The classroom smelled of chalk and crushed erasers. Wooden desks, some scarred with etched initials and cigarette burns, stood like rows of forgotten soldiers. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, cold and unblinking. In the back, next to the window where the Tokyo skyline loomed like a silent observer, sat a boy with downcast eyes and shoulders folded inward.
His name was Kaito. Kaito Hayashi.
He didn't speak unless asked. He didn't laugh unless alone. He existed—barely. Some thought he was mute. Others just ignored him. His presence was like background noise, unnoticed until it got in the way.
He had a notebook. Black leather-bound, filled with sketches of monsters devouring cities, and tiny passages in shaky handwriting:
> "I wish I could delete myself like a corrupted file."
Today was no different. The teacher spoke about ethics in modern society. Kaito doodled a figure—a boy ripping his own heart out and replacing it with a stone. Behind him, two students passed a note that read: "Zombie freak still breathing?" and snickered.
Kaito heard it. He always did. But he didn't react.
Because long ago, Kaito had killed them.
Not in reality. In his imagination. One by one. Blunt stones. Rusty scissors. Gunshots in school halls. The daydreams were vivid, visceral, and silent. It was the only way he didn't explode. The only way he didn't become what they said he was.
---
He wasn't always like this.
Once, in 2nd grade, he had a best friend. Ren. Small, bright-eyed, laughed like windchimes. He wore skirts on school culture day and sang like an idol. Some called him weird, but Kaito loved him. They'd draw superheroes, eat ice cream, and talk about how they'd become astronauts or monster hunters.
Then one day, Ren was gone. Transferred to another school. No goodbye. Just a desk left cold.
Kaito cried that day. The only time he could remember tears.
---
Middle school was different.
He grew colder. Stronger. He began to talk back. Pick fights. There was blood under his fingernails more than once. He became a bully to avoid being one. He learned how to punch, how to choke someone until they tapped. Boxing became his escape—until his mother found the bruises and forced him to quit.
"Your head is not a punching bag, Kaito. You'll end up broken," she cried.
"But I already am," he whispered.
---
High school brought pimples and humiliation.
He had been born with pale skin, but over time it had darkened to a light brown tone. In summer, classmates made comments about how he "didn't look Japanese enough."
Acne riddled his face, and no matter how much salicylic acid he applied before bed, they always returned—angry and red. He avoided mirrors. Hated photographs. In group photos, he'd hunch and lower his face, as if hiding could erase him.
Once, in front of the class, he was asked to read a passage aloud. His voice cracked. Someone giggled. Then another. He could feel his throat closing. That night, he tore out the page in his notebook and burned it in the sink.
He tried talking to girls. Not flirt. Just talk. Once he asked a girl about the homework. She shifted away like he was infectious. Another time, he complimented a classmate's drawing. She laughed and said, "Creepy."
So, he stopped trying.
He'd sit on the rooftop during lunch, pretending to nap, letting the wind wash over him. Some days, he wouldn't eat. He told his mom he forgot his bento. He didn't tell her he tossed it because he couldn't stand eating in silence.
He fought too—sometimes. Not out of anger, but desperation. A senior pushed him down the stairs once. Kaito waited three days, then found him alone in the hallway. One punch. Broken nose. Three days suspension.
Other times, he lost. A group of boys cornered him in the bathroom, laughed as they flushed his sketchbook down the toilet. He cried when he got home, not because of the beating—but because the monsters he'd drawn were all he had.
In private, he imagined returning to school with a weapon. Silent. Precise. He didn't want to hurt people. He just wanted them to understand how much he hurt. In his mind, they bled apologies.
And yet—he never acted on those fantasies. He feared he'd become the very monster they already believed him to be.
But that didn't stop him from imagining.
---
Until one day, he didn't.
That's when everything changed.
(To be continued...)