Without another word, they stormed toward the motel with heavy steps, their presence alone enough to make most people second-guess whatever they were doing.
"That's them," Yor said, pointing straight at the group.
The older delinquents—men in their thirties—turned to the younger group, jaws clenched, eyes twitching, fingers curling like they were ready to fight.
The younger delinquents froze as the scarred, towering men approached. They let the girl go without a word. Realizing the shift in atmosphere, the flirty girl turned pale and bolted. Both girls ran, screaming into the afternoon sky.
"That guy's wearing the same uniform as us," one of the younger delinquents muttered. It was Harper—patchy-bearded and notorious for trouble. Twenty years old and still stuck in high school from years of fights and suspensions.
"Isn't that Ludwig's friend?"
"Yor?!" Harper scowled.
The older men kept walking toward them.
"What the hell do you kids think you're doing?!" one barked.
"None of your business," Harper snapped.
He wanted to fight back, to act tough, but he couldn't. Not against these guys.
He would be gutted.
They were bigger. Older. Hardened. These weren't schoolyard punks—they were the kind of men who looked like they could snap all 206 bones in your body just for fun.
One of the older men stepped forward—the clear leader. His deep, gravel-filled voice carried weight, and his presence made the entire street feel colder.
"Behind all that 'tough guy' act," he said, staring Harper down, "I see a scared little kid."
He leaned in close.
"You're heading into this life, kid—we're already on our way back."
He slowly pulled out a handgun and kissed the side of it. "Got this off someone I killed. Same look in his eyes as you—pretending."
Then he narrowed his eyes. "Don't end up like him. Take your boys and run."
Harper clenched his fists, then muttered, "Let's go," shooting Yor a glare that promised payback.
From that day in November, Harper made Yor his target.
The torment continued through December.
Day after day after day.
His bag was tossed into toilets that hadn't been cleaned since the dawn of time.
Bruises marked his face. He got cornered after school, again and again.
Like a little rat...
Once, Yor tried to record the attack. He thought if he got proof—anything—he could show someone. But they noticed the phone halfway through. They took it from him and smashed it to pieces right there on the pavement.
Now, he didn't even have a phone. He walked home in silence. No music to drown out the noise in his head. No messages. No one to talk to. Just the echo of his own footsteps and the ache in his chest.
He worked long hours at his part-time job, trying to save up for a new phone. Not just to replace the broken one—but so he could reach out to his friends.
Maybe ask if they wanted to hang out. Go to the arcade. Play those old racing games and forget the world for a little while.
He didn't expect much. Just a few minutes of distraction. A few minutes where he wasn't alone.
But even with everything he was going through—the bruises, the silence, the heaviness that never quite left his chest—he always told himself: It's nothing.
There are people out there suffering more than me, he'd think.
So why should I let it consume me?
At home, there was no comfort either.
His father—once a fisherman—was fired for selling endangered fish.
The money?
Spent on liquor and cigarettes.
His bedridden mother?
Ignored like she was nothing.
Yor used to beg him to stop. He used to cry and plead. But eventually, he gave up.
Now he just watched from the doorway as the man lay there day after day,
sinking deeper into the stained cushions of their couch,
killing himself slowly while pretending nothing was wrong.
He hated him—for drinking, for wasting money…
But mostly, for making Yor feel like he was the only one still trying to keep their family together.
After logging out of Deimos Online, Yor removed the HALO—a silver circlet that looked delicate but held his only escape.
The game was over. No more spells, monsters, or laughter. Just the creaking wood of their decaying home, thick with smoke and silence.
After a moment, he stood and stepped out of the room.
Then his father called from the couch, eyes on the TV.
"Yor, you got a hundred sen? I'll pay you back when I get a job."
Yor pulled out two hundred without a word.
It was payday yesterday. He'd expected this.
If he didn't give his father money, the man would take it out on their mother—neglecting her even more, sometimes not even bringing her food.
So Yor handed it over.
Sometimes, he even hoped the cigarettes would kill him faster. Let him rot in his vices. Let him disappear.
"Two hundred?" his father scoffed. "Got more? I want beer… maybe chicken."
"No," Yor said coldly. "I'm saving for Mom."
His father scoffed, not even looking away from the screen. "Her? She's dying. That's her fate. Doctor said three months. No point wasting money on a lost cause."
From behind, Sera—his little sister—wrapped her arms around him. She was three years old, almost turning four in January.
"Yor. The money."
His father's voice cut through the room like a knife. Flat. Expectant. Demanding.
Yor didn't reply.
He kept his eyes on the wall, jaw clenched, breath held.
Then came the sound he dreaded—slow, heavy footsteps that made the floorboards groan like a heavy drumbeat of death, each one louder as his 306-pound, 5'11" father drew closer.
Sera's arms loosened. She sensed it too.
She didn't say a word, just took a small step back—watching them with wide, frightened eyes.
Yor knew what was coming. If he ran now, it would only repeat the cycle. His father would keep taking his money again and again.
So this time, he wouldn't run. He'd put up a fight.
Even if he lost, at least it wouldn't be easy for his father.
And in that moment, as his father closed the distance, something inside him snapped.
His heart pounded, fast and frantic, like it was trying to escape his chest. His vision blurred, thoughts crashing into each other, like his body was bracing for impact.
Then his vision turned black.