Morning arrived without mercy.
A pale light filtered through crooked blinds, slicing the room into uneven bands. The air was cold. Still. Too quiet.
Teïkō opened his eyes.
And immediately regretted it.
The pain didn't arrive all at once. It was already there. Everywhere.
In his shoulders. In his back. In his legs.
Even breathing required conscious effort.
He tried to move a finger.
His body protested instantly.
— …Tch…
A groan slipped out despite him. His muscles were rigid, strung tight as if replaced with steel wire. Every fiber felt too short for his own skeleton.
He tried to sit up.
Bad idea.
A violent wave of soreness slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs. His vision blurred and he collapsed heavily back onto the mattress.
— Ngh… fuck…
His heart was beating too fast. Too hard. As if it hadn't realized it was over.
The door opened without a sound.
Yora stepped in, already dressed, perfectly composed, a steaming cup in his hand.
He observed the scene for a few seconds.
— Don't force it.
Teïkō clenched his teeth.
— …I was just trying to get up.
— Exactly.
Yora set the cup on the bedside table.
— Your body didn't try. It survived.
Teïkō exhaled slowly, attempting to regain control of his breathing.
— I feel like… I got run over by a truck. Then it backed up over me.
— Normal.
There was no irony in Yora's voice. Just a statement of fact.
— Your metabolism was pushed far beyond its limits. Generalized micro-tears. Saturated nerve signals. You burned more energy in a few minutes than some people do in a week.
Teïkō stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
— …Great.
He tried again. Slower this time. More careful.
His legs trembled immediately.
— Stay seated, Yora said, stepping closer. Or you'll pass out.
— I can—
— No.
Yora placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
— You think you can. Your body disagrees.
Silence settled between them.
Reluctantly, Teïkō gave a small nod.
— …Fine.
Yora slipped one arm behind his back, the other under his arm, lifting him with almost clinical precision. Every movement calculated to avoid unnecessary pain—without ever being gentle.
Teïkō grimaced.
— …Thanks.
Yora helped him place his feet on the floor.
The cold surface sent a fresh shock through his legs. His knees buckled instantly.
Yora didn't let go.
— Lean on me.
— I'm not five…
— Could've fooled me.
Teïkō sighed but obeyed. Slowly—very slowly—he stood, half his weight resting on Yora.
Every step toward the bedroom door was a negotiation with pain.
— How long is this gonna last? he asked between breaths.
— The acute phase? One or two days.
— And after that?
Yora stopped.
His gaze steady. Cold.
— After that, you either get stronger and feel better… or you die.
A beat.
— …Wait, what?!
Yora let out a short laugh.
— Relax. What a coward.
They reached the hallway. The morning light there was brighter, almost aggressive.
Teïkō squinted.
— …I've never felt anything like this.
— Of course not, Yora replied. Your body wasn't meant to endure that without preparation.
He guided him to a chair and sat him down.
— Drink. Slowly.
Teïkō took a sip. The sugar and warmth spread through him almost instantly, easing the tremors.
— Over time, you'll feel better, Yora added.
Then he tossed something at him.
Teïkō caught it on reflex.
A training outfit.
— Put it on.
Teïkō looked up, startled.
— Now…?
— Now.
— But I'm injured—
— No. You're recovering, Yora corrected.
He crossed his arms.
— A Scout's metabolism recovers fast. Minor damage disappears quickly if the body is properly stimulated.
Teïkō hesitated.
— And the pain…?
Yora turned toward the door.
— Until we reach the training field, you won't feel it anymore.
Silence.
— …What do you mean?
Yora opened the apartment door.
— You'll understand.
They stepped outside.
Teïkō took two steps into the hallway.
Then he felt it.
Tension.
Resistance.
He slowly turned around.
Yora was behind him.
Sitting calmly on a chair.
— …Yora?
— Go on.
— Do what…?
Yora tilted his head slightly.
— Pull.
Teïkō's gaze dropped.
A strap was secured around his waist.
Attached to Yora's chair.
His brain took a second too long to process it.
— …Wait.
Yora smiled faintly.
— Training field's fifteen minutes away.
— Using nothing but your legs.
---
The walk to the training field was silent. Teïkō felt every fiber in his body protest with each step, but the tension in the strap and Yora's unyielding weight behind him forced him forward. The outside air was sharper than inside the apartment, biting against his sore skin, and the sunlight stabbed at his eyes with cruel intensity.
Still, he moved.
Each step was a small victory over pain.
They finally reached the field. The grass was still wet with morning dew, glinting silver under the light. Obstacles. Hurdles. Ropes. Marked lanes for sprints.
Without a word, Yora made him start.
The first sprint felt like fire tearing through his legs. His breathing turned ragged. Muscles screamed.
But something strange happened.
With every stride, the fatigue dulled. Not gone—but quieter. As if his body had already begun adapting.
The day unfolded in relentless cycles. Repeated sprints. Explosive jumps. Rope climbs. Targeted strength drills for every major muscle group. Yora enforced strict recovery intervals, watching carefully for any signs of collapse.
At midday, they sat on the grass and devoured hot dogs. The salty simplicity grounded him. Fueled him. Even at rest, his metabolism hummed beneath his skin, absorbing energy more efficiently than ever before.
As the hours passed, exhaustion lost its grip. Each sprint demanded less. Each movement grew smoother. Cleaner. Almost natural.
Yora explained it plainly: his body's growth curve was rising continuously. If he trained regularly and allowed proper recovery, those same bursts of effort would cost fewer calories over time.
Every drop of sweat. Every flash of pain.
Not damage.
Investment.
The sun eventually dipped low, stretching long shadows across the field. The final sprints burned under golden light.
By the time night fell, they returned to the apartment.
The shower was brutal relief. Hot water loosened the tension coiled in his muscles, washing away the day's fatigue while imprinting its lesson deep into his body.
Yora tossed a bundle of clothes at his face.
— Put that on.
Teïkō caught them, blinking.
— Uh… is something wrong?
— No. I'll wait outside. I'll explain on the way.
Teïkō got dressed and stepped out. Yora was sitting on the building's front steps, hands resting on his knees, motionless.
— What are you passionate about? Yora asked without looking at him.
Teïkō hesitated.
— I… don't really know.
A faint smirk curved Yora's lips.
— Now that you're awakened, making a living beating people up would be cheating.
Teïkō let out a short laugh.
— I know!
Then he grew serious.
— Honestly… I just want to help people. That's what makes me feel alive.
— Hm.
Yora's expression shifted.
— None of that would be possible.
Teïkō frowned.
— …What do you mean?
— Without papers, you're going nowhere in the modern workforce. Yours burned down with the orphanage.
A pause.
— You're… undocumented now.
— What?!
— Relax. We're going to see someone who can help.
They walked.
The neighborhood grew darker. Narrower. Streetlights flickered over worn facades.
Eventually they stopped before a metal door—rusted at the edges, but solid.
Yora's expression changed instantly. Cold. Serious.
— Stay quiet. Don't say a word unless I allow it.
Two knocks.
A slit opened. Eyes appeared.
A deep voice rumbled out.
— You're late.
— Don't test my patience.
The door opened almost immediately. The man behind it lowered his gaze at the sight of Yora.
They stepped inside.
---
The interior was narrow, dark, suffocating under the weight of paper. Files everywhere. On crooked shelves. Across the floor. Some yellowed. Others freshly printed. Names. Dates. Entire lives reduced to ink and sheets.
The Rat.
Small. Thin. Sharp eyes that never stopped moving. Always calculating. Always a move ahead.
His gaze slid to Teïkō.
No surprise.
No pity.
Only interest.
— That's him?
— Yes.
— Too young.
— Clearly alive.
The Rat smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
— Fires are inconvenient. They make important things disappear.
— But they create others.
He gestured for Teïkō to step forward. A chill crawled up the boy's spine. Not fear. Instinct.
The Rat circled him slowly, examining him like fragile merchandise.
— No more school, huh?
— No more records.
Teïkō stayed silent.
Yora stood back, quiet but present. Heavy. Like a suspended threat in the air.
— I can build you a clean identity, the Rat continued. School files. Transfers. Cohesive dates. An ordinary kid.
— For free? Teïkō asked skeptically.
The Rat chuckled.
— Kids rarely pay immediately.
He pulled out blank forms from a cluttered desk.
— Let's say you'll owe me something.
— One day. Maybe.
Teïkō's stomach tightened.
Yora finally spoke, calm and razor-sharp.
— If anything happens to him because of you,
— there won't be enough surgeons in this state to put your face back together.
The Rat raised his hands lightly.
— Relax. I specialize in discretion.
— Always.
Hours passed in a heavy atmosphere. Printers. Stamps. Cross-checks. A fabricated truth carefully stitched into reality.
Teïkō watched in silence.
He saw his life being rebuilt before his eyes.
Clean. Smooth. Acceptable.
When it was done, the Rat slid the documents into a folder.
— Welcome back into the system, kid.
Teïkō exited the basement first.
The metal door shut behind him with a sharp click.
Yora was halfway up the stairs when a nasal voice called out.
— Yora.
He stopped.
The Rat hadn't moved. Still slouched in his chair, fingers interlocked over his stomach.
— Why are you lying to him? he asked calmly.
Yora didn't turn around.
— Excuse me?
The Rat smirked crookedly.
— That kid…
— He's about as hybrid as I am a model taxpayer.
A heavy silence filled the basement.
— You know what that means, he continued. He's one of them.
Yora slowly turned.
His gaze was flat. Empty of emotion.
— Watch yourself.
The Rat shrugged.
— I'm saying this for you. That kind of profile draws attention even you—
Yora took a step forward.
Then another.
The air seemed to thicken around him.
He stopped a few steps away.
— For your sake, he said quietly, the less you talk… the longer you live.
The Rat's smile tightened.
He didn't respond.
Yora held his gaze one second too long.
Then turned away.
— The deal is done. Don't overreach.
He climbed the stairs without hurry.
The door shut.
In the basement, the Rat remained still, eyes drifting over the files.
After a moment, he let out a dry chuckle.
— …Still dangerous as ever, Yora.
He pulled a blank file toward him and wrote something down.
Very slowly.
Somewhere in the city, a piece had just been moved.
And no one yet understood the game unfolding.