The jarring clang of the alarm shattered the silence, sharp as iron striking stone.
Atiyama's alarm snapped him awake at 6:00 on the dot. He drifted through his tiny apartment, a ghost with bare feet on hardwood. His breath fogged the mirror; the toothbrush scraped at the same teeth. The bathroom tile bit his soles, cold and unforgiving. For an instant, the chill grounded him in reality before slipping away. He tasted tap water—metallic, lingering on his tongue. Staring at his reflection, he saw only a face that had learned not to hope: blank, exhausted, eyes weighed down with polite emptiness.
As he stared into the mirror, memories from his oppressive past at the orphanage surged forth, breaking through his current numbness with a vividness that made his stomach clench. One particular incident stood out—it was the kind of memory that transformed his fleeting present calm into anxiety. The day had started with dull routine and reluctant acceptance, but that afternoon, everything changed: when the sun hung low, an imposing staff member named Elijah discovered a crack in a window.
His fury shattered the silence, accusing the children. 'Who did this?' he demanded, his voice cracking through the air. Fear overtook the children, including Atiyama, who felt his heart race as anxiety replaced his earlier stillness.
Atiyama, already the preferred target of aggression due to his small frame, was singled out. Elijah's hand gripped his collar, hauling him forward without mercy, "It wasn't me!" Atiyama yelled, but Elijah's grip tightened, a silent show of dominance. The accusation, inescapable and sharp, hung in the charged air: 'Who broke it?' Elijah's eyes bored into Atiyama's, a quiet threat more piercing than words. Fear surged, choking Atiyama, seizing his breath, and clouding his thoughts. Shame crept up his neck with every racing heartbeat—" I honestly don't know, I was cleaning the kitchen all day so that I wouldn't know," but this seemed like an answer Elijah didn't want to hear.
I looked up to see Elijah's hands coming towards me, and before I knew it, my cheek blazed, and my lips bled. Laughter echoed around him. Each jeer hollowed him out, carving at his core. In that moment, undeserved punishment crystallized the orphanage's unforgiving nature for Atiyama: no warmth, no kindness—only cold discipline and anonymous existence. Attempts at voicing his youth went unheard, and the vulnerable, like Atiyama, remained exposed and powerless.
Relentless bullying always happened. They forced him to perform the most complex and menial tasks, laughing as he struggled. Grabbing his arms, twisting his body, mocking his every stumble—they made cruelty a game. Words could cut as deep as wounds. Over and over, they taunted him: he'd never be anything but weak and insignificant. It wore on him, day after day, week after week.
Eventually, it was clear. If he didn't change, the torment would never end. He couldn't let himself remain the target. The bullying sparked a fire inside him: he needed to change. Desperate for growth, he began working out in secret, sneaking in training whenever possible. His arms and abs screamed at first—push-ups and sit-ups were almost too much. Yet progress came. Ten push-ups, then more. Soon, he ran laps faster than ever. Every ache in his muscles, every bead of sweat, became a promise to himself. No one would dare look down on him again. He didn't just want to survive; he was determined to thrive. But amidst the cruelty, there was one flicker of light: Sister Hana.
She was different from the others. While the staff were cold, she was kind. She saw him—not as a number, but as someone more. She gave him a name: Atiyama, meaning 'mountain of ten thousand suns.' "You shine like a thousand suns," she'd say with compassion. He never truly understood those words, but they kept him going when the world felt unbearably cold. Before she died, she gave him a small, worn prayer bead bracelet—a piece of string with star-etched, worn beads. It was a rare reminder of kindness. He wore it every day, his only connection to warmth.
After Sister Hana's death, suffocation and loneliness pressed in on him harder than ever. The loss deepened his isolation, turning the orphanage into more of a prison. Yet, each time despair threatened to overwhelm him, his fingers found the prayer bead bracelet. Holding it reminded him he wasn't completely alone. This fragile comfort kept him grounded and transformed pain into motivation—he pressed himself harder, recasting his grief as determination not just to survive, but to rise above the world's darkness.
The bullying, the isolation—it all became fuel for his growth. Every insult, every slap, every cruel joke stoked the fire of his resolve. They thought he was weak. But they didn't know. They didn't know what he would become. It was a regular day at the orphanage. The air was heavy with the stench of sweat and exhaustion, the rhythmic thudding of hammers, and the clattering of metal tools that filled the hallways. The older kids, as usual, were up to their cruel games.
They'd take any chance they got to push the smaller ones into submission, to remind them of their place. But today, something was different. Today, Atiyama was different. Atiyama walked down the hall, conscious of his own presence. He squared his shoulders. His jaw set with determination. Memories of his frailty fueled him. With every step, he felt stronger. His tormentors soon came into view, but fear no longer gripped him. His transformation was obvious—a force that could not be denied. "Hey, #27," Zach sneered, his voice laced with old habits of cruelty. To Atiyama, the words sounded hollow, mere echoes of a powerless past. He continued walking, thinking to himself, "Nothing but a group of fools gathered in a circle." As Zach's smile faded from being ignored, a desperation hung in the air.
"Hey, 27! I know you heard me, come here!" Zach demanded, pushing Atiyama into the wall, trying to recapture a sense of dominance. But Atiyama met their probing stares with cold, unwavering eyes. Atiyama didn't flinch. He stood, arms folded, gaze locked on the group's leader. "I'll give you one chance… walk away," he warned, his voice steady and low.
One of the bigger boys, a stocky kid with a sneer, swung a fist at him. Atiyama stepped aside, effortlessly dodging the blow, then twisted the kid's arm behind his back. The snap of bone echoed through the hallway, followed by the sound of the kid's panicked shout.
The other boys hesitated. This wasn't the same Atiyama they remembered.
Before anyone could react, he spun and kicked another boy in the stomach. The boy crashed into the lockers. The rest of the group tried to swarm him. Atiyama's movements were fluid and sharp. They were ruthless. He tossed a boy to the floor with a swift shoulder throw. Before the others could scatter, he took them down one by one. Quick and precise. Every strike was a result of years of pain and training. His body had become a weapon.
Their faces showed fear and disbelief. Atiyama wondered if their fear matched what he once felt. By the end, the hallway was littered with groaning, broken figures. The kids sprawled on the ground, limbs twisted, faces pale. Standing over them, Atiyama's chest heaved with adrenaline. A question haunted him: was this strength his victory or his undoing?
Silence, heavy and complete, followed—as if the orphanage itself had witnessed the impossible. "What happened?" Stacy, the orphanage director, asked when she rushed in, panic in her voice, upon seeing the destruction. No one answered. The boys on the floor were too terrified to speak, too embarrassed even to admit what had just transpired. They no longer had the courage, not after what Atiyama had just shown them. They had pushed him too far. Atiyama had finally turned the tables, and the lesson was clear: he would no longer be a victim.