𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢.
Kenjiro jolted awake, his heart pounding against his chest, the nightmare dragging him from his sleep.
It was the same one, over and over-a little boy, his face a blur, calling out for help, his voice trembling with desperation. No matter how hard Kenjiro tried to reach him, the boy was always just beyond his grasp.
His chest tightened, and a single word slipped from his lips.
"Emiko..."
The name was like a whisper from a past life-familiar but out of reach, like a forgotten memory clawing at him from the edges of his mind.
He sat up, his body aching from sleeping on the thin mattress laid out on the floor. The room around him was small, cramped with the weight of too many years of neglect. The faint hum of city life outside slipped through the cracked window, but it didn't bring any peace.
Kenjiro grabbed his hair tie, pulling his thick, jet-black hair into a rough ponytail. His hair was darker than anyone else's, and though it should've been a detail no one noticed, it always made him stand out-like a target in a sea of conformity.
His gaze shifted to the corner of the room where his father lay sprawled on the bed, the faint scent of alcohol still lingering in the air. His father had been like this for years-lost in a haze of liquor, unable to stand on his own anymore.
Kenjiro's stomach twisted, his fingers shaking as he reached over to check if his father was still breathing. The faintest exhale from his father's lips brought a wave of relief, but it was fleeting.
The man who had once been a solid figure in his life was now just a shell, leaving Kenjiro to carry the weight of their world alone.
But it wasn't always like this.
His father had once been a noble, kind-hearted man who treated Kenjiro as his own son, even though Kenjiro was adopted. Yes, Kenjiro knew well that he was adopted, but he had never felt lacking or different.
His mother, who raised him, loved him deeply, and he loved her too. Out of all the children in the orphanage, she chose him-him alone.
His life had been peaceful and happy, filled with love and warmth, until his family crumbled due to the illness that suddenly took his mother away. Her death was the shock that changed everything.
From that moment on, his father began to spiral, drowning in a sorrow he couldn't overcome. He turned to alcohol and, worse, became violent.
Although Kenjiro was now 18 years old, his father didn't hesitate to hit him. The pain was both physical and emotional, but Kenjiro never defended himself.
He couldn't.
To him, this man was still his father-the one who had once filled his life with love. He couldn't raise his hand to protect himself, even as he endured the blows from a hand that no longer knew mercy.
Kenjiro knew that the man who struck him now wasn't the same father who had raised him with love. Yet, despite everything, he couldn't let go of the hope that one day, that man would return.
Sighing, he pulled himself up and walked to the kitchen.
The second he entered, the sour stench of rotting food hit him.
"What the hell is that smell?" Kenjiro muttered under his breath, grimacing.
He scanned the room until his eyes landed on the overflowing trash can. His father had forgotten again. Typical. With a frustrated grunt, he pulled the trash bag out, tying it up and heading out to the small alley behind the building.
Kenjiro dragged his feet back to his room, already exhausted from the day ahead.
He hated mornings, hated the uniform, hated the people he had to face.
The school wasn't much of a place for someone like him.
It was an all-boys school, a place where the rich kids ruled, and he was the scholarship kid-the one who didn't fit in. His high school teacher had pulled strings to get him in, and Kenjiro was grateful, but it didn't stop the sting of being an outsider.
He dressed quickly, adjusting his tie in front of the cracked mirror. The uniform was spotless, but no matter how neat he looked, it always felt like he was wearing a mask, trying to blend in when he knew he never would.
He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder, and took his skateboard in hand.
Outside, the wind was fresh, and the moment his foot hit the board, he felt a brief moment of freedom.
The city of Sapporo faded away as he sped down the street, the world becoming a blur of motion.
For a few minutes, the weight of everything lifted. The teasing, the judgment, the loneliness-it all disappeared.
But as he approached the gates of Sapporo Gakuen, the cold reality of his school life hit him.
The whispers. The glances. The feeling of being different.
"Takahashi Kun, what's with that hair?" came a voice from behind him, mocking but not surprising.
Kenjiro clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to turn around. He didn't need to look. He knew what they were saying. They always said it, every day.
He pushed through the school gates, his shoulders stiff as he walked past the clusters of rich boys in their pristine uniforms, their laughter ringing in his ears.
Kenjiro knew he wasn't welcome here, not really. The snobby heirs of Sapporo Gakuen treated him like he didn't belong, and every day, they made sure he knew it.
When he stepped into the classroom, the noise immediately hit him-the conversations, the laughing, the voices of boys who had everything handed to them.
He slipped into his usual seat at the back of the room, pulling his jacket tighter around himself, trying to block out the world for just a moment.
It wouldn't last long, though. He knew that. Nothing ever did.
And then, the inevitable happened.
"Oi, Takahashi Kun," a voice called from the front, cutting through the noise.
Mr. Sato's sharp gaze pinned Kenjiro to the spot.
The teacher's hand slammed onto the desk, making everyone jump.
"Are you planning on sleeping through my class today?" His voice was cold, dripping with disdain, and the room fell silent.
Kenjiro's heart skipped a beat, his hands clenching into fists beneath the desk. He could feel the weight of every eye in the room on him. It was the same every day-him, the scholarship kid, the poor boy trying to make his way through this world of privilege.
Kenjiro shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Mr. Sato's piercing glare.
"I wasn't sleeping, Sensei," he murmured, his voice barely audible, each word laced with weariness. His eyes remained fixed on the scuffed surface of the desk in front of him, as though staring hard enough might shield him from the humiliation curling in his chest.
Mr. Sato sneered, leaning forward, his tone laced with venom.
"Then why are you always so damn tired, huh? Maybe instead of dragging your sorry self into my classroom every day, you should learn to sleep properly. Or is all your energy spent daydreaming about your next meal?"
The words hit Kenjiro like a slap, the sting sharper than he'd anticipated. His jaw clenched, and his fists curled tighter beneath the desk, his nails biting into his palms. No retort came to his lips; he knew better. Defending himself would do nothing but add fuel to the fire.
"I'm sorry, Sensei. It won't happen again," he said quickly, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside.
"It better not," Mr. Sato snapped, straightening his tie before settling into his chair to begin the physics lesson. His dismissive tone made it clear that Kenjiro's apology was as insignificant to him as the boy himself.
The lesson dragged on, the teacher's voice a monotonous hum in the background. When the bell finally rang, Kenjiro exhaled, packing his worn textbooks and notebooks into his frayed backpack.
The weight on his shoulders felt heavier than just books.
As he stepped into the crowded hallway, students bustled around him, their chatter filling the air. Kenjiro tried to blend into the crowd, his head lowered.
Before he could take another step, a shoulder slammed into him with deliberate force.
He staggered back, clutching his bag as he turned to see who it was.
Ichino Kawabata stood there, his smirk as sharp as a knife.
The boy was a vision of confidence, his tall, athletic frame towering slightly over Kenjiro. Both stood at an impressive 6'1", but Ichino always seemed to carry himself with an air of superiority that made him seem larger than life.
His deep blue eyes gleamed with arrogance, a stark contrast to his jet-black hair, which gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the hallway.
Ichino's hair was a shade lighter than Kenjiro's, lacking the pitch-black depth that seemed to swallow light itself.
Kenjiro's hair had always been a source of frustration. Its inky blackness refused to change, even when he'd tried to dye it once out of frustration.
The barber had been baffled when the dye slid off like water, as if his hair rejected transformation. The memory haunted Kenjiro; it was just another reminder of how different he was.
"My bad," Ichino said casually, his tone void of sincerity.
He didn't even bother to look at Kenjiro as he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked off, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd effortlessly.
Kenjiro watched him go, his jaw tightening.
Both he and Ichino had the muscular builds of athletes, their physiques honed by hours of sports practice. Ichino, the privileged son of the school's owner, excelled in basketball-a sport Kenjiro had once dreamed of playing.
But the high fees to join the team had crushed that dream, leaving Kenjiro to settle for long jump, a cheaper alternative that didn't carry the same prestige.
Ichino's presence was a constant thorn in Kenjiro's side.
He was everything Kenjiro wasn't: wealthy, admired, and untouchable. But despite Ichino's outward perfection, Kenjiro knew the truth-Ichino hated him just as much as Kenjiro despised him.
Ichino's hatred stemmed from insecurity, an obsessive need to be the best, and Kenjiro's quiet defiance was a challenge he couldn't tolerate. To Ichino, Kenjiro's mere existence was an affront, a blemish on his perfect world.
Kenjiro shook his head, forcing himself to keep walking. His grip tightened on the strap of his bag as he moved through the hallway.
No matter what Ichino or anyone else thought, Kenjiro wouldn't let them break him.
He couldn't.
Kenjiro stepped into the school dining hall, a large, bustling space filled with the sound of students chatting and laughing. Rows of tables and chairs stretched across the room, some already occupied by groups of friends enjoying their meals.
The aroma of miso soup, fried cutlets, and freshly steamed rice hung in the air, making his stomach growl in anticipation. He joined the line, waiting patiently for his turn to get his tray of food.
The line moved slowly but steadily. Each student swiped their credit card or paid in cash before taking their food.
Finally, it was Kenjiro's turn.
The woman behind the counter greeted the boy ahead of him with a kind smile, her voice warm and polite. But when she turned to Kenjiro, her smile vanished.
She was older, her gray hair neatly tied back under the cafeteria's standard white cap. Her face, lined with wrinkles, carried a stern expression as she slid the tray of food toward him.
Kenjiro reached into his pocket, pulling out his credit card and handing it to her. He watched as she swiped it, but the small screen blinked twice before displaying a dreaded message:
"Transaction Declined."
His heart sank. Damn it. I forgot my card is empty.
The woman's gaze grew colder. "You can pay in cash," she said sharply, her tone leaving no room for excuses.
Kenjiro hesitated, patting his pockets as if a miracle might happen. "I... I don't have any cash on me," he admitted quietly.
Embarrassed, he reached for the tray to return it, but before he could, a familiar voice cut through the tension.
"Don't worry, I got this."
Kenjiro turned around.
It was Hiroshi, his best friend, standing there with his usual wide grin. Without hesitation, Hiroshi handed over his credit card, completing the transaction in seconds.
"Let's go," he said cheerfully, nudging Kenjiro forward with a playful push.
Hiroshi Tanaka was shorter than Kenjiro by a few centimeters, but his vibrant presence always stood out.
His striking green eyes gleamed with mischief, complementing his neatly styled blue undercut. He had sharp, handsome features that seemed to catch everyone's attention.
Hiroshi came from one of the wealthiest families in the area, yet he wasn't like the other rich kids.
While many of them treated Kenjiro with disdain or ignored him entirely, Hiroshi treated him as an equal. His playful teasing and unwavering loyalty made him a friend Kenjiro truly appreciated.
The two found an empty table by the window and sat down.
Kenjiro wasted no time digging into his food, but his annoyance was clear from the look on his face.
"Don't do that again," he said firmly. "Stop paying for my food."
Hiroshi smirked, shoving a piece of fried pork into his mouth. "Kenji, if I don't pay for your food, who will?"
Kenjiro sighed, rolling his eyes. "No one."
"Exactly!" Hiroshi declared, grinning with his mouth half-full. "Because I'm your one and only friend. The best there is."
Despite himself, Kenjiro chuckled. "Shut up."
Hiroshi leaned forward, twirling his chopsticks in one hand. "So," he said in a low voice, "what's the deal with Sakamoto-senpai's book?"
Kenjiro froze mid-bite.
That book.
Kenjiro had always been obsessed with books-not just any books, but ones that carried mystery, history, or a touch of the unknown.
And nothing intrigued him more than the book Sakamoto-senpai, his history teacher, always carried.
The book was unique. Its green leather cover looked ancient, and an eerie, lifelike eye was painted on the front, staring back at anyone who dared to look at it.
Sakamoto-senpai was never without it. Whether it rested on his desk or tucked under his arm, the book was always there.
But he never opened it in class.
And he never let anyone touch it.
Kenjiro had asked about it countless times, his curiosity growing stronger with each rejection. "What's in the book, Senpai?"
But Sakamoto-senpai's answer was always the same: a shake of his head or a vague dismissal.
Why?
What was inside that book?
The mystery gnawed at Kenjiro's mind. The more his questions went unanswered, the more determined he became to uncover the truth.
He tried asking him nicely, hoping he'd have a change of heart, but he's just as stubborn as ever when it comes to that book.
But you know what? I'm not giving up. Kenjiro thinks, he never gave up.
Yesterday, kenjiro waiting until everyone had left. It was just he and him in the class, and you could hear the rain pounding outside.
Kenjiro mustered the courage to approach him once more to discuss The Green Book, but as expected, his stance didn't change."Sakamoto_senpai, could you do me a huge favor and lend me your green book? I'm really eager to read it. I promise I'll take good care of it and return it to you within a few days," he asked, trying to sound as sincere as possible.
"Kenjiro_kun" he snapped, his voice firm and unwavering. "Seriously, what's going on in that head of yours? I've told you a million times that I won't lend you my book, not even for a second. So, save yourself the trouble and don't come knocking on my door again, okay?"
Taking a deep breath, kenjiro flashed him a determined smile. "Alright, but you never know-maybe one of these days you'll change your mind. I'll swing by later, just in case."
As kenjiro turned to leave, his voice boomed behind me, "Don't you dare come back, boy! My mind is made up. You must be out of your mind if you think I'll ever change it!"
Kenjiro left the room, closing the door behind him. 'You can say what you want, old man, but I swear, I'll read that green book, whether you agree or not. Challenge accepted!'
Hiroshi leaned in, interrupting Kenjiro's deep thoughts with a mischievous grin. "So, spill the beans. How did the mission go? Did he change his mind?"
Kenjiro sighed heavily, stabbing at his food with his chopsticks. "Nah, no such luck. The man's as stubborn as a rock."
Imitating the old man's gruff tone, Kenjiro added with a dramatic flair, "'Don't you dare come back again, boy. My mind is made up. Ugh.'"
Hiroshi burst into laughter, clapping a hand on the table. "Classic. So, what's your next move, Kenji?"
Kenjiro shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a casual air, his legs crossed. "Honestly? I've got no fucking idea. If I don't get my hands on that book soon, I swear I'm going to lose it."
"But you always have a Plan B," Hiroshi replied in a low, knowing voice, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Kenjiro's lips curved into a sly grin. "You're right. It's time for Plan B."
Their eyes met, a shared look of mischief passing between them like an unspoken agreement. Just then, Kenjiro glanced at Hiroshi's watch and cursed under his breath. "Shit, I'm late. I've gotta go."
He grabbed his bag, slinging it over one shoulder, the handle of his scooter sticking out awkwardly from the top, too large to fit. As he rushed out, he heard a familiar voice calling behind him.
"Takahashi-kun, Sakamoto-senpai needs you in Class Three," said Takumi Nakamura, a short boy with green hair who walked past with a tray in hand. Though not exactly friends, Takumi and Kenjiro were classmates who occasionally exchanged a few words.
Kenjiro furrowed his brow. "S_sakamoto-senpai? Wants me?"
Hiroshi gave him a nudge. "Go. Don't keep him waiting."
Kenjiro nodded, tightening the straps on his bag before dashing into the hallway. He sprinted at full speed, weaving effortlessly through clusters of students without so much as brushing against them. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he sped towards Class Three, only to skid to a halt at the door.
"What the hell?" he muttered under his breath, staring at the empty classroom.
The sound of knuckles rapping against the wooden door made him turn. Standing there was Kenta Hayashi, a tall boy with blond hair tied into a short ponytail. Kenta's smirk was infuriatingly smug, his arms crossed over his chest.
Kenjiro scowled. He and Kenta were rivals on the long-jump team, always competing but never really getting along. This had to be one of Kenta's games.
"You've got to be kidding me," Kenjiro thought, glaring at Kenta, who waved mockingly before slamming the door shut.
"Damn it," Kenjiro muttered. The clock was ticking, and he was already late.
To make matters worse, Coach 'Harada Takemura', the no-nonsense long-jump coach notorious for his strict discipline, was bound to punish him for this delay.
Kenjiro clenched his fists, muttering, "Asshole," under his breath.
Kenjiro's lips curled into a mischievous smirk as he glanced at the window, which was just barely open.
He could feel the familiar rush of excitement surge through him. Without a second thought, he sprinted toward the window, his body moving like clockwork.
In one smooth motion, he leaped upward and soared through the air, easily clearing the gap. He didn't even touch the window; it was as if he was part of the space around him.
His feet landed softly outside, the cool air greeting him as he touched down.
He loved moments like this-when the window was just the right size for a quick escape, or when there was a tight spot he could jump from without hesitation.
It was his kind of freedom.
A grin spread across his face as he immediately shifted into high gear. He dashed toward the stairs, his legs working on autopilot.
He flew down the steps with precision, barely even looking at them, before leaping over railings and jumping off the edges of chairs in a fluid sequence. Every obstacle was just another jump waiting to happen.
As he neared the dressing room, Kenjiro pushed himself faster. He could see the door ahead and knew he had to make it. With one last burst of energy, he exploded into the room, the door swinging open just in time for him to slip inside.
He ran over to his locker, marked with his name-just like everyone else's, but somehow it always felt like his was the best. He threw open the door, quickly grabbed his black sport jeans, and a black shirt, slipping into the clothes with practiced speed. The change was second nature, and within moments, he was ready.
He tossed his old uniform into the locker and stowed his belongings in their designated space.
He left his backpack behind since he didn't need it for the moment. His black gloves-an essential part of his look-went on next.
Taking a deep breath, Kenjiro felt the last remnants of adrenaline from his sprint. Without wasting another second, he ran toward where the teacher and the other students were gathering.
His heart raced with excitement, but his movements were steady, and his expression calm as he slipped into place among the group.
The teacher gave him a nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. "Good timing, Takahashi," they said, clearly impressed. Kenjiro simply smirked back, satisfaction glimmering in his eyes.