The whispers started slowly.
"Is he still trying to act cool or something?"
"Bet he's reading those hero magazines under the desk again."
"Maybe he hit his head too hard when he got mugged."
Satoru didn't respond. He sat in the back of the class, notebook open, pencil tapping silently.
He wasn't ignoring them because it hurt. He just… didn't have time anymore.
The bruises on his arms had faded into pale yellow patches. His muscles still ached from morning training. But he'd stopped flinching when people came too close.
And that was new.
---
In the hallway, someone bumped into him again—shoulder first, deliberate. One of the usual guys.
Satoru didn't stumble.
He looked at him. Calm. Still.
The boy faltered, muttered something, and walked away.
No one said anything, but Satoru noticed it: the slight hesitation. The second glance. The way their eyes lingered on him a little longer, no longer with amusement—but uncertainty.
It was subtle.
But it was there.
---
During lunch, he sat in the same spot. Alone. But something had shifted.
No one threw food at him anymore. No one laughed when he opened his bento box.
He ate in silence, reviewing flashcards under the table: emergency response steps, CPR rhythm, critical evacuation protocol.
His mind moved through data like rituals—half memorized, half prayed.
He wasn't smarter. Just more prepared.
---
At the flower shop that evening, he arranged a funeral bouquet for the first time.
His mom guided his hands, correcting the placement of lilies and chrysanthemums. "Funerals are quiet," she said. "But they speak the loudest."
Satoru nodded.
He placed the last flower and stepped back. It wasn't perfect.
But it held.
---
Later that night, Keiko watched him practice CPR on an old pillow in the living room.
"You know that's not exactly a good dummy, right?" she said.
Satoru shrugged. "Better than nothing."
"You're really serious about this, huh?"
He nodded, still pressing rhythmic beats into the stuffing.
She didn't tease him. Just watched.
---
At school the next day, a classmate tripped while carrying a box of classroom supplies.
Satoru caught the box before it hit the floor. Balanced it with surprising steadiness.
The classmate stared at him. "Oh… uh. Thanks?"
Satoru just nodded. Returned to his seat. Kept writing.
The teacher paused at the door, blinked at the exchange. Then began the lesson.
---
No applause. No acknowledgment. Not even a smile.
But no one whispered this time.
---
After school, he biked home through the back roads.
He paid attention to the alleyways, the uneven sidewalks, the cracked streetlights.
He timed how long it would take to bike from the school to the hospital. He noted which traffic lights were slow, which had no crosswalks.
Every detail mattered.
Because someday, someone would be in trouble.
And he'd need to know.
---
In his notebook that night, he wrote:
> "Still quiet. Still unnoticed. But I don't freeze anymore. Not scared of them. Just focused."
Then, beneath that:
> "The quiet ones aren't weak. We're just preparing."
He closed the notebook.
His fingers were ink-stained. His body sore. His legs felt like bricks.
And still—he smiled.