The sun was already out when I left the house. Warm and loud. One of those mornings that made everything look too bright to be real.
I kept my hands in my pockets, shoulders low, walking along the narrow path by the river.
The current moved lazy, slow—like it hadn't woken up yet. Just a few old bicycles passed me by. One of them had a crate full of green onions bouncing in the back. I didn't bother to look up.
The neighbors were already chatting by the local cafe, and some old lady was sweeping dust that kept coming back. Same thing every morning. Same voices, same dust.
I crossed the bridge and saw them from a distance—that Trio from 2-B.
Three heads bent over, trying to help one of the elderly neighbors—lifting a wooden box up a small slope, laughing like idiots. One of them nearly tripped. Another yelled something dumb and cheerful. The old man laughed, patting their backs like they were his grandsons.
I kept walking, eyes straight, hoping they'd stay busy long enough not to notice me.
But of course, that didn't happen.
"Ashhh! Oi wait up! Are you always this late? No wonder we never run into each other!" shouted the loud one, Mick—grinned as he jogged toward me. His shirt was half-tucked, and his forehead was already sweaty.
"Did you oversleep or are you just slow at life?" Jack chimed in. That one with too much energy, a bit of a monkey—always climbing fences for no reason.
"He's always like that. Calm like a cat, right?" Rolo added shamelessly, a rice cracker still in his mouth. "Morning, Ash!" he said again, giving me a short salute. His bag bounced behind him as he trotted up to match my pace.
I didn't stop walking.
"Why are you guys always this loud?" I muttered.
"Because we live life with energy, brother!" Jack clapped my back, almost sending me off balance. "You should try it sometime. Smile once in a while, the sun's out!"
I glanced at him. "The sun's been out every day. Nothing new."
"Oof. Cold." Rolo pretended to freeze, hugging himself. "Can someone get this man a soul?"
Mick laughed. "We helped Mr. Mezmer out this morning. His back's been acting up again. Did you know he used to be a fisherman?"
I nodded, slowly. "Yeah. He told me that. Twice."
"He likes you, you know?" Rolo grinned.
I smirked. "What's up with all the bruises, though?"
I knew, but I asked anyway—pretend not knowing.
"You won't believe what happened!" Jack jumped in.
Mick held his jaw, full of dramatic flair. "That new folk Tarrant kicked us, man. Real kicks. In the ass. Rolo's still got a footprint."
"I told you not to call him 'pretty boy,'" Rolo grumbled, rubbing his backside. "He warned us."
"You called him a cosplay brawler, bro," Jack snorted.
"It's the hair! Too much conditioner or something. Ain't my fault he took it personal."
I let out a low chuckle. "It's not that he took it personal, you smartasses. He probably did it because you're all just too damn noisy."
They laughed again, loud and carefree like they hadn't just gotten their asses handed to them.
I kept walking. The three of them fell into step beside me. Still talking. Still cheerful. And even though they were noisy, I let them be.
The bell had rung a while ago. The gate was already closed—as I creaked it open a little like I always did. Slipped through without a sound. No rush.
The yard was mostly empty. A few bikes leaned crooked against the racks. A stray cat stretched under the sun near the tool shed, too lazy to move.
"The trio must've taken a different route today. Climbing the east wall probably felt like a genius move in their heads," I muttered—let out a tired exhale.
On the far side, a few seniors were posted up near the railings by the bikes. Slouched uniforms, smoke faint in the air—skipped their first classes. The way they looked at people always said more than whatever came out of their mouths.
One of them flicked his chin at me—sharp, dismissive. Another muttered something to the guy next to him, half-laughing like I was some inside joke not worth saying out loud.
Someone spat near my foot. Not on it. Just close enough.
I didn't stop. Didn't give them the look they wanted.
Maybe it was the way I walked past them like they weren't there.
Maybe it was because I never lowered my head like most juniors did.
Or maybe it was because I used to hang around that guy.
He's stepped away from the front lines. Doesn't make a show of anything.
Doesn't claim the top spot anymore—doesn't need to.
But everyone in this building still knows exactly what kind of a guy he was.
And maybe, to them, his shadow hasn't let go of me yet.
Half the day passed without any surprises. Just the quiet kind. No teachers breathing down my neck. Just the usual noise slipping through thin walls.
I spent lunch on the rooftop. Took a short nap under the water tank. The wind kept it cool enough. It felt like being outside of things for a while. Like the noise in my head had somewhere else to be.
When I opened my eyes, the sun had already shifted west. Shadows stretched longer across the concrete. Everything had that late-afternoon stillness.
I sat up slowly. Brushed the dust off my back. Stretched a little. My body was already halfway through the routine. Just one class left. No reason to skip it.
That was the plan.
The rooftop door creaked open.
Footsteps came slow. Not cautious—just calm. A kind of ease you don't hear often down there. Just walked to the edge of the rooftop like he'd done it a hundred times. Only one person walked like that—casual, with a certain bounce that didn't match the strength in his frame.
Yuu Mercer.
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I looked his way once.
He hadn't changed much. Still had that presence. The kind that didn't need to talk loud or stare long. He used to feel sharp. Intimidating. Still did, probably. But these days, I felt something else in him. It just felt calm and warmer.
"Still hogging the view, huh?" he said, voice quiet. Light, even.
He dropped down onto the old couch like it was still his spot. Crossed one leg over the other. Hands behind his head. Like silence wasn't something that needed filling.
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "Didn't know you were in the building."
"Didn't plan to be," he said.
I nodded. That's all. Just nodded.
He leaned back, hands behind his head, looking out at the horizon. "Mechanics kids been causing noise again. I left 'em to burn out some steam. Figured I'd borrow your peace for a bit."
"Anytime," I said.
And I meant it. The rooftop wasn't mine when Mercer was around. It was ours. Or maybe his, and I just watched over it while he was away.
For a while, neither of us said anything. Wind tugged at our sleeves. Someone yelled far below, probably over a broken vending machine or someone getting loud for no reason.
Mercer let out a small chuckle. "You know, Ash... not many kids around here know how to just sit still."
I shrugged. "Not many worth sitting with."
He smiled. Not the wide grin he gave to his boys. Just a small, real one. The kind that made you forget who he was outside this roof.
After some moment, he stood up and stretched. "Alright, back to hell I go."
I didn't say goodbye. Just gave a slow nod.
He ruffled my hair as he passed. "Keep this place breathing, will you?"
And just like that, the creaking door swallowed him again.
School also ended without a fuss.
The hallways emptied quick—kids pouring out like floodwater once the bell rang. I took the side gate, the one near the faculty lot. Quieter. Fewer eyes.
The sky was already dimming, orange bleeding into the blue. Air was thick with that end-of-day stillness, where even the birds seemed too tired to make noise.
I kept walking.
Passed the old bike shed. Crossed under the broken streetlight. Usual route. Same steps, same pace. But, my mind was somewhere else, halfway replaying Mercer's voice in my head. "Keep this place breathing." Felt like he left something behind on the roof.
The buzz of distant traffic and a rusted vent humming overhead. I kept my head low. Wind carried the smell of oil and concrete.
I heard voices from afar—low and careless.
Footsteps. Laughter that didn't belong to anything funny.
Five of them stood on the side of the road. Sylvancrest uniforms. Spread out like they'd been waiting. One stood at the center—shorter than the rest, but his posture told me he was the one in charge.
Last time it was eleven or twelve of them. I escaped with bruises and a limp that lasted two days.
This wasn't that far from school.
They were definitely looking for something.
"Hey," they called. "Hold up."
I turned slowly.
One of them smiled—like this was just another daily routine. "You know how this goes. Don't try to make a scene, alright?"
He stepped forward—looked about my age. His grin didn't reach his eyes.
"Hate to do this, man. But, y'know how it is." He tapped his fingers against his temple like we were both tired of the same joke. "Just a few bucks and we're gone. Cigarettes cost a damn fortune these days."
The others shifted behind him, cutting off the alley light. No one raised their voice. Guys like this preferred it quiet—felt cleaner.
I muttered, "You really wanna drag it this far? I don't carry much anyway."
"What's that?" he said, face twisting. "Just be a good boy and we'll let that one slide."
Then he squinted at me. "No phone? Not a single coin? You serious?"
He was right in front of me. So I hit him in the gut, then snapped my knee up into his face. Clean hit. He dropped back, hands over his. bleeding nose. Enough to pisses him off.
The others jumped in. One slammed a fist into my right shoulder—sharp pain shot through like electricity. I gritted my teeth, ripped my bag off and threw it at them to buy a second.
I grabbed a rusty pipe from near the trash can and swung wide.
It cracked against the ribs of the guy on the left—he went down instantly, choking on the impact.
The one with the bleeding nose roared, "Kill this fucking guy!"
They closed in. I swung the pipe in wide arcs, trying to keep space, but they moved tighter. I noticed the guy to my left—hesitating. Didn't expect it to turn this way. His feet gave it away.
I threw the pipe at him, hard. Then I rushed in.
Bad footing. I slipped, slammed my forehead into the wall on the left. My vision burst white. Before I could recover, a kick cracked against my face. I staggered, half-conscious.
But I moved.
I dropped low, hooked one guy's leg with mine, then smashed a fist behind his knee. His leg collapsed, body following. As he dropped, I rose and threw both fists into his skull like I was swinging a bat.
He didn't get up.
The nosebleed guy grabbed me by the back and hurled me into the wall. Might be a judo player. My right hand caught on an exposed iron wire—scratched the skin. Bleeds out. I kicked him off and rolled, scrambling to my feet.
Now, just three left—the nosebleed guy, the hesitant one, and the short leader who hadn't moved the entire time.
That stillness was worse than anything. He just stood there, hands in his jacket. Watching. Like he was waiting for something specific.
It scared me more than the fists.
The hesitant guy finally broke.
He lunged—sloppy, desperate. I stepped aside, grabbed his arm mid-swing, and slammed him into the brick wall. His skull were against it, and he slumped down without a sound.
That left two.
Nosebleed wasn't done. He came rushing back in, eyes wild, face smeared with blood and spit. This time, I was too slow—he tackled me clean, and we hit the ground hard.
Fists flew. I couldn't even tell what I was hitting anymore—his ribs, his jaw, maybe just the ground. My knuckles were screaming. The world was spinning. But I ended up on top, slamming down over and over until his arms stopped moving.
Then—
A shadow.
A blur.
Crack.
A foot slammed into the side of my head like a hammer. My body went limp mid-breath, flung two meters across the alley. I hit the pavement and skidded, shoulder first.
White noise filled my ears. My vision shook.
I tried to get up. Couldn't. My muscles were locking up. Pain crawled up my spine like heat. Dragged myself to the nearest wall, barely breathing, blood dripping from my hand.
He started clapping.
Slow, mocking.
"What a smart guy," the short one grinned as he stepped forward. "Lured us in close just to explode like that. You're not bad."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"You survived my kick, too. Impressive. Really."
I gave him a crooked smile. "I'm dying. Can't you tell?"
He laughed, shaking his head. "Ahaha, fair enough."
He crouched beside one of his guys, checking them. "Damn. You really laid them out. Blood, bruises..."
He turned his eyes back to me. Haven't finished his blabbering.
But I was already moving.
I launched forward and kicked him clean in the face. His eyes widened just before the impact.
His body flew—three meters away—before crashing headfirst into a concrete post. Dust and blood.
He coughed, rolling halfway over, dazed.
"You sure talked a lot for someone built like a fucking mid grader," I said through my bloody teeth, swaying, barely upright.
He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve—blood smearing across his cheek. The smirk was gone now. What replaced it was something worse.
He moved—fast.
Dropped low. Grabbed my ankle. Yanked hard.
I lost balance. His heel slammed into my shin before I could even blink. Felt like lightning shot up my leg.
I gasped, stumbled back, vision swimming. Couldn't breathe right.
He charged. An elbow to my ribs. A knee to my stomach. His strikes were surgical—no wasted movement. He moved like he'd done this a lot.
How the hell do I beat this fucking monster..? I thought, tasting fists to my face.
I dropped low—instinct, not thought—shoulder checked him into the wall.
A grunt. A slip. Just a flicker of imbalance.
I drove my fist into his stomach.
Once.
Twice.
Then an uppercut. His jaw snapped back—spit flew.
He staggered.
But didn't fall.
He smiled again, half-laughing through broken teeth. "Finally... a fight worth something."
Then he came again. No hesitation.
We clashed—fists, knees, blurred breath. Neither of us backing down. Just raw, breathless violence in the narrow alley.
Why am I still standing?
Why didn't I just walk away like I always did?
Was it pride? Stupidity?
Only thing that moved... was time.
And it left me behind.
But does that even matter now?
My body couldn't hold out much longer.
But—
A slip.
His head dropped low for half a second. That's all I needed.
I hooked my arm around his neck, drove him backward.
Slammed him against the dumpster.
Headbutted him.
He collapsed.
Didn't rise.
But he was still conscious. Barely. Chest rising. Eyes twitching.
He croaked "I... I’ll see you again soon.."
I stood over him, swaying like a broken lamppost in the wind.
"I should've run away..." I muttered, eyes blurry. "Fuck."
I could barely stay on my feet.
There was blood all over me—mine, theirs, I couldn't tell anymore. My breathing was just wheezing now. Arms shaking. Numb hands.
I was still standing.
Mercer's voice echoed faintly.
"Keep this place breathing."
Back then, I didn't know what that meant.
But maybe now...I did.
Ash had no idea what he set in motion—just that the air felt heavier now, like something had stirred beneath the surface. He no longer flinched, nor hid; the wounds, the silence, the weight—he carried them bare, like armor, into whatever storm would come. And in that stillness, buried beneath blood and dust, he finally understood—Mercer’s words weren’t about power and control—it was about refusing to let it suffocate who you are.