The Rhythm of the Forgotten Streets***
Greyline City always smelled like metal, dust, and old rain—
but to **Bungo**, it smelled like rhythm.
Fog rolled over the cracked rooftops like a slow-moving tide, blurring the line between sky and ruin. Neon signs flickered halfheartedly, painting the far walls with weak glows of electric blue. The city was tired—its bones creaked, its streets yawned—but somewhere in those forgotten alleys, a spark danced.
A boy.
Barefoot.
Smiling.
Bungo leapt from one rooftop to another, his silhouette cutting through the morning haze like a wild flame. His feet struck the rusted metal with perfect timing—**tap, tap… tap-tap**—a beat only he could hear. He wasn't just moving; he was *speaking*, telling the world everything he couldn't say with words.
Below, the street was empty except for a stray cat and a half-collapsed vending machine. The suburbs of Greyline didn't have much, but they had space—enough for a dream to echo if it tried hard enough.
On the roof opposite him stood a boy perched on a stack of crates, drumsticks in hand. **Kairo.** Small, sharp-eyed, hair tied back with an old shoelace. In his hands, even a metal paint bucket became a sacred drum.
"Ready?" Kairo called out softly, raising the sticks.
Bungo grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Born ready."
Kairo struck the bucket.
**TUM. TUM-TUM. TUM.**
The sound rolled across the rooftop like thunder disguised as music. Bungo's body snapped alive—shoulders rolling, knees bending, fingers slicing through the cold air like he was drawing invisible lines only he could see.
He danced in bursts—wild, sharp, beautiful.
A whirlwind of limbs, breath, heartbeat.
Whenever Kairo struck harder, Bungo moved faster. When the rhythm softened, Bungo melted like water sliding through cracks. The two boys weren't performing.
They were conversing.
Childhood trauma, hunger, laughter, fear—everything poured into the rhythm.
This was **BeatRoots**, the crew that made the powerless feel invincible.
Soon, the rooftop filled with small silhouettes—other street kids climbing up from fire escapes, balancing on broken walls, gathering like silent moths attracted to a flame. Their clothes were torn, their faces smudged, but their eyes glowed with anticipation.
"Bungo! Kairo! Run it again!" one shouted.
"Make the floor shake!" another demanded.
Kairo twirled a drumstick between his fingers. "You heard them."
He struck again—this time with a fierce, resonant **BOOM**—and Bungo exploded into motion. A spinning slide, a backwards flip, a drop-to-knee followed by a rising kick that sliced the air clean open.
Every move felt like rebellion.
Every beat felt like hope.
They danced until the sky brightened and the fog lifted. Until the city's broken heart pulsed with their rhythm.
But beauty has a cruel way of announcing itself to danger.
As Kairo shifted his stance, adjusting the tin cans beneath his feet, the ground answered with an unsettling groan.
Bungo froze mid-spin.
That sound wasn't rhythm.
It was warning.
Kairo tapped the metal lightly, confusion forming on his face. "Did you hear—?"
**CRAACK.**
A thin fracture shot across the rooftop floor like lightning trapped beneath concrete. Dust erupted around Kairo's ankles.
The kids screamed.
"Kairo! Move!" Bungo charged without thinking.
Kairo leapt back, but the crack expanded, splitting the roof like a mouth opening to swallow the sky.
Metal screamed.
Concrete crumbled.
And the collapsing rooftop gave way beneath their feet.
Time slowed.
Bungo lunged forward, arms outstretched, grabbing Kairo's wrist—but momentum pulled them both downward.
Around them, rusty pipes snapped free. Glass shattered into glittering shards. The world folded inward like a dying star collapsing.
They fell—
through smoke,
through darkness,
through a heartbeat's silence.
Bungo felt the world peel away from him, felt gravity blur into nothing, felt Kairo's grip slip—
And then, all at once—
**Light.**
Not the harsh streetlight of Greyline,
but a soft golden glow that felt warm, ageless, and impossibly alive.
Bungo's body floated as if suspended in honey. His lungs filled with a sweet, fragrant air he'd never breathed before. His limbs felt weightless… younger.
Smaller.
He opened his eyes.
A calm meadow stretched endlessly around him, dotted with luminous flowers that hummed with faint melodies. The sky was a painter's masterpiece—lavender clouds drifting across a turquoise sky.
Beside him lay Kairo.
Not bruised.
Not broken.
A child again.
Maybe six years old.
Bungo looked down at his own hands—they were tiny, soft, unscarred. He felt his heartbeat stutter in confusion.
"What… where…" Kairo mumbled, sitting up with groggy eyes.
A soft wind brushed the grass, carrying whispers—gentle, musical whispers—like angels humming a lullaby.
A woman approached through the shimmering meadow. Her hair flowed like liquid gold. Her dress shimmered like woven starlight. A serene smile curved her lips.
"Little ones," she said, her voice ringing like a chime, "welcome to **Ardenia**."
Bungo swallowed hard.
"What… happened to us?"
The woman knelt, touching their foreheads with glowing fingertips.
"You have crossed the veil," she whispered. "Your bodies perished in the old world.
But your rhythm… your spirit… your bond… was too powerful to fade."
Her eyes softened.
"So the world answered."
The meadow dissolved around them.
A dark wooden ceiling came into focus.
Warm blankets wrapped around their small bodies.
Children's laughter echoed down a hallway.
Through a nearby window, the colorful rooftops of a magical town glittered like jewels under the morning sun.
They were in an orphanage.
Alive.
Reborn.
Bungo turned toward Kairo.
Kairo turned toward Bungo.
And for the first time since the collapse, both boys exhaled the same trembling breath.
Bungo whispered,
"We… made it?"
Kairo nodded slowly, eyes wide with awe.
"But this time," the boy added softly, "we're not starting alone."
Outside, the leaves rustled as if clapping.
A faint, familiar rhythm pulsed through the air.
A promise.
A new beginning.
A new world.
But the same bond.
The **rhythm** of two boys who refused to die.