He was so swept up in his own excitement that he didn't notice how Mika's cheer rang a little thin. The brightness in his chest left no room for doubt or second thoughts. As he looked down at the ticket again, memory washed over him in a quick, stubborn flicker—rain slanting across evenings; the slap of his boots through puddles; winter air that bit his nose and ears. Day after day, on his way off shift, he had stopped at the little market near the site, coins sweating in his palm, to try his luck at the spin-to-win lottery by the counter. He had spun through bad weather, through tired days, through the kind of cold that crawled under his jacket and sat there. Two months, give or take, of small hopes and small losses.
It had finally hit. All at once the struggle felt worth it.
A tear pricked the corner of his eye. He smiled at the paper, chest taut with pride. "Haah… it was hard, but I did it…"
Mika watched him in quiet surprise, saying nothing so she wouldn't spoil the moment. She knew too well how fixed he'd become on Maxim Hunters, how the Academy's name had turned into a lodestar in his head. That kind of stubbornness didn't yield easily.
"By the way, don't worry about meals and all that," he added, keeping the lift in his voice. "I'll prep everything before I go. And I'm planning to swing back home before nightfall on the first day, just to check on things."
A small crease touched Mika's face. "...You don't have to come, big brother. Enjoy the trip. I can stay by myself for one night."
He glanced toward the kitchenette tucked into the corner and started moving that way, the reply tossed over his shoulder with a distracted certainty. "It's fine. I'll come back." Then, as if it were a separate thought that didn't require agreement, "I'm going to grab a quick shower. I'll cook when I'm out."
He gave the counters a brief look—just enough to map what he'd need later—then turned down the hall toward the bathroom.
Elio knew Mika's limits better than anyone. His sister had been born with a frail body; heavy tasks were beyond her, and even walking unaided wore her out. It wasn't something to debate. Him staying close, making sure she was okay—those were simply the terms of their life.
He opened the bathroom door with an easy hand and stepped inside. Light flared as he found the switch.
A tiny bathroom came into view—so small it felt like stepping into a box. In one corner stood a narrow shower stall; next to it, a Western-style toilet squeezed into the remaining space. Opposite, a stubby, cheap-looking sink hung from the wall, its basin a little shallow and its tap dull with age. Alongside sat a washing machine whose dented panel and cloudy lid didn't inspire confidence about whether it would run when asked. Once he was inside, there wasn't a lot of room left for air. The door clicked against his heel when he shifted.
He stripped out of his clothes and hung them on the hook fixed to the back of the door. Fabric rasped, zipper teeth kissed with a small metallic tap. He pulled his towel from the hook and draped it over the shower's edge within easy reach.
A small mirror above the sink threw his face back at him, then slid down to the lines of his shoulders and the plane of his chest. He was lean and fit in the hard, practical way that came from hauling, lifting, and never quite resting. Here and there faint bruises clouded the skin—old yellows, fresh purples—marks that came with the job and barely earned his notice anymore. He caught his own eye and, just for a breath, let his mouth tilt.
Working construction has its perks, I guess.
He slid open the shower door and stepped inside. The floor underfoot felt a touch gritty, as if it had never quite come clean. He turned the dial toward hot and opened the water. The line was one of those that took its time to warm. The first spill was cool, biting over his shoulders and creeping along his back.
He leaned a shoulder against the stall's side and waited, the patter turning from sharp to gentle as steam began to edge in. As the warmth finally crept through the flow, his thoughts loosened and unspooled, slipping back over the evening, then further—to the harsh weather, the market counter, the stubborn spin of chance—and then onward into whatever would come next.
The spray beat against his skin, and he felt his body coil tight under it. He lifted both arms straight up to stretch, and pain flared from his shoulders, a quick, sharp pinch that made him flinch. The day's labor had packed itself into his muscles—weight in his back, grit in his forearms, a dull throb along his neck. None of it surprised him. It was ordinary, the way morning was ordinary.
Up at first light. To the site before the sun sat properly in the sky. Work until it slipped back down. Home. Cook. Take care of his sister. Sleep. Repeat.
For Elio, the days were a grind that sometimes felt like a waking dream he couldn't shake. He caught himself sighing often, losing steam for no special reason at all. Keeping it going was hard. Keeping himself going was harder. But he had a reason that stubbornly kept the engine turning.
He had wanted to be a Hunter since he was small. A strong, untouchable Hunter who could step into lands he'd never known and come back with stories stamped into his bones—that thought lit him up in a way nothing else did. The older he got, the more color bled out of his life, and the more that desire burned. He pictured the dull routine snapped in two in a single day, a new window opening, a sky beyond it he'd never seen.
He was saving, in his way. A slim slice of each paycheck set aside, a quiet stack he imagined handing over at the Academy gate. With money as thin as his, the goal sat far off—almost too far to see. Worse, the little he tucked away often trickled out again to cover whatever odds and ends real life demanded. And there was Mika. Mika's condition wasn't a question mark; it was a fact. He might have to stand at her side for the rest of his life.
Warmth finally found the water, smoothing its bite. His thoughts thinned with the steam, running off his skin like the suds toward the drain.
A noise split the apartment.
CRAAACK.
It came from the direction of the living room—loud, hard, wrong.
Elio snatched the towel from the stall's edge, whipped it around his waist, and exploded out of the shower. He lunged for the door, but the wet soles of his feet slid on the cramped bathroom floor. His balance went out from under him. He slammed shoulder-first into the door with a flat thud, cheek briefly mashed to the peeling paint.
He pushed off, yanked the handle, and tore into the hall and then the living room in three long steps.
"Mika?!"
His voice cracked with worry.
Mika stood across from the kitchenette. Her hands shook against the four-legged walker, white-knuckled, and with the other she was reaching down, trying to pick up pieces of broken glass scattered over the floor. When she lifted her head, her face showed fear first, then apology that hurt to see.
"I, um… I thought I'd soak the rice…"
"Mika!"
Her explanation snapped in half under his shout. His brows dug in; the set of his mouth went hard.
"How many times have I told you? You don't need to help me. Just stay put!"
The words came out louder than he meant, rough and too sharp.
"I just…"
"Sit down and wait for me to finish. Don't touch anything."
His tone had the weight of a command.
Mika blinked, then let the pieces in her hand down, carefully, one by one, until the last shard clicked against the floor. She turned herself with small, careful steps, hands sliding to adjust her grip on the walker. Shoulders tight, she began the slow trip back to the floor mattress, each rubber tip of the walker pressing and lifting, pressing and lifting, while Elio stood there, breath ragged, water still threading down his back, the towel damp where it met his skin. The television continued to play its gentle cartoon in the corner, all color and no sound, as the room settled around the mess and the echo of his voice.