Three days later, on a gray morning, the clouds hung low, and a solemn hush blanketed the plaza of Midtown High School.
All the teachers, students, and families of the victims wore black formal attire, standing in silence before the temporary memorial platform.
The principal stood at the microphone, his voice heavy with grief as he read the eulogy. Each word seemed to carry an invisible weight, pressing down on the gathered crowd until even breathing felt like a burden.
"We will forever remember the young lives lost in the Wolverine Flight 180 tragedy…"
His voice echoed through the square via the loudspeakers. Several mothers of the victims began to sob softly, their shoulders shaking beneath dark coats.
Alex stood alone in a far corner of the plaza. The crowd gave him a wide berth—keeping at least five meters away—as if proximity to him might invite the same fate that had claimed the others.
Only Todd remained at his side, casting worried glances his way from time to time.
The stares from the crowd were sharp and laden with accusation—especially from the grieving families. Their eyes burned with a mixture of sorrow and rage. A few middle-aged men locked onto Alex with such hatred it seemed they wished to tear him apart with their bare hands.
The memorial finally ended in silence. Todd gave Alex's shoulder a brief, firm pat before turning and walking away, leaving him alone once more.
As people began to disperse, a burly middle-aged man suddenly surged out of the crowd and charged straight for Alex.
"You murderer!"
The man roared, swinging a fist that cracked against Alex's jaw with brutal force. He seized Alex by the collar, his voice breaking into a raw howl:
"You knew the plane was going to explode! Why didn't you stop it? Why are you the only one who survived?"
Blood trickled from the corner of Alex's mouth. He winced against the searing pain but forced the words out:
"I tried… I really tried… But they didn't believe me. They kicked me off the plane…"
"Liar!"
The man's eyes were bloodshot, his other fist already raised—knuckles white with fury.
"My son is dead! And you're standing here! You killed him!"
Just as the blow was about to land, a gloved hand shot out and clamped down on the man's wrist like a steel vise.
The black leather creaked faintly as the grip tightened—effortless, absolute.
"Who the hell—?!" the man snarled, twisting around—
—only to freeze as a shadow loomed over him.
Damian stepped forward, his presence cutting through the tension like a blade through fog. Without hesitation, he drove a sharp, controlled fist into the man's nose.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly crisp. Blood erupted from the man's nostrils as his knees buckled. Damian seized his arm, pivoted, and slammed him into the pavement with a brutal thud that sent dust spiraling into the air.
Before the man could even groan, Damian planted a precise kick to his ribs—just hard enough to incapacitate, not maim. The man gasped, curling inward.
Damian loomed over him, voice cold and level:
"You lost a son. That's tragedy. But taking it out on a kid who survived the same nightmare? That's cowardice."
He glanced at the onlookers—several of whom had been edging closer, fists clenched—and added, voice dripping with disdain:
"Go ahead. Try it. I'll call the police myself. Let them decide who's in the right when you're caught assaulting a minor at a memorial service."
The families hesitated. Some exchanged uneasy glances. One by one, they backed away.
Damian turned and offered a hand to Alex, who was still sitting dazed on the ground.
"You alright? Need a medic?"
Alex accepted the help, rising slowly. He wiped the blood from his lip and shook his head.
"I'm fine… Just a bruise."
His eyes drifted toward the retreating families, voice cracking:
"They have every right to hate me… If I'd just held on—if I'd screamed louder—they'd still be alive. It is my fault."
Damian studied him for a long moment. Then, quietly but firmly, he said:
"No. It's not."
Alex looked up, startled.
"The fault lies with whoever ignored your warning," Damian continued. "With whoever decided your panic wasn't worth a second look. Not with you. You survived. That doesn't make you guilty—it makes you a witness."
He placed a steadying hand on Alex's shoulder.
"And if anyone tries to blame you again? They'll answer to me."
Alex's throat tightened. Since the crash, only his parents, Xiao, and Diluc had shown him kindness. Everyone else treated him like a ghost—or a curse.
But Damian? He didn't flinch. Didn't flatter. Didn't perform grief. He just stood there—solid, unyield
ing—and chose to protect him anyway.
For the first time in days, Alex didn't feel alone.
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.