CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3
Like a Game


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There was a game they liked to play.

No name, no rules—at least, not the kind you could write down. But everyone knew how it worked. You either laughed with them… or they made you the punchline.

And he had always been the punchline.

That morning started no different. He arrived early—like always—hoping to avoid them. The classroom was quiet, still filled with the soft light of the rising sun. His seat welcomed him like an old scar.

He opened his notebook and started sketching. It was the only time he felt like he could breathe.

But peace never lasted long.

The door slammed open. Loud footsteps echoed. Voices bounced off the walls.

“Oi! He’s already here!”

“He’s always here. What is he, a ghost?”

Laughter.

He didn’t turn around. He knew the voices. He knew the rhythm of their cruelty. Every chuckle, every insult, every sharp flick of a finger was just another verse in a song they loved singing.

Today’s game was new.

One of them threw a water bottle. It hit his desk and spilled. His notebook soaked instantly, the ink bleeding like open wounds.

“Oh no,” a mocking voice cooed. “Did we ruin your little drawings?”

“Let’s give him new material.”

The next sound was a chair being dragged.

Then hands—grabbing his backpack, yanking him up.

He didn’t fight.

He knew better.

He was pulled toward the back of the room. One of them pinned his arms. Another emptied his bag across the floor.

Books. Crumpled notes. A broken keychain.

The girl with the mask stood at the center. Still silent. Still watching.

And then—

A cigarette was pulled from someone’s pocket. Lit with a cheap lighter. Smoke curled through the air like poison.

They pushed up his sleeve.

He struggled. That was his mistake.

“Hold him.”

The pain was sharp. Hot. Skin hissed. The smell of burning flesh filled the room for a brief moment.

He bit his lip until it bled.

No one stopped them. No one ever did.


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After class, the teacher arrived late and pretended not to notice the bruises, the disarray, the smell of smoke. The lesson went on.

He sat quietly, fingers trembling under the desk, his notebook soggy and torn in his bag.

But inside, something cracked.

Not loudly. Not like glass.

But like ice.

Quiet. Slow. Inevitable.


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After school, he didn’t go straight home.

Instead, he wandered—past the alley near the station, through the streets behind the arcade, until he reached the bridge that overlooked the highway.

There, he watched the cars go by.

Fast. Loud. Free.

Below, a single train roared along the tracks, disappearing into a tunnel.

He imagined himself on that train. Somewhere far away. Somewhere they couldn’t reach him.

But then he thought of his sketchbook. Of the numbers he’d written.

Twelve. Eleven. Ten...

He gripped the railing tight.

Not yet.

He couldn’t run.

Not until it was done.


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That night, he boiled water for instant noodles while his mother slept on the couch, an empty bottle cradled in her arms.

He carried the cup to his room, hands still stinging from the burn.

The silence in his room was thick.

He opened his drawer and pulled out his second notebook—the hidden one.

In it were more sketches. Not just of the twelve, but of what he could become. Stronger. Taller. Sharper. A version of himself that didn’t bow. That didn’t flinch.

A version that made people fear.

He flipped to a blank page.

And he started writing something new:

> “Everything has rules. Even this game.”

“And now, I’ll play too.”



He set the pen down.

And smiled.


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End of Chapter 3

Chapter end