### Volume 2: Upper World

  ### Chapter 95: Jason's Back Story

  It started in a small apartment in Tokyo, back when Jason was just 6 years old. The kind of place where the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors fighting every night, and the air always smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap ramen. His mom, Aiko, worked double shifts at a convenience store — her hands always chapped from stocking shelves, her smile always tired but real when she looked at him. She was the only thing that made sense in his world. Dad had left when Jason was a baby — some guy who promised the moon but took off with a younger woman from the bar. Aiko never badmouthed him, just said "life happens," and hugged Jason tighter.

  Jason remembered the nights she'd come home late — he'd wait up, sitting on the worn futon, drawing stick figures of superheroes who saved the day. She'd ruffle his hair, say "My little protector," and make him instant noodles with an extra egg, even when money was tight. Those were the good days. But the bad ones came fast.

  One night — rain pounding the windows like fists — Aiko came home with a man. Jason heard them from his tiny room, separated by a thin sliding door. The man was loud, drunk, laughing too hard at nothing. Jason peeked through a crack — saw his mom trying to smile, but her eyes were scared. The man grabbed her arm — hard — and pushed her against the wall. Aiko whispered "Please, not here," but the man didn't care. He ripped her shirt — buttons popping like gunfire — and pinned her down on the futon.

  Jason watched.

  He was frozen — small hands shaking on the doorframe. He wanted to scream, to run in and hit the man, to be the superhero he drew. But he was 6. Helpless. The man's grunts, his mom's muffled cries — it lasted forever. Jason's tears burned hot on his cheeks, but he didn't make a sound. When it was over, the man left with a laugh, slamming the door. Aiko curled up on the futon, sobbing quiet so Jason wouldn't hear. But he did.

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  That night broke something in him. The next day, Aiko acted like nothing happened — made breakfast, ruffled his hair, said "Let's go to the park." But Jason saw the bruises on her arms, the way she flinched at loud noises. It happened again. And again. Different men, same story. Some paid her, some just took. Jason hid in his room each time, fists clenched so hard his nails drew blood. He felt like a coward — helpless, worthless. "Why can't I stop it?" he'd whisper to the dark.

  When he was 8, Aiko got sick. Coughing blood, too weak to work. The men stopped coming — no money left anyway. The landlord kicked them out — "No rent, no room." They ended up on the streets for a month, sleeping in parks, begging for change. One rainy night, Aiko didn’t wake up. Jason shook her — "Mom? Mom!" — but she was cold. Dead from pneumonia, the doctors said later. Jason sat there in the rain, holding her hand, until police found him.

  Foster care was hell. Bounced from home to home — Tokyo suburbs to Osaka group houses. The families were okay at first — fed him, clothed him — but they always saw the anger. Jason fought kids at school, broke things when he remembered his mom’s cries. One foster dad beat him for it — belt marks across his back. Another mom called him “damaged goods.” Girls at school laughed when he tried to talk — “You’re that orphan kid? Gross.” By 12, he’d been manipulated by “friends” — kids who used him for fights, stole his stuff, spread rumors. One girl — cute, with pigtails — said she liked him, then laughed with her friends when he confessed. “Ew, you thought I meant it?”

  At 13, he ran away. Lived on the streets again — stealing food, sleeping in alleys. Anger burned inside him — hot, endless. He felt like a bomb waiting to go off.

  That’s when Ray found him.

  Ray — looking 20, white hair, purple eyes — sat on a bench in Shinjuku one night, watching Jason pickpocket a drunk salaryman. Ray didn’t stop him. Just said, “You’ve got anger. I can see it. Needs to be released.”

  Jason froze — knife out — “Who the hell are you?”

  Ray smiled — small, tired.

  “Someone who can help.”

  Ray took him in — no questions, no pity. Trained him. Showed him will energy — how to channel the anger into speed, punches, afterimages. “You’re not helpless anymore,” Ray said. But Ray manipulated too — pushed Jason harder, made him fight demons for “practice,” promised power but kept him in the shadows. Girls in the clan flirted, then used him for favors. Friends betrayed for ranks. Jason never lived normal — no school, no parks, no mom ruffling his hair.

  He became the monster — unkillable, cocky, mean. But deep down, that 6-year-old kid still watched helpless from the door crack, hating the world for taking everything.

  The chapter ended.

  To be continued…