The bell rang, cutting through the air like a dull blade.
Chairs screeched. Bags zipped. The classroom emptied into the hallway, a flood of voices and footsteps.
Zenro quietly packed his books into a small worn-out backpack. His face was calm, his movements deliberate. The earlier classroom tension still hung over the room like faint smoke — Yash's glare, that punch stopped mid-air. Zenro could feel it, but he didn't let it show. He adjusted his tie, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped into the evening light.
The sun was half-hidden behind the school walls, painting the courtyard orange and gold. He began walking down the road that led home — a long stretch lined with broken streetlights and vending machines that hummed softly. The sound of crows and far-off traffic mixed with the rustle of trees.
But there was something else — the faint rhythm of footsteps behind him.
At first, Zenro ignored it. He thought maybe someone else was heading in the same direction. But as he turned a corner into a narrow alleyway, the sound grew closer, sharper. He glanced over his shoulder. Two boys in black jackets — the Joker Beetle insignia flashing faintly in the fading light — followed him.
Zenro sighed under his breath. So it begins.
He stopped walking. "You two have been following me since the gate," he said evenly. "If you've got business, say it here."
The boys exchanged a smirk and stepped forward, blocking his path. One of them cracked his knuckles; the other grabbed Zenro's collar and pushed him lightly against the wall.
"Yash sent us," the taller one hissed. "Said to beat the shit outta you for what you did today."
Zenro's face stayed calm. His eyes were steady, almost pitying. "Tell Yash," he said quietly, "he should've come himself."
The shorter boy snarled and pulled back his fist. "You got a smart mouth, huh? Let's see how it talks after—"
The punch came fast — but Zenro was faster.
He tilted his head slightly, letting the fist glide past his cheek, and with one clean movement countered. His punch landed right across the taller boy's face — a sharp crack echoed through the alley. The boy stumbled back, clutching his nose as blood trickled down.
The second attacker yelled and swung his leg, aiming for Zenro's ribs. But Zenro bent backward, the kick slicing the air above him, and before the attacker could recover, Zenro spun on his heel and drove a kick straight into his jaw. The boy's head snapped back, and he collapsed onto the ground.
Both lay groaning on the floor.
Zenro adjusted his collar calmly and looked down at them. His expression was still gentle — not angry, not mocking. Just controlled.
"I wasn't scared you'd beat me," he said softly. "I was scared I might beat you."
He turned and walked away. The streetlights flickered to life as his figure vanished into the dusk.
---
By the next morning, word spread like wildfire through Magikau High.
"Did you hear? Zenro took down two of Yash's men. Alone."
"Bro, no way. Joker Beetle got beaten?"
"They say he didn't even break a sweat!"
The whispers reached Yash by lunchtime. He sat at the center of the cafeteria, surrounded by his lieutenants. A tray of untouched food sat in front of him. His expression was unreadable — but his fingers drummed slowly on the table, the sound heavy with irritation.
The two boys stood before him, battered and terrified. Their faces were bruised; one still had a bandage across his nose.
"Yash, we tried—" one began, voice trembling.
But before he could finish, Yash stood up. His chair scraped violently against the floor. He grabbed an iron rod leaning against the wall — a leftover piece of pipe the gang often used to "discipline." The cafeteria went silent. Even those who weren't part of Joker Beetle stopped eating.
"You tried?" Yash repeated quietly. Then, without warning, he slammed the rod into the table — THUD! — splitting it down the middle. Both boys flinched.
"You think the Beetle gang tries?" Yash said, his voice calm but burning. "We win. That's what makes us who we are!"
He swung the rod again — this time it struck one boy across the back. The sound echoed through the room. Another hit. And another. Students turned away, unable to watch.
Blood dripped onto the tile.
"Let this be a reminder," Yash said finally, breathing hard. "Failure is betrayal."
He tossed the rod aside. His men stood frozen, silent as stone.
Then he turned to face the gang — a sea of black jackets, one hundred and fifty strong. "Tomorrow," he shouted, "we settle scores! Behind the mall — 5 P.M.! We face the Anacondas. We crush them. And when we do…" He raised his hand high. "We'll be the strongest gang in this city!"
A roar exploded from the crowd.
"JOKER BEETLE! JOKER BEETLE!"
They chanted, stomping their feet, their voices echoing through the cafeteria like thunder.
But even as Yash grinned and raised his hand in pride, a small voice whispered inside him — quiet, distant, unwanted.
He silenced it instantly.
---
Later that night, the streets outside his house were silent except for the hum of crickets. Yash pushed open the door to a his house where he lives.
"Mom!" he yelled, throwing his bag on the floor. "Where's my food?"
His mother's voice came faintly from the kitchen. "It's almost ready, Yash. Just a few minutes."
He sat at the dining table, tapping his fingers impatiently. His mother came out a moment later — a small, tired woman with kind eyes and gray strands in her hair. She placed a bowl of rice and curry in front of him, smiling softly.
"You've been out late again," she said. "Are you still mixed up with that gang?"
Yash didn't look at her. "Mom, not this again."
"Yash, please," she said, voice mixed with frustation."Your father… he fought in the war to protect people, not to hurt them. You're his son. You could be so much more if you studied, if you just—"
Yash slammed his spoon down. "Enough, Mom! I'm not him!" he shouted. "I'm not good at studying or following rules. I'm good at fighting! That's what I am. That's what I inherited from him!"
His mother fell silent, eyes glistening with hurt. She turned away, quietly serving the food onto his plate.
"Do what you want," she said softly. "But don't lose yourself, Yash. Don't let your heart turn into something your father wouldn't recognize."
Yash didn't respond. He ate in silence, eyes fixed on his plate. The sound of the ticking wall clock filled the air.
After a while, he looked up. His mother had returned to the kitchen, humming softly — the same tune his father used to whistle before battle.
Yash stared at her back for a long moment. His expression softened, guilt creeping into his chest like cold water.
He wanted to say something — I'm sorry, maybe. Or I miss him too. But the words refused to come. Instead, he picked up his jacket, muttered a cold "I'm going out," and walked into the night.
Outside, the wind brushed his face, and the moonlight traced the scar on his knuckles. He clenched his fists.
"I'll be stronger than anyone," he whispered to himself. "No one will control me. Not even fate."
The Joker Beetle symbol glinted faintly on his jacket — a dark crown for a boy who didn't yet know the price of his strength.
To be continued