Chapter 63: Standing Where You Don't Belong.
Ren stood at the edge of the battlefield and felt small.
Not weak — small, the way a child feels standing behind adults who speak too loudly and move too confidently. The ground ahead was shattered, scarred by power he could barely follow with his eyes. Melted stone. Torn earth. Places where the world had bent for people who knew how to ask it to.
He stayed back.
Part of him hated that.
Another part accepted it too easily, and that scared him more.
His mind replayed the fight again, but not like before. Not tactically. Not analytically. It replayed it the way a child replayed a moment of embarrassment — looping the same mistakes, hoping they would change if watched enough times.
I should've been faster.
I should've known.
I should've done something impressive.
Like a child trying to impress adults who weren't even looking.
His fingers curled at his side, then loosened. He realized he'd been gripping nothing, knuckles white, the way he used to when overwhelmed — when noise and motion piled up too fast and his body didn't know where to put itself.
He crouched, pressing his palm to the ground.
Still warm.
The battlefield hummed faintly, like it remembered what had happened here better than he did. Ren traced a crack in the stone with his fingertip, slow and absent-minded, the way he used to draw lines on desks during lectures — not bored, just… thinking sideways.
That was another thing.
Adults thought thinking was linear.
His never had been.
He remembered freezing during the fight — not because he was scared, but because his brain had split into too many possibilities at once. A child overwhelmed by choices, told too late that there was a right answer and he was already failing to give it.
Junhyeok had moved without hesitation. Akeshi had moved with intention. Even the Inhuman had moved with purpose.
Ren had paused.
Not hollow — just crowded.
He sat back on his heels and exhaled slowly, counting his breaths the way he learned to as a kid, before he even knew words like ND or divergence. Back when he just knew that the world felt louder to him than it seemed to for others.
"I keep trying to be an adult the wrong way," he thought.
Trying to be decisive.
Trying to be forceful.
Trying to be simple.
But he wasn't simple.
He never had been.
His mind drifted again — a smaller memory this time. Standing beside someone taller. Watching them solve a problem quickly while he noticed five other problems they missed. Wanting to speak. Not knowing how to cut in. Being told later that he should've said something sooner.
A child, again.
Not wrong.
Just late in a way adults didn't forgive.
Ren pushed himself to his feet.
This time, he didn't rush. He brushed dust from his clothes carefully, deliberately — grounding himself in the motion. Adult hands. Child pacing.
He looked back over the battlefield, but now he didn't focus on where he failed. He focused on the spaces between actions. The gaps. The moments where the fight could have been shaped before it even started.
Preparation.
Structure.
Pattern.
Things his mind had always done naturally, before he learned they were considered slow.
Raw power wasn't his path.
That didn't mean he was behind.
It meant he had been trying to grow up by killing the child in him — the part that noticed too much, questioned too early, felt too deeply.
And that was why he felt hollow.
Ren let that realization settle, heavy but steady.
"I don't need to stop being that kid," he murmured quietly — not to anyone else, just enough to hear it himself. "I just need to let him stand next to me."
Adult resolve.
Child perception.
Not a contradiction.
A pairing.
The hollowness eased — not gone, but filled enough to breathe.
Ren turned away from the battlefield, steps measured, posture straighter than before — not because he felt stronger, but because he finally felt whole.
For the first time, he wasn't standing where he didn't belong.
He was standing where both parts of him could exist.
.
.
.
.
Ren walked home alone.
The streets were calm in a way that felt temporary, like the world was holding its breath after something loud. Streetlights hummed faintly. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then stopped. His footsteps sounded too clear to him, each one echoing longer than it should have.
When he reached his house, the door was closed.
He stood there for a second longer than necessary, hand hovering near the handle, then tried it anyway.
Locked.
Ren exhaled through his nose, not frustrated—just tired. He turned to the neighboring house and stepped up to the door, raising his hand.
"Shimo, do you have the—"
He stopped.
The door was already open.
The person standing there wasn't Shimo.
He was taller. Broader. Older in a way that wasn't just age but distance. His hair was tied back loosely, eyes sharp but worn, like someone who had left and never quite decided if coming back meant anything.
They stared at each other.
The silence stretched, awkward and unbroken.
"…Are you," Ren said slowly, "Shimo's big brother?"
The man sighed, long and tired, like he'd been holding it in since before Ren arrived.
"Yeah," he said. "Renji."
Ren nodded, accepting that without comment.
Renji looked at him, then asked, "What do you want?"
"The keys."
Renji slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers searching briefly before pulling them out. He dropped the keys into Ren's palm without ceremony.
Ren closed his fingers around them.
"Thanks."
He nodded once and turned back toward his house.
The door opened with a soft click.
Inside, the lights were off. The air smelled faintly familiar—clean, unused. Something white lay on the floor just beyond the doorway.
A letter.
Ren bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it.
We'll be away for work for a while. There's food in the fridge. Take care of yourself.
He read it twice.
Then he smiled.
Small. Brief.
This was the first time he remembered his parents leaving the house for work.
The thought sat strangely in his chest, not heavy, not light—just there.
He went to his room, closed the door behind him, and lay down on his bed.
His eyes stayed open.
Unblinking.
The ceiling stared back at him, blank and pale, a familiar sight. He didn't move. Didn't shift. Didn't even swallow.
Then the thought forced its way in.
You didn't see them leave because you were always here
Curled up.
Door closed.
Avoiding voices. Avoiding footsteps. Avoiding being seen.
The adult voice spoke first, calm and certain.
And you succeeded because of that.
Focus. Isolation. No distractions. No unnecessary attachments.
Then the child spoke.
That's why no one will come see you. Even after you die.
The words were blunt, unfiltered, the way children think when no one teaches them how to soften truth.
The adult replied immediately.
That doesn't matter. Success is what matters.
The child asked quietly,
What if you regret never forming a connection with anyone?
The adult didn't hesitate.
Regret is irrelevant. This is what's required. Follow the same steps. Don't do unfamiliar things.
Ren kept staring at the ceiling.
Didn't argue.
Didn't agree.
A vibration ran through his body.
He flinched.
His phone buzzed again.
He picked it up.
Grumpy: Have you reached home?
Another notification.
Loud and quiet: Are you okay? Any injuries? Junhyeok keeps asking if you're alright.
Another.
Painter: Did you get that key?
Another.
From his dad.
Did you eat anything? Took a bath? I'm worried you might not even eat. Want me to come over?
Another message followed almost immediately.
Red: Want me to bring some food? You did eat my cooking and said "Absolutely Fabulous!"
A doorbell rang.
Ren sat up slowly and walked to the door.
When he opened the door, he saw Shimo's parents stood outside, holding a lunch box. Steam leaked faintly from the edges, carrying a warm, rich smell that filled the hallway instantly.
"Eat this," her mom said gently. "Your parents' food might've gone cold."
Ren nodded and took it.
After they left, he placed the lunch box on the table.
The bell rang again.
He opened the door without looking at the person's face.
"I'm fine, I don't need—"
He stopped.
When he looked up, he saw Shimo standing there.
Akeshi beside her.
Klyne and the three kids behind them.
Ji-eun and Junhyeok too.
Eiden stood slightly apart, calm as ever.
"Can we come in?" Eiden asked.
Ren nodded quickly and stepped aside, opening the door wider.
They filed in, filling the house with footsteps, breathing, presence.
Ren looked at Shimo. "What happened?"
She held up her phone.
A message.
From his dad.
Can you go check on Ren? I feel like he'll be alone.
Shimo smiled. "So I called Akeshi. He brought everyone."
Akeshi glanced at the lunch box. "That'll be more than enough."
Then he pointed at himself. "And if not, I can obviously cook."
Ren smiled.
Not small this time.
He sat at the table. Everyone grabbed chopsticks or spoons, the clatter soft, unhurried. They began eating together, quietly, comfortably, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Ren looked around the table.
The adult voice stayed silent.
The child didn't speak either.
For once, neither needed to.