The walk home took forty-three minutes.
Paulo counted every one of them.
His trainers squelched with river water, leaving dark prints on the pavement that dried into muddy ghosts. The cobalt hoodie clung to his skin like a second, sodden corpse.
Blood crusted in his hairline, flaking off when he scratched at it. Each breath rattled in bruised ribs; each step sent a spike of pain through his spine.
But he kept moving, one foot in front of the other, because stopping would mean thinking.
The suburbs were quiet.
Streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting sodium halos on empty sidewalks.
A cat watched him from a garden wall, green eyes unblinking. Paulo did not wave.
He did not have the energy for pretence.
His house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, small and unremarkable, the kind of place that blended into every other lot on the block.
The porch light was off; he had forgotten to set the timer again.
The key scraped in the lock with a sound like a scream.
Inside smelled of stale coffee and yesterday's takeout.
Paulo dropped his ruined bag by the door.
The thud echoed. He did not bother turning on the lights.
Moonlight through the kitchen window was enough.
He peeled off the hoodie.
The fabric stuck to his skin where blood had dried, ripping scabs when he tugged.
The mirror above the sink showed a stranger: left eye swelling shut, lip split in two unusual places, a bruise blooming across his cheekbone like spilled ink over a damaged paint canvas.
His red hair was matted with mud and something darker.
River weed clung to the ends.
Paulo stared until the reflection blurred. Then he turned the tap.
Icy water first.
He cupped it in shaking hands, splashed his face.
The shock made him hiss. Pink rivulets spiralled down the drain.
He did it again. And again. Until the water ran clear and his skin burned.
He found the first-aid kit under the bathroom sink, The one his mom had packed before she moved to Osaka for work.
"Just in case, Paulo-Kun." He laughed once, a dry, cracked sound. Just in case.
Antiseptic stung like fire. He bit down on a towel to keep from screaming.
Butterfly bandages over the worst gashes.
Ibuprofen dry-swallowed until the bottle rattled empty.
His fingers moved with mechanical precision, the same focus he used in Taekwondo drills.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Do not think.
But the thoughts came anyway.
Miya's voice: I never loved you.
Alexis's grip on his arm, twisting.
Mizaki's fingers in his hair, gentle as a lover's.
He braced both hands on the sink, head hanging.
The towel dropped to the floor, stained rust-red.
His reflection stared back, eyes flat and dead.
The boy in the mirror was not reflecting happiness.
He was not anything.
Paulo turned off the bathroom light.
In the dark, he navigated to his room by memory.
The bed creaked when he sat.
He did not lie down.
Could not.
The ceiling fan spun lazy circles, pushing stale air around.
His phone was gone, but the landline still worked.
He stared at it for a long time.
Alexis's number was muscle memory.
Miya's too.
He lifted the receiver, then set it back down.
What would he say? Why? They would lie. Or worse, they would laugh.
Instead, he opened his laptop.
The screen's glow carved harsh shadows across his bruised face.
He typed Sakura High's student directory into the search bar, then stopped.
What was the point? He already knew their addresses.
Their schedules.
The way Rin's left knee buckled if you kicked it just right.
The way Miya's smile faltered when she lied.
He closed the laptop.
The house was too quiet. No parents yelling about dinner.
No little sister banging on his door for homework help.
Just the hum of the fridge and the distant drip of the bathroom faucet.
Paulo stood. His legs shook but held.
He went to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and pulled out a bag of frozen peas.
Pressed it to his eye. The cold seeped in, numbing everything.
He stayed like that for a long time, leaning against the counter, staring at nothing.
The happy Paulo, the one who had grinned at Alexis in the atrium, who had texted Miya heart emojis, was gone.
Drowned.
Beaten out of him under a bridge. What was left was not anger.
Not yet.
It was a hollow space, a vacuum where joy used to live.
He probed it with mental fingers and felt... nothing.
The peas thawed, dripping onto the floor. Paulo did not move to clean it.
Eventually, he went back to his room.
Stripped off the wet clothes, let them fall in a heap.
Pulled on an old black hoodie and sweatpants.
The fabric was soft, worn from too many washes. It swallowed the bruises.
He sat on the edge of the bed again. The clock on his nightstand blinked 11:47 PM.
Tomorrow was Thursday.
Classes at 8:15.
Miya would be in homeroom, three seats over. Alexis would slide into the desk behind him, maybe crack a joke.
Rin would lean against the window, smirking.
Mizaki would walk past in the hall, perfume trailing like a threat.
Paulo's fingers curled into the comforter.
The hollow space inside him pulsed once, like a second heartbeat.
He did not cry.
He did not scream.
He just sat there, in the dark, letting the silence settle into his bones.
Outside, a car passed.
Headlights swept across the curtains, painting fleeting shadows on the wall.
Then darkness again.
Paulo lay back, staring at the ceiling. The fan kept spinning.
Sleep did not come. But the plan did, slow, cold, and inevitable.
Tomorrow, he would go to school.
Tomorrow, they would see what was left of Paulo Satoshi.
And it would not be the boy they threw away.