Someone grabbed his shoulder, rolled him onto his back.
Above him, the man with the scarred mouth held a crowbar. Raised high.
With this final assault—the one that would steal the breath from his lungs—his body failed him. No movement. No fight.
"NO PLE—"
"Wow. That's what we're doing?"
The voice didn't belong—too calm, too casual, like someone interrupting a conversation, not a beating. It came from behind them, near the fire exit.
The gang turned, reflexively, expecting cops or maybe a completely foreign threat. Instead, a boy no older than twelve stepped into view.
His hands were tucked in his pockets like he hadn't seen such a disturbing sight. He looked.. Disappointed more than anything.
"Kinda pathetic," he said, not looking at any of them directly. "All of you piling on one half-dead kid. That's the plan?"
He scanned the group with a slight tilt of his head, like he was still doing the math.
"Four of you? Five?"
…
Laughter broke the silence.
It started slow, a low chuckle from one of the men behind the scarred one. Then another joined in.
Then another.
The Stray was still gasping for breath on the ground, blinking past the haze of pain in his skull, but he could hear it. The way it spread between them, like this was some inside joke he wasn't in on.
The man with the scarred mouth exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Of course it's you."
One of the others wiped at his mouth, still chuckling. "Shouldn't you be locked up somewhere?"
Hikari hadn't moved. Still standing there, hands on his hips, grinning like he didn't just walk into a fight he couldn't win.
One of the thugs clicked his tongue. "This what you do now? Playing hero? You think anybody's buying that?"
Hikari shrugged. "Didn't know I had fans."
A snort from the side. A whisper, slithering between curiosity and disdain.
"Ain't he the one who—?"
Cut off. Like they already knew the answer.
"The house fire? Mmhmm."
A pause, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. A few of the thugs started to fade backwards.
"Didn't they say he locked the door first?"
A slow, exaggerated whistle, low and drawn out.
"That's some sick shit."
One of them leaned on his crowbar, shaking his head, like he'd just watched a drunk piss himself in the street. His expression carried nothing but humorous disgust.
"And now he wants to play the good guy?"
That original humor hadn't come back, but it had turned into something else.
Pity.
Hikari's expression didn't change.
He was grinning like he didn't hear them at all.
The man with the scarred mouth looked almost indifferent, he studied Hikari a second longer. Then sighed.
"C'mon." He jerked his chin toward the others. "Ain't tryna be seen with that."
Something in him said to cut the boy down and burn out whatever hell was growing in him. But that wasn't his call. And he didn't care enough to make it his.
The gang started moving, but the man lingered. He looked at Hikari again, something unreadable in his face now.
"After what you pulled, you really think you have the right to judge us?"
The words weren't a warning. They weren't a threat.
Hikari didn't react.
Then Scarface turned and walked away.
The laughter faded with them.
The alley was quiet now.
The laughter had faded, swallowed by the city, leaving only the faint echo of footsteps retreating into the night.
The younger child still hadn't moved. Every breath scraped away at his ribs. He tried to push himself upright, but his arms shook beneath him. His body had nothing left.
A sigh.
Stray flinched at the sound, only then realizing Hikari was still there—still a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching. That grin hadn't left his face, but something in him had gone stiff. Like he was caught between choices.
Like he'd almost walked away.
Instead, he sighed and reached into his jacket. Something small. Crushed a little from being carried around.
A half-eaten loaf of bread.
Hikari turned it over in his hands once, thumb pressing against the torn edge.
His grin twitched—just slightly.
Then, without looking at the boy, he crouched down and tossed it into his lap.
The Stray tensed. His hands didn't move.
Hikari clicked his tongue. "Relax. I'm trying to help."
Still, his hands were frozen.
He didn't understand.
People don't do things like this.
He couldn't imagine why he would want to —help him.
Hikari had already pushed himself back up, stretching like he hadn't just handed over something valuable. But before he turned his gaze off the Stray, he hesitated again.
Then—another sigh.
Hikari pulled off his hoodie. A dark red, it was already too big on him. The sleeves were an entire blanket around his wrists and the hem was hanging much lower than it should have. Not to mention, he was already bigger than the boy. The hoodie practically swallowed him whole.
And then—finally—he turned to leave.
The Stray stared down at the red hoodie.
Didn't touch it.
But Hikari had left the alley without a word.
The streets of Sector 3 stretched before him, narrow and winding. The buildings here slouched like tired men, their walls stained with grime, their windows broken or boarded up. Neon signs flickered in the distance, promising cheap food, cheaper drugs, and even cheaper lives.
The wind pressed against Hikari's bare skin but the chill in his bones had little to do with the cold. Their words followed him, more or less annoying than they were hurtful.
Hikari rolled his shoulders, breath curling in the frigid air. Let them talk.
What do they know? Hikari thought, let them laugh. They could twist the truth into whatever shape pleased them—so long as they didn't attempt to blame his father.
He adjusted his collar, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets. He could ignore words. It was the other thing, Hikari couldn't even find a word for it—the presence swimming around in his skull, thick as tar—that wouldn't let go.
A laugh from earlier echoed once more in his head. They weren't afraid. But they should've been terrified.
Hikari himself was.
His boots scuffed against the pavement, steady and unhurried. He moved like someone with nowhere to be, nowhere that mattered.
But the weight in his chest said otherwise.
Block after block, he kept walking, long enough for the weather to strip feeling from his fingertips.
Still, his feet kept to the same path.
Toward the wall.
The prison stood at the edge of Sector 3, positioned for convenience—close enough for enforcers to move easily between the Inner Circle and the outer districts they were paid to police. A fortress of concrete and iron, jagged against the skyline.
Hikari passed through the checkpoint without letting his eyes wander. The officers on duty didn't look at him either. Too many visitors came and went for them to bother keeping track.
The inside smelled like rust, sweat, and simple dust. The halls were wide, built to handle the usual overcrowding.
He just kept walking.
By the time he reached the visitation room, the silence had thickened, pressing against his skin like the weight of something unspoken.
A row of chairs. A long thick sheet of glass.
Hikari sat, stretching his legs in front of him, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. The chair was stiff, uncomfortable—not that he showed it.
He could already feel eyes on him. He was used to it by now.
A door groaned open.
Heavy boots scraped against the floor, slow and uneven.
Hikari didn't lift his gaze. Didn't need to.
The man on the other side of the glass sat down with careful movements, like he was trying not to wince. The cuffs around his wrists clinked softly. His jumpsuit hung loose on him, the fabric creased and worn.
The scar was new. It ran along his cheekbone, jagged and uneven, like it had been done in a hurry. It hadn't been there last month.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.