In the dead of night, the morning had yet to pass. We honed in on a singular warehouse in the broken-down area. It was surrounded by empty, destroyed buildings, hollowed out completely with only the structure remaining—a telltale sign you were heading into gang territory.
It wasn't smart to sneak around at this time. If spotted, someone would think you were up to no good and probably shoot on sight.
But still, in the shadows, a certain somebody rolled from a shadowy building, running to the gate that surrounded the train house compound.
It was Kouta. He had sneaked his way to uncharted territories. It wasn't hard to find; all he asked was how to join, and they pointed the way.
Kouta had never been this far and never hoped to be, but he needed to stop Mahito before he made a bad decision Kouta couldn't get him out of.
Mahito was putting both him and his family at risk. People get hit for stuff like this—beaten in the dead of night by machetes and bats for "sending a message."
Kouta reached the gate that separated the compound from the outside world. He hit it hard, crawling his fingers between the chain links, reaching up, and pulling himself over.
Slum kids naturally gained skills like this. He could have gone through the front, but he'd much rather do this. He just wanted Mahito to suddenly disappear and be back at home.
Hopefully, the gang members would think Mahito had tucked his tail and left. As Kouta swung his body over the gate, he landed on his feet and ran past containers and tracks toward the main warehouse.
The warehouse was a large, looming threat, with a guard posted at the front. Kouta timed his movements wisely to avoid being caught. They wouldn't care; they might just shoot him on sight.
The night shadows cloaked Kouta as he climbed the little ledge separating the train tracks from the walkway of the train warehouse, standing at the backdoor.
Shing, shing—he pulled on the doorknobs, only to hear the rattling of chains behind them.
"A fantastic ordeal," Kouta thought. "Couldn't have made this easy like everything else?"
"What was that?"
Kouta gritted his teeth as he ran back to the nearby train tracks, jumping off the ledge and rolling under it, hiding himself effectively. He did his best to stay still, breathing through his nose, but sweat trickled down his face. He couldn't help but be nervous about the situation. He was only 16, doing something even adults would find hard.
The echoing footsteps of the gang member were foreboding as if he knew where Kouta was. The man stomped around exactly where Kouta had just been, swinging his flashlight like a spotlight, searching the area. The light passed over Kouta a couple of times.
"Ehh, must be the wind!"
The man flicked his flashlight off and walked overhead.
"Euhh!"
Kouta gasped as he was pulled from his hiding spot, and hoisted into the air with one hand.
"You think I'm stupid enough to not notice you?"
The gang member was an ugly fellow with a large scar across his face, blinding one eye, and a large bald spot on the side of his head. He tilted his head, waiting for an answer, despite knowing Kouta couldn't respond.
With a sly chuckle and a yellow-toothed grin, he flipped his gun, grasping the butt and bashing Kouta over the head, knocking him out.
.
.
.
"Hey, Kouta, wake up!"
Kouta groaned awake, his back propped up against a wooden surface that provided no comfort. He was hunched over, uncomfortable. Slowly peeling his eyes open, his vision was dizzy and blurry, and the dark room didn't help.
But gradually, his sight cleared, and he focused on the person in front of him. It was… Mahito?
Mahito crouched in front of him with that same smile he always had. It was oddly comforting to see his face. Did his brother bail him out again?
"Hey, Kouta-san, you've got a real mark there," Mahito said, sticking his finger out to poke Kouta's forehead. Kouta winced in pain from the constant tapping.
Swatting Mahito's hand away, Kouta rubbed his forehead. That's when he noticed Mahito was wearing a black leather jacket—the same kind the thugs wore. Kouta grimaced, shaking his head at his failure.
"So, it's done, right?" Kouta asked.
Mahito tilted his head, following Kouta's gaze to his jacket, then gave a small chuckle.
"Yeah, it's done, but it's the thought that counts." Mahito pointed his finger up, acknowledging Kouta's effort to save him.
Though Kouta had failed, Mahito's words didn't make him feel any better. Mahito sighed, shaking his head, letting the silence hang for a moment.
Mahito slid a small carton of orange juice towards Kouta, along with a hot dog. Kouta was surprised. He reached for the orange juice but left the hot dog—it seemed expired.
"The boss was grilling hot dogs. I saved you one. I know you tried, Kouta-san, and I commend you for it. But this was my decision. You can't help somebody who didn't ask for it, Kouta-san. Don't beat yourself up over it."
Kouta nodded slightly, taking in Mahito's words, though sadness was evident in his eyes.
To his surprise, Mahito slowly started peeling off the jacket. Kouta's eyebrows scrunched in confusion as Mahito had another jacket underneath.
"And I forgot to mention," Mahito said, "they didn't have a medium, only an extra-large. So, I told them I'd stretch it out for you."
After shaking the jacket a couple of times, Mahito draped it over Kouta like a blanket. Mahito then hopped up from his crouched position, tucked his hands into his pockets, and walked away with an exaggerated cool strut. As he yelled back to Kouta, he added,
"Oh, and I told them you said sorry. They said you were already initiated when you fought that guy. So, welcome to the gang."
As Mahito held the door open, letting a slither of light in, he turned back to see Kouta's face—his jaw practically on the floor, eyes wide like inflated balloons.
Flashing him one last smile, Mahito called out from across the room, "See you later, Kouta-sannnnn!"
Doom- The door slammed behind him, leaving Kouta alone in the beer storage room, in the dark. A single thought raced through his head:
"Mom's gonna kill me!"