No one ever noticed the scars on Dami's shoulder.
He was the quiet boy in class — the one who always nodded, always smiled, always handed the marker back to the teacher without a word. If you bumped into him in the hallway, he'd apologize first, even if it wasn't his fault.
But what no one knew was that Dami didn't like going home.
The moment school closed, his legs slowed down. His house was just ten minutes away, but it always took him thirty. Not because he enjoyed the breeze or the sound of tires over gravel. It was because of the man behind the front door. The man who used to be his father. The man who taught him pain without speaking a word.
Dami had learned to make silence his armor.
He wore it like a second skin.
In the fight club after school, no one thought he belonged. He was too soft. Too gentle. But when he stepped into the ring, something changed. His fists didn't shout — they whispered. And every hit he landed carried the weight of every insult he'd swallowed.
They thought he was weak.
But kindness was the only thing keeping him from burning the world down.
That night, he walked home again with a cut on his lip. His knuckles stung, his soul heavier than ever. He looked at the stars and whispered:
"One day, I'll be more than just a body trying to survive."