’d followed since childhood—the chaotic force of nature that was Endo, and the blazing inferno of Takiishi.
She wasn’t just the girl who followed them. She fought beside them. For them, though she wouldn’t say that out loud.
Whenever a gang of older students tried to put them in their place, Sumire stepped forward just like the boys did. Calm at first—always calm—but the moment the fight started and the first hit landed, something inside her ignited. Rage, feral and sharpened by years of repressed pain and bottled frustration, boiled beneath the surface. Her fists flew faster, her kicks more precise, until that fiery storm within was spent.
If Endo was the mouthpiece—the performer who laughed and played and insulted with flair—Sumire was the vengeful warrior that crushed anyone who dared challenge him.
But it was Takiishi Chika who left opponents trembling, a true demon of fire and destruction.
He never sought the fights out. Never bothered with showboating or barking. But when his eyes lit with that rare spark of interest, when his body moved with eerie grace and devastating precision, people watched and remembered. Takiishi never wasted time on weaklings. He moved like a ghost—here one moment, gone the next, drawn only to the promise of a fight worth his time.
He was never the one to start the battle, but he always ended it.
That’s why, despite all of Endo’s showmanship, a few of the most skilled students at Furin knew the truth—Takiishi was the real power.
Endo didn’t deny it. He gloried in it. There was no one he admired more. Every bruise he earned beside Takiishi (or from Takiishi) was a badge of honor. Every time Sumire landed a clean blow beside them, he called her his little wildfire. He teased her mercilessly, but protected her fiercely.
Together, they were unstoppable, and the school knew it.
After class, their routine shifted depending on the mood. Some days, they drifted into the city and picked fights with local punks or other school gangs looking to make a name. Other times, they hit up the arcade, where Endo always gravitated toward rhythm games and flashy shooters while Sumire favored the old-school fighting games. Takiishi would occasionally join, but rarely engaged unless something grabbed his attention.
Shopping sprees happened on a whim. Sometimes for something practical like new shoes. Other times, Takiishi would spot something absurd—like a pair of silver earrings with LEDs—and Endo would buy it immediately without question. When they had enough bruises or a win worth celebrating, they treated themselves to the late-night ramen stall on Market Street or the manju from Cactus Sumire liked.
But no matter what they did, the day always ended the same way: At Kureha Shrine.
The moment they passed beneath the weathered torii gate, the chaos of the city melted away. The sacred forest hushed the noise, the stairs leading up to the shrine wrapping them in green. The lights of the Kurosawa house always burned warm in the evenings, and the porch light was always on to welcome them home. Ryozo greeted them with stories or shogi matches, and Akane always had snacks or tea—whether they asked or not.
They never talked about it, but it was home.
More often than not, they ended the day inside the small storehouse that had become Takiishi’s domain. His strange taste in décor had only intensified—now sporting red string lights across the ceiling—and kept the classics like his leopard-print beanbag and that same skull-shaped candy bowl refilled by Endo every few days. The TV glowed blue against the walls while brutal movies or fighting games droned on, and the three of them sprawled across futons, half-talking, half-dozing. It wasn’t peaceful, exactly, but it was theirs.
And yet, Sumire felt it creeping on the edges of her awareness—that pull. That strange, itching curiosity. Umemiya Hajime and his group were moving with precision. They weren’t just fighting—they were winning.
It was almost the same approach Endo used. But where Endo wielded wit and insults, Umemiya… drew people in. She didn’t know why it unsettled her. Maybe because she didn’t trust anything so cheerful. Maybe because when she’d watched him from across the classroom, she’d seen something in his eyes—a depth, a focus—that reminded her too much of Takiishi on his most dangerous days.
She kept it to herself and didn’t bring it up to Endo or Takiishi. But she watched, curious, and wondering what the feeling she felt, like an omen of something to come.
Days came and went.
In class, she sat beside them as always—Endo at the edge of his seat, head resting on his arm while he copied his finished homework onto Takiishi’s worksheet, even changing his handwriting, humming off-tune to a song he barely remembered. Takiishi, unmoving, stared out the window like he was waiting for something—anything—to make the day worth existing.
Sumire glanced over her own work and saw Endo’s perfect scrawl across both papers. Show-off. She was still halfway done.
She grumbled. “You ever consider letting him do his own work?”
Endo shot her a grin. “He’d just leave it blank. I’m speeding up the process.”
Takiishi didn’t respond, didn’t even look away from the blossoms drifting past the glass.
After school, they wandered aimlessly. Endo had an itch for a fight, but nothing worthwhile showed up. Sumire bought them snacks from a convenience store. Takiishi pointed out a bag of wasabi potato chips, and both Sumire and Endo immediately grabbed it—only to jostle shoulders and bicker over who would buy it for him.
“Ladies first,” Endo eventually declared with exaggerated gallantry, sweeping his arm.
“Then step aside, Yamato-kun,” Sumire deadpanned.
Later that night, sprawled across the floor of the storehouse, Sumire found herself watching Takiishi again. He wasn’t watching the movie. He wasn’t really doing anything. Just lying there, arms behind his head, eyes flickering with something distant. Something missing.
It hit her again—that ache. That quiet, sharp awareness that even here, surrounded by people who cared, Takiishi wasn’t whole.
Fighting, shopping, snacks, novelties, movie nights—it wasn’t enough for him. It never had been. And she didn’t know how to fix it.
But she wasn’t going to stop trying.
— ԃყιɳɠ ҽɱႦҽɾʂ —
Cherry light pooled in the chrome of the convertible’s door as it pulled to the curb outside their school’s front courtyard. The young woman behind the wheel—long nails, glossy lips, huge sunglasses—leaned over and sang Endo’s name like a hook in a pop song. “Yamato-kun~”
Maybe that was why Sumire recently stopped using honorifics with Endo. She didn’t want to sound anything like the floozies he went home with.
Endo tossed his jacket collar with theatrical carelessness, slung himself into the passenger seat, and aimed a wink at Sumire as the engine purred. “See you later, little wildfire.”
Sumire rolled her eyes, but her stomach burned all the same. Of course he had another girlfriend. Of course she had money. Endo collected attention the way streetlights collected moths, and he turned it into whatever he wanted: rides, dinners, designer belts, the kind of credit cards that bore names no one in their class had ever heard of.
Stupidly good with women. Stupidly good at everything. She hated the flare of jealousy and hated herself for feeling it.
The convertible slipped into Makochi’s midday traffic, a streak of black lacquer and laughter. Sumire watched until it vanished, then started walking alone.
The wind carried the scent of frying oil and ink and rain-washed concrete. Makochi’s main street sloped gently toward the river, its shops stacked shoulder to shoulder: old stationery store with sun-faded paper fans in the window, a ramen joint with steam ghosting the glass, a pawn shop displaying a single electric guitar like an altar piece. Above everything, the cherry trees leaned in over the road, their petals snagging on power lines and storefront awnings, raining down in drifting veils.
She let her thoughts occupy the empty place where Endo’s noise usually lived.
She pictured him—seafoam eyes cutting sideways in amusement, the way he palmed other people’s hearts like coins and made them feel grateful for it. He’d never admit he cared, but he cared too much; he just dressed it up as something more casual instead.
Then her mind slid to Takiishi, and the heat went out of it, like a fire starved of oxygen.
She remembered the first time she saw him: a small boy before an alley’s mouth, rain clinging to his red hair, crows feasting in front of them. Back then, there’d been a spark in his eyes—bored, yes, but alert to the hunt, hopeful in a dangerous way that the world might cough up something worth tasting. He still fought. He still found five-minute thrills and made them look like art. But afterward, it was always the same: victory bleeding out of him, leaving his gaze flat, empty as rinsed glass.
He was going through the motions of living. It made something inside her want to grab him by the shoulders and say, We care. I care. Yamato cares. There’s more. You don’t have to hollow yourself out to keep from being disappointed.
But she had learned where his edges were sharpest. Push, and he struck. Block him, and he broke things. She kept her awareness of him like a hand around a candle—close enough to guard, never so close it smothered.
A shout snapped the thread of her thoughts.
Up ahead, a food truck had parked at the corner—bright red, octopus mascot painted along the side, steam furling from a hatch. Five older boys in Furin jackets sprawled around it like a spill. One kicked at a sandwich board until it thudded and gave, chalk letters smearing.
Another shouldered the counter window and barked, “Oi, old man! We said extra. You call this extra?” The vendor, mid-fifties, face soft with fatigue, bowed and apologized so many times it hurt to listen to more.
“Hey!” a voice rang out—not angry, exactly, but bright. “Cut it out!”
Sumire turned. Umemiya was already running, three long strides ahead of his crew as if pulled by a gravity of his own. White hair wind-ruffled, t-shirt and trousers uncomplicated. But there was this look in his eyes, steadfast and fearlessly determined.
Behind him came Hiragi—narrow-faced, heavier steps. Tsubaki was all legs and heels, hair flowing like a banner of black and red. Momose, hood up despite the sun, moved low and quick. Mizuki seemed to make even his run look calculated.
The upperclassmen swung to face them. One scoffed, a sound that tried for derision and tripped on surprise. “First-years?”
Umemiya slowed just enough to speak. “If you’ve got a problem, talk, yeah? Don’t trash someone’s shop.”
Leather Jacket sneered. “You lookin’ to start shit?”
Umemiya’s smile didn’t go anywhere. “I don’t mind letting our fists do the talking.”
That did it.
Hiragi closed first, stepping through a looping punch with his shoulder like a door battering open; his elbow followed fast, a piston into ribs. He moved like a trained striker, all swagger hiding discipline. His second opponent feinted low—Hiragi’s knee answered, cruel and efficient. Teeth bared, wolfish grin flashing. He barely said a word.
Tsubaki’s stiletto heel clicked, then sang. He cut angles like a dancer, skirt slicing open the space around him as if carved from air. The first boy to underestimate the heels got a shin-slicing roundhouse that stole his balance and half his pride; the second reached for Tsubaki’s hair and ate a palm strike so clean it sounded like applause.
“Careful with the merchandise, darling,” Tsubaki chimed, smiling without kindness, then pivoted, the heel of his boot stamping an instep. He fought like he walked and wore makeup—decisive and utterly unapologetic.
Momose was a flicker at the edge of things—first all at once on someone’s back, then gone. He kept his hood up, head down, hands fast. A short hook to a liver. A sweep that took two ankles at once. When one of the upperclassmen grabbed the vendor’s sleeve as a shield, Momose’s jaw tightened; he planted both palms on the truck rail, vaulted, and drove both feet into the boy’s chest. There was no flourish, just function.
Mizuki didn’t hit first. He didn’t need to. “Hiragi-shi, right. Tsubakino-shi—two o’clock.” His voice stayed level as a metronome, eyes cataloging breath patterns, shoulder tilts. When one of the older boys stepped to flank, Mizuki met him with a precise front kick that pushed without overcommitting.
And Umemiya… Umemiya fought like he believed in everything he did. When an upperclassman charged, Umemiya’s hands rose, not to cover but to invite—catching biceps, guiding, turning aggression like river water around a rock. When he did hit hard, it was final and free of spite, an exchange instead of a punishment.
Grandma Akane once told Sumire that the reason she made a good artist was because she paid close attention to other people. There was a part of her that could not stop studying people, and that part leaned forward. She watched how Umemiya’s crew held their spacing without looking. How they never trapped the vendor between bodies and footwork. How Umemiya’s eyes flicked to the knocked-over sign even during a combination, like he was already planning to put it back.
Two minutes later, all five upperclassmen were wheezing in the gutter of their own bravado. One crawled for his dropped phone. Another clutched his chest like he was having trouble breathing. The one who’d kicked the sandwich board tried to stand, made it halfway, and then stumbled.
“Wait,” Umemiya called as they staggered off. He sounded genuinely sorry. “We can talk this out! Come on back!”
They did not, in fact, come back.
Umemiya sighed like a man denied a good conversation and then—without ceremony—turned to the vendor and bowed. “Sorry for the mess, sir.”
“We’ll fix it,” Hiragi said, already stooping to correct the sign. He wiped chalk streaks with the edge of his jacket and scowled at the smear like it had personally insulted him.
“Let me,” Mizuki murmured, taking the cloth and cleaning in neat rectangles.
Momose righted the condiment trays, lined up the squeeze bottles in color order—red, yellow, brown—then fished a rolled-up sticker sheet out of his pocket and stared at the octopus mascot, expression temporarily lost in thought. He did not add a tag. He simply smiled to himself as if mentally designing one later.
Tsubaki fussed over the vendor’s sleeve, dabbing soy sauce from the cuff with a tissue. “You poor thing,” he said fondly. “Boys like that are so exhausting.”
The vendor’s shoulders dropped an inch for every gesture. “Thank you, thank you,” he kept saying, voice trembling back to steadiness. “Boys like you… you don’t see it much. Thank you.” He insisted they take a tray—paper boats lined with steaming takoyaki, bonito flakes fluttering like moth wings, sauce glossy in the sun. “Eat, eat! Please!”
They gathered in a loose half-circle and dug in without shyness. Umemiya popped one ball whole and flapped his hand when molten octopus conspired to scald him; Hiragi laughed under his breath and slid a water bottle over. Tsubaki tasted delicately, cheeks dimpling, heels tipped together. Momose ate quickly, then licked sauce from his thumb absently. Mizuki blew on each bite before committing, and he closed his eyes when the texture hit just right.
When Umemiya looked up mid-bite and caught Sumire watching from the shade of a cherry tree, his smile brightened like someone had turned up a dimmer. He raised a hand and waved as if they were already acquaintances. “Oh, hey! You’re that girl in Endo’s crew.”
Her heartbeat did an odd little hitch. She stepped closer, careful, and bowed awkwardly. “Kurosawa Sumire,” she said. She kept her face neutral, her voice even. “Nice to meet you.”
“Umemiya Hajime,” he replied. “And likewise!” He gestured with the skewer. “These are my friends: Hiragi, Tsubaki, Momose, and Mizuki.”
Tsubaki tossed his hair over one shoulder. Blue eyes swept up and down appreciatively, not in the gross way boys at Furin usually did but like a stylist eyeing a display. “Kurosawa-chan, your look is divine. That liner. And the boots.”
Some heat sneaked into Sumire’s cheeks. “I really like your boots, Tsubakino-san.”
“Tsubaki-chan,” he repeated, unfazed. “But you can call me anything you like.”
Hiragi sighed and palmed his face. “Here we go,” he muttered, though his mouth twitched like he couldn’t tell if he wanted to smile.
Umemiya laughed, leaning casually against the food truck. “Hey, Kurosawa-chan, why don’t you join us?”
Hiragi immediately facepalmed, groaning aloud. “She’s already got a crew, you idiot.”
“Eh?” Umemiya looked momentarily confused, then realization dawned, laughter ringing brightly. “Oh! No, no, I mean for lunch!”
Sumire swallowed. The friendliness felt like stepping off a curb that wasn’t there. Invitations usually weren’t trusted because they came with leverage and angles. Umemiya’s felt like a hand held out with nothing hidden up the sleeve, but those were instincts Sumire didn’t know if she could trust.
“I… should go,” she said, defaulting to caution.
Disappointment flickered across his face—uncomplicated and honest—and it did something small in her chest. He covered it with an easy nod. “Get home safe, Kurosawa-chan.”
She bowed again. “You, too.”
As she turned away, she heard Tsubaki murmur, “She’s cute,” and Hiragi’s low, “Focus.” Mizuki was already discussing choke points along the river footbridge—“If they come back, that’s where they’ll try to circle.”
Sumire walked.
The city felt a degree off its axis now. She replayed the fight: the economy of movement, the way Umemiya had tried—actually tried—to talk even after winning. She replayed his smile at her, how it had landed without snagging, and the way her name sounded when Tsubaki softened it with -chan like they’d been classmates for years.
What did it mean that there were people like that at Furin? They weren’t soft or naïve, but looking outward while throwing punches, as if the fight was for a purpose beyond enjoyment or survival.
She thought of Takiishi’s empty gaze after victory. She thought of Endo’s cruel laugh, spinning the world louder whenever it went quiet. She thought of the three of them at the shrine, under the old tree with its shimenawa rope, heat of the stone lamp, sugar sticking to fingers…
Umemiya wasn’t glare and posture. He was something else, a different gravity.
Sumire’s brow furrowed. She didn’t know what she had just witnessed, not really. But for some reason, her instincts told her this mattered. She tucked that thought away like a blade into its sheath and kept walking toward the long stone stair of Kureha Shrine.
She made it home and found her grandparents watching TV together. Heading into the kitchen, Sumire decided to boil some water for tea. It was a simple activity, grounding and repetitive.
Steam curled from the spout of the small iron kettle, thin and silvery as spider silk. In the quiet of the Kurosawa kitchen, Sumire measured tea leaves by feel, the familiar ritual smoothing the sharp edges of her thoughts. The day’s grit and noise fell away with each careful motion—scoop, pour, wait—as if the heat were boiling the chaos right out of her mind.
She let the leaves breathe, lifted the lid, and the aroma rose: grassy, toasty, faintly sweet. On the counter she set a low tray with two cups, a small bowl of sugar, a honey jar, and a spoon. The neatness of it steadied her.
Out on the engawa the spring night had a damp bite. The shrine grounds murmured with the sounds she knew by heart: the soft rush of pines in the sacred grove, the temple bell’s distant, accidental chime when wind touched it just right, a night bird scolding from the dark. The storehouse’s paper window glowed a low, steady red—Takiishi’s red string lights casting the room in a constant dusk, as if blood and cherry blossoms had become light.
She crossed the wooden path without hurrying, the tray balanced in both hands. At the doorsill she paused to listen. A low wash of sound—TV, not loud, not engaging. The glow pulsed across the tatami like a heartbeat.
She knocked lightly with her knuckles. “Takiishi-san? It’s me. Just checking on you.”
The only answer was the faint clack of a remote. Sumire slid the door aside.
He was stretched on his stomach across the futon, chin propped on the back of one hand, remote in the other. The red light pulled warm highlights from the short spikes of his hair, turned his white T-shirt to a blush of color, and threw the metal studs of his choker into small, restless flares as he breathed. On the screen, a channel scrolled title cards for a podcast feed—an earnest male voice reciting a Japanese translation of 『狂気の山脈にて』, the syllables paced appropriately to heighten the unnerving atmosphere of the Lovecraftian tale. The words washed over the room and slid off it, not sticking.
Sumire eased the door shut with her hip and set the tray beside him. “Do you mind if I stay out here for a little while?”
He didn’t look up. He rarely did. “Do what you want.”
She chose to hear the permission in it. She poured the first cup, sweetened it the way he liked—too much sugar for her, a ribbon of honey besides—and held it out to Takiishi.
He set the remote down without sighing the way other boys would have. His fingers were warm against hers when he took the cup, a quick, light contact that made the tea waver. He drank. His eyes stayed distant, not empty exactly, but unhooked, as if some part of him stood just outside his own skin and watched the room from the doorway.
The podcast voice droned on: endless ice, ancient cities, the hush of alien wind. Sumire knew a decent amount of Lovecraft, but ‘At the Mountains of Madness’ was certainly one of the more interesting ones in the Mythos.
Sumire poured her own tea plain. The cup warmed her palms. She sat cross-legged at an angle to him, as close as she dared. “I saw Umemiya today,” she said after a moment, as though sharing weather. “At a food truck near the station.”
His thumb traced the rim of the cup, once. The red lights cut sharp lines along his cheekbone. The TV clicked to the next chapter of the same story.
“Some upperclassmen were harassing the vendor. Knocking over signs. Idiots.” She let the tea’s steam rise into her face before she went on. “Umemiya and his friends stepped in.”
That got the smallest shift: a glance. Not at her, but toward the tray, then back to the TV. She knew better than to interpret. She kept her voice level.
“They were quick—efficient. They put the older boys on the ground and then tried to talk to them. ‘Come back, we can talk this out!’” Sumire made the words light, matching the humor she’d heard in Umemiya’s call. It wasn’t mockery. It had made her want to laugh and to frown at the same time. “The upperclassmen ran, of course. Then Umemiya’s group helped the vendor clean up and took takoyaki as thanks.”
Takiishi’s mouth pulled into a frown that wasn’t anger so much as perplexity. “What’s the point in helping the vendor?” He tipped the cup, watching the surface move. “Not having to pay for the food?”
“Well, that part felt like… a bonus,” Sumire said. “I think they helped because they wanted to. Because it was right to them.”
“Why?”
He asked it without hostility. It wasn’t that kind of why. It was the honest question of a boy who had never been taught the answer, to whom the answer would never be obvious.
Sumire tried to stack words in a way that would balance for him. “Maybe because they live here, too,” she said. “Makochi’s their town, their home. The vendor’s part of it. Protecting him is like… protecting something they claim.”
He blinked once. “Claiming it by fighting for it,” he said, as if testing a tool’s weight.
“Yes.”
He drank again and set the cup down, attention flaring and subsiding like a struck match. “Well. Whatever.” His voice slipped flat with ease. “Doesn’t make a difference in the end.” On the screen, the narrator described a wind like knives. Takiishi’s eyes moved, not following the words but riding their rhythm. “I wonder if that guy is a good fighter,” he added, almost idly.
He didn’t say Umemiya. He never said names; none of them ever hooked into him and held. Sumire wasn’t sure if one ever would.
“From what I saw,” she said, “he’s one of the strongest at Furin.”
The faintest spark of interest slid through empty pools of gold.
“Maybe you’d have a good time fighting him,” Sumire said, soft with care, plain with hope.
“Maybe,” he agreed.
They let silence pool, and the podcast ticked on. Sumire refilled his cup when it got low and he took it without acknowledgement. The red light bled into everything—the white of his shirt, the milky surface of tea, the soft weave of the futon cover—until the whole room seemed to exist inside a stoplight that never changed.
It got late quickly. Sumire rose and moved in quiet habits, rolling out one of the spare futons beside his. She shook out the cover, folded back the top edge. When she glanced at him for protest, there wasn’t any. His eyes stayed on the TV screen, but they were unfocused now, the look he wore when the world let him drift without pulling.
She slipped under the blanket and turned on her side. A small shift, a muffled rustle, and he mirrored her on his side—face to face now, red light sighing across both their brows. The narrator’s voice began another chapter and let it fall like snow.
Takiishi watched her for a breath longer than necessary. Then his eyes slid closed, lashes making thin shadows on his cheeks. He didn’t sleep. She could tell by the easy set of his mouth, by the way his fingers stayed just curled on the futon cover instead of slackening.
“You’re always following me around,” he said, not quite accusing, not quite curious. It was observation, like saying the ceiling is red.
“Does it bother you?” Sumire asked.
His eyes opened just a fraction, amber under a half-lid. “Surprisingly, no.”
Heat rose in her face and she made herself hold his gaze anyway. “I’m glad.”
Takiishi tipped his chin an almost-imperceptible degree. “You don’t enjoy fighting like we do.”
It wasn’t a question, but she treated it like one anyway. “Not really,” she said. “But I choose to do it anyway… so that I can stay with you.” A small pause, she let herself take it. “You and Yamato.”
He studied her as if she were a pattern he’d been seeing for a long time and had only just realized repeated. “You’re strange,” he said finally. The words should have stung, but they didn’t.
“You’re one to talk,” Sumire blurted—reflex, the old bark of her tongue. The moment hung there, naked. She felt the heat climb from throat to cheekbones. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
The corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. A concession to the possibility.
“Mm. Fair,” he said, and let his eyes close again. His breathing slowed, even and deep.
Sumire’s own breath went shallow, then steady. The room’s red half-shadow turned intimacy into landscape. She looked at his hand where it lay outside the blanket, fingers loose. She felt the want to move toward him—small, specific, terrifying in its newness. If he pulled away, the space between them would widen in ways she wouldn’t know how to cross again.
She reached anyway, inspired to take a chance the way Umemiya had tried to take a chance on her.
Carefully, as if the air itself would crack if she moved too fast, Sumire slid her hand across the tatami’s woven edge and laid her fingers over Takiishi’s. Skin to skin was warm. She didn’t hold; she just rested there, as if setting down the truth in a place where it wouldn’t roll off the table.
His eyes snapped open, the gold sudden as a struck match. It was the first time she’d ever touched him.
Those eyes dropped to their hands, then up to her face. “What’s the point of that?” he asked, genuinely. It wasn’t… unkindly or mocking. Just the same question as before, dressed in different clothes.
“Just…” The word stuck and scraped on the way out, and she forced the rest through softly. “To be close to you. To be near you. If that’s okay.”
He looked back at the point of contact. The tiny crease showed between his brows that meant he was standing in a doorway inside himself, looking at a room he didn’t recognize. The string lights painted his hair in narrow blades of cherry. She felt the impulse in him the way you feel thunder through floorboards: the choice to move—or not, to break—or not.
“Fine,” he said at last.
It was nothing. It was enormous.
His eyes closed a second time. The tiny crease smoothed. He let his hand stay under hers, not changing anything else about his posture. Sumire let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
Eventually the words on the TV blurred into one long sound and then into nothing. Takiishi’s hand warmed under hers as his body slid the last inch into sleep, and the heaviness of it told her when he crossed. Sumire let her eyes close, too, and felt the room hold them both the way the earth holds footsteps, pressed into the day and all its meanings.
They slept—two silhouettes on the red-washed tatami—while the storehouse hummed softly around them and the crickets sang them a lullaby.
— ԃყιɳɠ ҽɱႦҽɾʂ —
Every day was more of the same until a couple more weeks passed.
The sun hung low in the sky as afternoon bled toward evening, casting golden bars of light across the streets of Makochi. Long shadows stretched over powerlines and shopfronts, catching on the chipped paint of old vending machines and the weatherworn stone of alley walls. School had let out a while ago, and Sumire found herself wandering side by side with Endo, who was midway through regaling her with the highlights of a recent conquest—a girl two grades up, model-slim, family money, and, as he put it, “a face like a dream and brains like pudding.”
Sumire’s face scrunched up in disgust. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”
Endo only grinned, his seafoam green eyes glinting. “Definitely both.”
“You’re going to catch something,” Sumire warned.
“Hey, I’m careful!”
“Yeah, whatever; have fun with Pudding-Brain, then.”
They were cutting through one of the side streets that looped behind Furin High, a lesser-used path that passed an old coin laundry, a shuttered bathhouse, and the back lot of a pachinko parlor. The sound of shouting reached them before they saw anything—followed by a sharp clang of metal, a barked curse, and the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting concrete.
Sumire slowed. Endo’s posture straightened. Together, they rounded the corner of the lot, their footsteps muffled by the soft hush of wind through loose trash and cigarette butts. What they saw brought both of them to a stop.
The ground was littered with bodies—ten or eleven boys in total, all wearing Furin uniforms, half of them groaning, the other half trying to crawl away. Most were upperclassmen, but a couple were first years caught in the wrong group. All of them bore bruises in various shades of bloom, their pride scattered across the pavement like bloodied teeth.
At the center of the chaos stood Umemiya Hajime, sleeves rolled up, a faint scrape along his cheekbone and a scuffed knuckle on one hand. He wasn’t even winded. And in front of him—on his knees and panting—was the opposing gang’s leader, a third-year with busted lips and blood at the corner of his mouth.
Umemiya crouched down to the boy’s level, arms rested on his knees, and met his gaze directly, blue eyes bright and intense. “I’m not here to show you I’m stronger,” he said, voice calm but firm. “And I’m not here to embarrass you.”
The third-year scoffed, glaring up at him. “Then what the hell are you here for?”
Umemiya didn’t hesitate. “To unify us. Furin doesn’t need to be fractured like this. We’re all part of this school. We all walk the same halls, breathe the same air, eat the same cafeteria food. Why waste our time trying to tear each other down?”
The third-year sneered. “You think we’re just gonna hold hands and sing songs now?”
“No,” Umemiya replied, tone easy. “I think we’re gonna protect this town.”
From his vantage point, Endo made a sharp, incredulous noise beside Sumire—almost a snort, almost a laugh. “Oh come on.”
Umemiya kept talking, as though unaware of their presence at the edge of the lot. “I grew up here. Makochi Town’s my home. And the people here? They gave me everything. A second chance. A place to belong. A family.” He placed a hand on his chest, sincere. “This place isn’t perfect. But it’s ours. It’s something we should actually give a damn about. We could be the ones protecting it. Making sure the kids coming up don’t have to be scared. We fight—sure. That’s what we do. But we don’t fight each other. Not when we could be doing something better.”
Sumire stood frozen, wind tugging her long dark red hair back from her face as she watched. His voice carried easily across the lot. Every word was like a stone dropping into her gut—weighty, echoing, and unsettling.
Endo, beside her, rolled his eyes so hard his entire head moved. “Can you believe this garbage?” he muttered, leaning toward her, voice low. “This idiot actually thinks he can unify Furin High? Turn it into some noble gang of protectors?” He laughed, short and sharp. “Give me a break.”
Sumire didn’t answer.
Umemiya’s voice drifted back to them again. “Hatred spreads. We all know that. But love and understanding… they spread, too. Slowly, and quietly, but they do spread.”
The third-year said nothing. His eyes had dropped to the pavement.
Umemiya reached out a hand—not to threaten, but to help. “Come on,” he said. “Stand with us.”
And, after a long, tense pause… the boy took his hand.
Sumire’s chest twisted.
“Sumire.” Endo’s voice was firmer now, narrowed with suspicion. “You aren’t actually listening to the guy, right?”
Sumire said nothing, eyes still on Umemiya.
Endo narrowed his gaze. “Come on, Sumire. He’s obviously a moron. Takiishi would never go for something so boring.”
That one landed. Her gaze dropped, and her mouth tightened.
Boring.
Endo was right. Takiishi wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t understand the why any more than he understood why someone would help a food vendor being harassed. Takiishi had spent so long bored of the world, he didn’t even see meaning in connection or unity.
But Sumire had seen something else in Umemiya’s words. Something bright and reckless and hopeful.
Endo, sensing her silence as acknowledgement of his correctness, smirked. He stepped in closer and took her hand—confident, fluid, possessive. “Come on, Sumire,” he said, tugging lightly. “I bet a hazelnut latte will cheer you right up.”
She sighed. But she followed.
As they turned to go, she couldn’t help glancing back. Umemiya was laughing about something with his friends now, his arm around Hiragi’s shoulder as he said something animated and earnest. But then he paused. His eyes found hers across the lot.
And he smiled. He lifted a hand and waved—cheerful, easy, like she was someone he saw every day.
Sumire stiffened. Her breath caught. She turned her head quickly, pretending she hadn’t seen it. Her cheeks were warm as she looked forward, her expression blank, and she followed Endo into the town’s quieter streets.
Endo made a joke about hijacking a couple’s outdoor café table if they looked rich enough, but Sumire didn’t respond. Her mind was still back there—on Umemiya’s blue eyes and outstretched hands, and a vision of what Furin could be if anyone else besides Umemiya dared to believe in something like that.
A little while later, they sat on a bench under the budding trees of a quiet park near the shopping district. Endo had gotten them lattes, and Sumire wrapped her fingers around hers, staring at the foam patterns on top as Endo draped his arm lazily across the back of the bench behind her shoulders.
His legs were crossed at the ankles, one sneaker bouncing rhythmically, and he leaned his head back with a lazy grin. “So,” he said, eyes closed. “Do I need to start carrying around a whiteboard for you to track how often you stare at that guy?”
Sumire’s lip twitched. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh no,” Endo agreed, mock-serious. “Just contemplatively observing. Totally different.”
“Shut up, Yamato.”
“I hope you’re not getting a crush on that—”
Sumire punched him in the arm.
Endo let out a cough that was more of a laugh. He smiled like her irritation was a gift wrapped in silk. “There’s my favorite version of you.”
She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t pull away. She never did. She just sipped her latte.
Endo had a gravitational pull—confident, cocky, careless in the way people who are never truly vulnerable can be. But Sumire knew him well enough to know that he cared. Deeply. He just didn’t want anyone to realize it. Attention excited him. Intensity thrilled him. The more someone reacted, the more alive he felt.
Still, even with his usual provocations, he didn’t push her too far. He never did. That was the strange line he always walked—chaotic, yes, but careful when it mattered.
Sumire took a long sip of her latte. It was sweet and warm and slightly bitter on the back of her tongue. She could still hear Umemiya’s voice in her mind, soft but unwavering: This is our home.
It didn’t seem possible, changing Furin High when it was already so cemented as a school of delinquents. But… there was something different about him. She didn’t know what that meant yet… only that something had shifted, and she didn’t think she could ignore it forever.
— ԃყιɳɠ ҽɱႦҽɾʂ —
The sky was beginning to turn molten gold, bruised with streaks of lavender and gray, as Endo led Sumire and Takiishi down a narrow alley behind the convenience store where they sometimes stopped for canned coffee and pre-packaged snacks. The air was warm with the scent of spring rain recently passed—concrete still damp, blooming hydrangeas dotting the sidewalk edges, their petals dusted with residual mist.
Sumire kept pace beside Takiishi, while Endo walked backward in front of them, grinning like he was presenting a surprise act in the circus. “You’re gonna love these guys,” he said, sweeping his arms wide with showmanship. “Found ’em last week. Had to put in a little work, but trust me—it was worth it.”
Takiishi didn’t reply. His amber eyes tracked Endo’s movements like one might watch a drifting leaf: disinterested, half-lidded, but faintly curious, in a lazy sort of way. Sumire, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes. Endo’s excitement was infectious, but not always in a good way. Whenever he was this giddy, trouble wasn’t far behind.
They turned the corner and came face to face with two boys waiting just outside the closed shutters of the empty bookstore.
The first was tall and burly, his frame wide and solid beneath the loose fall of his school-issue jacket, worn open over a red athletic shirt. His buzzcut hair was dyed a garish strawberry blonde that caught the light like a street sign, and his grin practically split his face in half.
“Yo!” the big one called, waving. “This them?”
Endo spun on a heel. “Hashirao,” he said with a flourish, “meet Kurosawa and Takiishi. You already know me.” He added a wink that made Sumire sigh audibly.
Hashirao Shuji stepped forward and offered a casual wave. “Nice to meet you guys! Man, Endo-san was insane to fight. Best time I’ve had in years. If joining this crew means fighting more guys like him, I’m all in.”
Sumire’s polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I see.”
The second boy stepped out of the bookstore's shadow—narrow, almost frail in comparison. Pale skin and perpetual dark circles under black eyes made him look sleepless. Shoulder-length black hair shaded half his face; multiple rings and chains accentuated a layered, all-black Goth ensemble. He gnawed absently at the side of his thumbnail, gaze flicking around like a hungry bird.
Endo pointed to the gaunt figure. “And this gloomcore sweetheart is Banjo.”
“Yeah…” Banjo Kanon murmured, biting one of his black-painted nails. “Pain’s the only thing that makes me feel real. You all seem… sharp. I like that.”
Sumire tensed immediately.
Endo gave a devil-may-care grin. “Told you they were fun.”
Hashirao didn’t mind. He leaned forward, peering at her long dark-red hair, then glanced at Takiishi’s fiery spikes in the distance. “You two related? That hair—could be brother and sister!” He laughed, pleased with himself.
Endo lit up. “Thank you! I’ve been saying that for years.”
Sumire deadpanned. “You’ve been saying that since middle school, and it wasn’t funny then either.”
Endo’s grin widened. “Eh, whatever—behold, the first sparks of Noroshi!”
Sumire’s brows drew together. “Noroshi?” The Japanese characters flashed in her mind—のろし—the signal fires samurai used to warn allies of invasion. It suited Endo: a flamboyant beacon heralding chaos.
“Our crew name.” Endo pressed on, excitement bubbling. “So here’s the deal. Noroshi’s gonna get big—fast. We’ll pick off crews, take on full squads of second-years, maybe third-years if they’re dumb enough to step up.”
He glanced at Takiishi, expecting… something. A flicker of interest, maybe. But Takiishi only sighed, rolling one tense shoulder beneath his jacket as if the conversation were physically heavy. He stepped forward, past all of them, his expression unreadable, eyes on the street ahead like he was already done with this interaction.
“Hey, wait up, buddy,” Hashirao said, reaching out—good-natured, friendly, and stupid. His hand landed lightly on Takiishi’s shoulder.
What followed was too fast for any of them to stop.
Takiishi’s body moved like a spring uncoiled. In one fluid motion, he pivoted, twisted at the waist, and brought his leg around in a spinning roundhouse that connected solidly with Hashirao’s chest. The sound it made was sharp and low, like someone had smacked a metal bat against a full water drum.
Hashirao hit the ground hard, sliding a foot back and coughing from the impact. His eyes were wide with stunned awe. “Holy shit. I’ve never felt a hit like that…”
Banjo’s breath hitched with something disturbingly close to arousal. He shuddered, his smile twitching at the corners, and took one eager half-step forward.
Takiishi turned, slow and silent, and looked directly at him.
Banjo drew in a trembling breath—ecstatic, terrified—hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to lunge but thought better of it. Takiishi’s eyes—pure winter glare—locked onto him for a single, killing second. Whatever thrill surged in Banjo’s veins froze into electric stillness. He shivered, hugged himself, breathy laugh spilling through parted lips. “O-ooh, that’s good…”
Endo scratched the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “Right, well. That’s kind of what I expected. Moral of the story is, nobody touches Takiishi. Ever.”
“That,” Hashirao chuckled, rubbing his jaw, “was awesome.”
“I thought it’d be cool, you know?” Endo said to Takiishi, hoping to appease him. “Get a couple strong guys, start going after the big crews. Bigger fights, more fun. You’d think that’d light a fire in you, yeah?”
Takiishi turned his back, already walking toward the gate. “Do what you want.”
Endo exhaled, frustration flickering beneath his grin as he turned back to Hashirao and Banjo. “All right, dipshits—tomorrow after classes. We’ll find a nice bonfire to start. See you then.”
Hashirao grinned—dazed but game—and slapped Banjo’s shoulder. Banjo giggled, swaying on his heels. The new recruits trooped off.
Sumire gave them a final glance and turned to follow after Takiishi. Endo caught up beside her, hands behind his head, striding loose and unbothered. For a time, they walked in silence—their sneakers scraping the pavement, the late spring breeze tugging gently at their Furin jackets.
Sumire’s silence stretched. Endo flicked her a side glance. “Not impressed?”
She answered quietly, “I don’t think gang fights are going to help him, Yamato.”
He kicked a loose pebble down the alley. “Since when did you start prescribing therapy?”
“You just keep giving him more of the same,” she said. “Bigger fights. Stronger opponents. And it keeps not working.” She met Endo’s seafoam gaze. “When medicine doesn’t work, giving more of the same medicine won’t fix the patient.”
Endo’s brows rose at the metaphor. He snorted. “Clever. So, doctor, what’s the cure?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted softly, eyes on Takiishi’s back. “But I don’t think it’s this.”
Endo made a noncommittal sound and reached out, ruffling her hair before she could stop him.
“Hey!” she swatted at his hand and immediately tried to fix the disarray he left behind.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he said, slinging his arm over her shoulders and pulling her against his side. “Just let things play out. That’s what we’ve always done, right?”
Sumire didn’t reply, but she didn’t pull away, either.
They walked like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, the soft hush of their steps the only sound. Up ahead, Takiishi walked several paces in front of them, shoulders hunched, hands still in his pockets, short red hair stirring in the wind. The fading sunlight hit the edges of it, catching in the loose strands like flame.
Sumire watched his back, her stomach twisted with a familiar ache. An ache named helplessness.
“I hope you’re right,” she murmured.
But in her heart, she had her doubts.
— ԃყιɳɠ ҽɱႦҽɾʂ —
By the time July bled into the scorching height of summer, the oppressive heat had begun to cling to the uniforms of Furin High’s students, making tempers short and tension run high. As the day ended, the schoolyard filled with restless murmurs and scuffing shoes. Sumire walked quietly alongside Endo, Takiishi slightly ahead of them both, seemingly indifferent to the heat and everything else around him.
A familiar voice broke the dull hum. “Hey! Takiishi!”
Sumire turned her head quickly. Umemiya Hajime jogged over with easy grace, eyes bright, expression open and friendly, white hair tousled by the wind. Behind him, Hiragi and Tsubaki exchanged wary glances, but hung back, observing from a safe distance.
Endo smirked as Umemiya approached, excitement already gleaming in his seafoam-green eyes. Takiishi slowed to a stop and glanced over his shoulder, amber eyes sharp, challenging, mildly curious.
Umemiya halted a few feet away, breathing only slightly heavier. “I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he said, smiling broadly. “How about a match? You and me.”
Takiishi regarded him silently.
Encouraged by the hesitation, Umemiya’s grin widened. “If I win, you gotta join me!”
That single sentence, delivered with cheerful arrogance, ignited Takiishi’s irritation. Without a word, his body twisted smoothly, fist flying forward in a punch swift enough to blur. Umemiya barely ducked aside, eyes widening in surprise as the strike grazed his cheek.
“Whoa!” Umemiya laughed, breathless but undaunted. “We’re starting already? Okay then!”
And then it began.
Their fight erupted in the courtyard, drawing gasps and cries from surrounding students. A semicircle of eager spectators quickly formed, creating an informal arena for the two fighters.
Endo took Sumire’s arm gently and tugged her back, eyes alight with anticipation. “This’ll be fun,” he murmured, watching closely. “Finally gonna see pretty-boy eat dirt.”
“Don’t worry, Yamato,” Sumire drawled. “You’re pretty, too.”
“You know, I tell myself that every day, but it sounds so much nicer when someone else says it.”
Sumire rolled her eyes. Her gaze then fixed solely on Takiishi, whose usual mask of bored apathy had slipped away, replaced by something far rarer—a glint of genuine hunger, spurred on when his first strike didn’t actually connect with his opponent.
Takiishi moved first, graceful and brutal, his lean body pivoting into fluid acrobatics that carried him close enough for a vicious kick. Umemiya blocked with crossed arms, absorbing the blow that made his entire body shudder. He retaliated instantly, throwing a powerful right hook that Takiishi dodged with feline ease, springing back lightly on the balls of his feet.
They fell into a rhythm, exchanging blows that rang through the air like distant thunderclaps. Umemiya was durable and sturdy, moving like a tank with surprising bursts of speed, his punches heavy and crushing. Takiishi’s style was different—sharp, precise, unpredictable. Every attack was a blend of efficiency and cruel artistry, designed not just to incapacitate but to dominate.
Sumire watched him in awe, her breath caught somewhere in her throat. Takiishi in combat was mesmerizing—his eyes bright gold, mouth tugging into a smile that spoke of a joy she rarely ever saw. It was beautiful, she thought, in a terrifying way, the way storms were beautiful when observed from afar.
He’s captivating.
Umemiya laughed after dodging a brutal kick aimed at his ribs. “You’re amazing!” he shouted, genuine admiration clear. “We’d be unstoppable together, you know?”
Takiishi’s eyes narrowed slightly, faintly annoyed. “Shut up.”
Umemiya blocked another kick, wincing at the force. “We could unite Furin,” he insisted breathlessly. “Protect Makochi. You get that, don’t you?”
“No.” Takiishi’s voice was ice-cold, dismissive, before lunging again, landing a punch that snapped Umemiya’s head to the side. “That’s stupid.”
Umemiya spat blood, grinning wryly. “You fight this hard just for fun? You really are something else.”
Takiishi didn’t answer. Instead, he surged forward again, smiling despite himself. Because yes—he was having fun. And it was exhilarating.
From the sidelines, Endo laughed, loud and delighted, enthralled by the savage beauty of the battle. Sumire’s fists clenched tight against her chest. She could feel the intensity, the rare pleasure emanating from Takiishi—something fierce, primal, alive. Her heart ached at how fleeting it seemed. She desperately hoped this moment would last, that it would finally pull Takiishi from the numbness he’d surrendered himself to for far too long.
For several intense moments, Umemiya and Takiishi danced a brutal choreography, fists connecting, limbs tangling, sweat flicking from their brows. They circled each other, panting, eyes locked, both smiling fiercely. Neither gave an inch, neither relented.
Then a sharp voice split through the chaos: “That’s enough! Break it up, boys!”
School staff, led by their leather-jacketed homeroom teacher, stormed toward the fight. Students scattered, murmuring and disappointed. Takiishi stiffened, eyes narrowing dangerously. Umemiya immediately stepped back, bowing politely.
“Sorry, Sensei!” he called, voice cheerful and apologetic at once. “Got a bit carried away. Won’t happen again.”
Takiishi’s lip curled into a scowl, bitterness clouding the brief joy he’d felt. His golden eyes glared daggers at the retreating authority figures as Umemiya’s easy surrender stole the last traces of his enjoyment. The spark faded swiftly, leaving him empty again.
Without another word, Takiishi turned on his heel and stalked away.
“Hey, Takiishi!” Umemiya called brightly, wiping blood from his chin. “Let's fight again sometime! ’Til next time!”
Takiishi didn’t respond.
Endo and Sumire followed quickly. Endo was practically glowing with excitement, bouncing on his heels as they caught up. “Did you see that? Man, what a fight! That guy didn’t stand a chance—”
He didn’t even see Takiishi’s fist until it smashed hard into his jaw, sending him sprawling back onto the pavement.
Sumire froze, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. “Yamato—!”
Endo groaned softly, sitting up slowly, wiping blood from his mouth. He chuckled ruefully, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, I get it. Bad mood, got it. I deserved that.” He rubbed his jaw gingerly. “But come on, you had fun, right? Even a little?”
Takiishi scowled darkly and strode off without another word.
Sumire knelt beside Endo. “You okay?”
Endo gave a lazy, reassuring grin. “Fine. Not the first time he’s hit me; won’t be the last.”
Sumire frowned softly. “You need to get better at reading him, Yamato.”
Endo laughed, slinging an arm casually around her shoulders. “I’ve never been good at reading Takiishi, and I’m not about to start now. Come on, little wildfire. Let’s catch up.”
They walked after Takiishi, slower now. Sumire’s eyes traced Takiishi’s retreating back, her heart heavy yet hopeful. She replayed every second of the fight—every kick, punch, and smile. She had seen something rare and precious, something hidden deep within Takiishi, brought to the surface for just a fleeting moment.
She glanced back over her shoulder. Umemiya and his crew were regrouping, the white-haired boy laughing as Tsubaki fussed over his bruises, Hiragi shaking his head in fond exasperation. Somehow, he’d pulled a real, genuine smile from Takiishi while they were fighting.
Umemiya… Is he the key?
Sumire didn’t know, but something in her chest told her this was important. That he was important.
She would keep watching, keep trying. No matter how long it took, she would find a way to help Takiishi feel alive again—truly alive, not just surviving between fights, but living fully. She wouldn’t give up on him. Not now, not ever.