The night was wrapped in a silence that seemed to whisper of hidden dangers. Along the stretch of a dimly lit road, the only signs of life were the flickering neon lights of a small convenience store. The chirping of crickets was occasionally drowned out by the low hum of passing cars, but for Drae, the noise inside his own head was much harder to silence.
Inside the store, Drae stood behind the counter. His white T-shirt was stained with sweat across his back, and his heavy frame felt like an added burden with every move he made. His legs were throbbing from standing all day, but the weight in his heart was far heavier.
"Hey, fatso! You sleeping on your feet?"
A loud bang on the counter jolted Drae back to reality. A group of young men, reeking of alcohol, stood before him. The leader, wearing an expensive jacket, stared at him with pure disgust—the kind of look one gives to a piece of trash blocking the path.
"S-sorry, sir," Drae stuttered, his fingers trembling as he hurriedly scanned the cans of beer and bags of chips.
"Hurry it up! No wonder you get bullied at school—you're slow, and you're an eyesore. Looking at you makes me want to barf. You can barely fit in that uniform," the customer continued, his friends erupting into mockery.
Drae lowered his head. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. This wasn't the first time he had heard those words. In this world, it seemed a person's worth was measured only by the sharpness of their jawline or the thinness of their waist. He handed over the change without meeting their eyes, terrified of seeing his own reflection in their ridicule.
After his shift ended, Drae walked home. Every step felt as though he were dragging invisible chains. When he entered their small living room, he wasn't met with the warmth of a home, but by the icy atmosphere of the dining table. His two siblings were already seated, looking as if they had been waiting for the chance to vent their frustrations.
"The family embarrassment is finally home," his eldest sibling snapped. The voice was laced with bitterness. "We heard you got messed with at the corner again? We're the ones who suffer because of your loser reputation. It's humiliating to even step outside because people might associate us with you."
"I didn't want that to happen... I was just doing my job," Drae replied softly, his eyes fixed on his worn-out shoes.
"We don't care! What matters is that you're the reason people laugh at us! Ever since Mom and Dad died, life has become a living hell because of you," the other sibling added.
They never spoke about the grief of losing their parents; instead, Drae became the convenient scapegoat for every misfortune in their lives. To them, Drae was the living reminder of their downfall.
Drae retreated to his room without eating. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the heavy thumping of his own heart. "I wish I were with you instead, Mom... Dad..." he whispered into the dark as tears silently traced paths down his cheeks.
But in the backyard, in a corner avoided by his siblings, stood a small wooden shack. Drae slipped out of the house and headed there. Before he could even reach the door, a white Labrador ran toward him, tail wagging frantically. It licked his hand, seemingly the only creature capable of sensing the crushing weight he carried.
"Drae, my boy," a raspy but kind voice called out. Lolo Remi G. sat inside the shack, quietly tinkering with some old tools.
Drae approached and sat beside his grandfather. In the old man's presence, he finally felt safe.
"Lolo, why is it like this? No matter how much I humble myself, I'm always wrong in their eyes... just because of how I look," Drae sobbed.
Lolo Remi took a deep breath and placed a weathered hand on his grandson's shoulder. His grip was rough but full of comfort. "Drae... don't let their hatred consume you. This weight you carry now—every insult and every tear you've had to hide—one day, that will become your greatest weapon. The fire forged from intense pain is the hardest one to extinguish."
Under the dim glow of an oil lamp, Drae finally broke down. Hugging his dog, he poured out all the pain he couldn't show the world. In a judgmental world, Lolo Remi and this dog were the only ones who saw his true value.
The next day at school, fate proved to be even more cruel. Inside the classroom, before the teacher arrived, a group of popular students—known for their ties to a local city gang—surrounded Drae's desk.
"Oh, look! Our favorite punching bag is here!" shouted Marco, the leader known for his sheer brutality.
Marco grabbed Drae's bag and dumped its contents onto the floor. Old notebooks and a plastic-wrapped lunch of plain rice scattered everywhere. Marco stepped on Drae's ID, grinding the plastic casing under his heel until it shattered.
"Look at this. Dirty, ugly, and cheap. You belong on the side of the road, Drae. Stay there in the dark, like a useless shadow," Marco jeered, shoving Drae hard.
The entire class erupted in laughter. Some students pulled out their phones to record the scene, entertained by his misery. No one stood up to help. Every laugh felt like a jagged blade in Drae's soul. He fell in the middle of the corridor, his uniform stained with dirt and his shoes covered in the muddy footprints of those who had trampled over him.
Slowly, Drae looked up. The camera—the world's eye—zoomed in on his face. This time, there were no tears. There was no trace of fear. His once sorrowful eyes had transformed—becoming cold, sharp, and piercing. Inside his chest, the "weight" Lolo Remi spoke of began to change its form.
It was no longer sadness. It was a cold, calculated desire for retribution. A fire began to smolder in his gaze—the signal that The Weight of Revenge had finally begun.