The tranquility of the summer night was shattered by the shouts of two angry parents. Yukito was on the kitchen floor, apologizing with a dogesa.
"Yukito!"
His mother, Akane Cano, made him feel immense pressure. Her voice held a mixture of disappointment and fury. His mother seemed a delicate woman, but don't be fooled; her presence was steely. Her eyes were red, not from crying, but from the accumulated exhaustion of a sleepless night.
On the other hand, his father, Luis Cano, was a robust man with the permanent tan of someone who works with fire. He had the same hair color as his son, and his hands, marked by years of forging, were rough and strong, clenched tightly in frustration with his son.
"What time do you think it is?" "And you arrive… like this?" Luis asked, his Spanish accent thick. He gestured with his hand, looking at Yuki from head to toe: his uniform torn, dried blood on his temple, bruises, and ripped pants.
His mother took a step forward, her light blue yukata billowing. "Do you have any idea how worried we were?"
"You weren't even answering your phone, and none of your friends knew where you were." Her words weren't a reproach, but a confession of terror. The fear of parents who imagine the worst. "Who did you fight with to end up like this? What kind of people are you messing with, son?" For the first time, a tear escaped, tracing a swift path down his cheek.
The pressure in Yukito's chest became excruciating. Even with his head on the floor, the young Yukito sincerely apologized. "Gomenasai." Any false explanation would be a greater insult to his parents, but he couldn't tell the truth either.
"Get up," Luis's voice finally said. It wasn't a command. It was a hoarse request, heavy with infinite fatigue.
Yukito didn't move.
"Yukito, get up," Akane insisted, her voice now softer, but no less firm.
Slowly, Yukito sat up, not daring to look them in the face. He kept his gaze lowered, fixed on the floor.
"Go to your room. We'll talk about this tomorrow," Luis said, his voice now devoid of its initial heatedness. It was flat, exhausted.
Slowly, Yukito walked toward his room, down the hall toward another area.
--------------------------------------------------
As he closed his bedroom door, Yukito relaxed. His body was tired. His room, familiar and welcoming, enveloped him completely; it wasn't just physical exhaustion, but mental as well.
"I need a shower." He slowly removed his clothes, revealing his physique: tanned skin, above-average height, and an extremely athletic build.
After showering and sitting on his bed, a strange thing happened.
Yukito closed his eyes and sat cross-legged on the bed. Slowly, the cuts and bruises on his body were healing. "That should be enough." Slowly, Yukito lay back on the bed and let his exhaustion take over until he fell asleep.
-------------------------------------------
Ten years ago, in a park, a little boy was playing on a swing. He kept going higher and higher until he let go, but instead of hitting the ground, he disappeared for a moment, only to reappear in the park with a bewildered expression on his face.
As if it were a mirage, the scene shifted to a room bathed in the warm light of the afternoon. A twelve-year-old boy sat in a chair at a table, levitating a pencil. With his elbows resting on the table, he stared intently at the pencil as it slowly spun above the table.
Once again, the image changed. This time, a fourteen-year-old boy appeared, blindfolded, dodging pans tied to trees that swung wildly around him. Incredibly, not a single pan hit him. "I finally did it!" the boy exclaimed, beaming with joy.
"BEEP BEEP BEEP"—A sharp, metallic beep, insistent like a ringing bell.
Yukito, fifteen, woke with a start, sitting up abruptly, blinking and disoriented. He looked around the room as the dawn light filtered through the blinds. The beeping of the phone alarm continued to pierce the silence.