n the quiet city of Kuoh, tucked away in the countryside of Japan, a young man stood at the edge of a narrow street, a worn suitcase resting at his side.
In his hand was a small piece of paper, covered in kanji and numbers he could barely understand. An address. His destination.
He glanced between the paper and the house in front of him.
A two-story home, modest but well-kept, stood silently behind a low fence. The lights were on. Someone was inside.
Akira exhaled slowly.
So, this was it.
A new country. A new life.
And a family that felt more unfamiliar than the city itself.
With a quiet clack of metal, he tightened his grip on the suitcase and stepped forward, crossing a threshold he couldn't turn back from.
He knocked on the door.
Then stepped back and waited.
At first, there was silence—thick and uncomfortable. Then came the sound of gentle footsteps approaching from inside.
The door opened.
With a quiet clack of metal, he tightened his grip on the suitcase and stepped forward, crossing a threshold he couldn't turn back from.
He knocked on the door.
Then stepped back and waited.
At first, there was silence—thick and uncomfortable. Then came the sound of gentle footsteps approaching from inside.
The door opened.
Standing there was a woman wearing thin-framed glasses, a small mole resting on the left side of her cheek. Her skin tone was the complete opposite of the boy's. The same could be said for her eyes and her hair.
The only thing they shared was their face.
And the identical mole they both carried.
She looked at him with indifference, her gaze distant, unreadable.
After a brief pause, she spoke.
"Take your shoes off before coming inside."
She stepped aside, already turning away.
"I'll show you where you'll be staying," she added flatly.
No welcome.
No warmth.
Just obligation.
Akira stood there for a moment longer, then quietly removed his shoes and stepped inside—into a house that felt colder than the streets he had left behind.
The scent of the house was clean and refreshing—mint and green tea leaves lingering in the air. It was nothing like his old place, which always smelled of burned candles and cheap incense.
They climbed the stairs in silence.
Near the far end of the hallway, the woman—Akira's mother—stopped and pointed toward the last room.
"Once you enter the room, there will be a doorway leading to the attic," she said calmly. "That space will be yours."
She adjusted her glasses, still refusing to look at him.
"Dinner will be served in two hours. If you are not present, you will not eat. Do you understand?"
Akira shifted the suitcase on his shoulder.
"Yeah," he said. "I gotchu."
No reaction.
She turned and walked away, her footsteps measured and precise.
Akira stood there for a moment, then headed toward the room at the end of the hall—the one that led upward.
An attic.
Guess that tracks.
He reached for the handle, already knowing this place wasn't meant to feel like home.
Opening the door, he found a sturdy staircase leading upward.
Before climbing it, he took in the room itself. The space looked like an old study—lined with books, a computer desk tucked into one corner, everything neat and untouched. A single window sat against the far wall, its black blinds drawn, making it hard for sunlight to push through.
The room felt lived-in.
Just not by him.
After a moment, Akira turned and headed up the stairs.
The attic was coated in dust, the air dry and still. Unlike the room below, it was completely empty. No desk. No bookshelf. No personal touches of any kind.
Only a single, clean futon laid out on the floor.
That was it.
Akira stood there quietly, letting the reality sink in.
This wasn't a bedroom.
It was an obligation.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
As long as food was put in his stomach and a roof stayed over his head, that was all he was owed.
He exhaled through his nose.
Yeah... he couldn't really ask for much more than that.
Two hours passed, and Akira finally finished packing. Being a gamer, he brought his PS5 and Nintendo Switch 2, but beyond that, all he really had were his clothes, his father's boxing gloves, and the red bandanna he always wore. That was it. Everything else—friends, cousins, everyone he cared about—he left behind, just like his father had wished in his will. Growing up in the wrong neighborhood had cost him so much, and now he was starting over with almost nothing.
Heading down the stairs, Akira tried to find the dining room. The smell of food hit him first—warm, savory, and surprisingly comforting. There, at the table, sat his mother, a man who must be her husband, and two twins, both around eight years old—a girl and a boy.
His mother's gaze was icy, as if he were nothing more than a stranger. The twins stared at him with wide-eyed curiosity. Only the stepfather seemed welcoming.
"Yo! How's it going? Hope the unpacking's going okay," the stepfather said, smiling. He held a cup of sake in one hand, his blond hair brushing against his face, his eyes sparkling bright blue.
Akira sized him up. He seemed... chill. Way better than his mother's cold, rigid presence, that was for sure.
Taking a seat, Akira felt his mother's icy gaze on him.
"Please wash your hands before eating," she said, her tone clipped. Akira just nodded and headed to the bathroom.
Sighing, his mother muttered under her breath, "At least you should know how to do that." She took a delicate sip of her glass of wine.
"Honey, stop being so hard on the boy," the stepfather said softly. "He just lost his father a month ago... at least show some sympathy."
"Kazuto," she replied, her voice calm and almost cold, "I recall you that the boy was a mistake in my past. I was young... it would have been better if his father and I had put him up for adoption. I have no feelings for him."
"Anko, not in front of the kids... that's their brother, for heaven's sake. And what if Akira heard you?" Kazuto said, his tone sharp but controlled.
"It's okay," Akira said, his face showing no emotion. He continued, voice flat but resolute.
"Once I'm eighteen, I'm outta this joint. I don't plan on stayin' long here either. Don't worry, Mom—I'll get out of your perfect little life. No excuses."
"I'm not hungry. I'm just gonna hit the bed," he added, turning and walking back to his room without waiting for a response.
You can hear his footsteps retreating up stairs
Kazuto closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, frustration clear on his face. "You done it now," he muttered.
Anko raised an eyebrow, swirling her glass of red wine. "I don't see what the problem is. Honestly, I'm on the same page as him," she said calmly, taking a sip.
Tou-san — the young boy with black hair, resembling his mother — spoke up. "That person is... are Nii-san?"
"Yes," Kazuto replied with a small, approving smile.
The boy's eyes sparkled with excitement at the confirmation.
Meanwhile, Anko muttered under her breath, the wine barely masking her quiet frustration. The older twin—the sister, shy and observant—watched her older brother walk upstairs, her blackish-blonde hair brushing her shoulders as she lingered silently.
There. That was the first dinner interaction. Quick, straight to the point. Pure honesty. Tension, coldness, and small sparks of warmth all laid bare in one sitting.
was the next day. Akira followed his daily routine, refusing to let a new country or lifestyle slow him down. A thirty-minute jog, starting at 5 o'clock in the morning. Some would call it dangerous, but to him, the earlier the better. The body rested well, the mind felt sharp, and it helped burn off the pent-up anger. The cold morning breeze kissed his bronze skin, waking him fully as he pushed forward, every step a reminder that he was still alive—and still fighting.
Tying the bandanna over his head—the same one that once belonged to his father—Akira was about to step out of the house.
His heel lifted slowly from the floor. The house creaked faintly beneath his weight, wood groaning in protest. For a brief moment, time seemed to pause—his foot hovering just above the threshold, breath steady, mind empty.
Then a cold, stern voice cut through the silence.
"Where are you going," Anko said, rubbing her eyes, "especially this early in the morning."
"Jogging," he said flatly, already halfway out the door.
"I think not—"
He stopped and clicked his tongue, turning just enough to look back at her. "Listen," he said, voice low and rough, "you might've pushed me out, but that's all you ever were. You made that shit real clear."
He faced forward again, hand flexing. "I'm not out here robbin' a fuckin' store or wildin' out. I'm joggin'. Tryna stay in shape. Tryna learn the area."
He paused at the threshold, the cold morning air biting his skin.
"This my home now. Like it or not."
Leaving the house, Akira didn't glance back. He didn't recognize her authority, didn't acknowledge her as a mother — not today, not ever. The morning air bit at his skin, sharp and clear, and he welcomed it. Every step away from the house felt like reclaiming a piece of himself that had been boxed away for too long.
He was here to move forward on his own terms, not follow rules, not obey. And no lecture, no cold stare, was going to stop him.
Anko didn't like this one bit. Every step he took away from the house was a dagger to her composure. He obeyed no one, yet the most damning part wasn't his defiance—it was that he reminded her too much of herself, of the past she had buried and tried to forget.
The way he carried himself, the stubborn set of his shoulders, the way he ignored her voice... it shocked her. Rebellious, untamed, yet eerily familiar. She wanted to call him back, to scold him, to reign him in—but something inside her froze.
He was her son, yes, but more than that, he was a mirror of everything she had tried to leave behind
Kuoh Town was larger than he'd expected.
Taking a brief rest, Akira leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees as he caught his breath. Dawn was breaking now—the sun slowly rising over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of orange and gold.
He'd ended up at a small park without even realizing it.
His T-shirt was soaked through, clinging to his body, outlining a defined frame built from years of training—lean muscle, a visible six-pack, every line earned through discipline rather than vanity. The morning breeze swept through the park, cooling his skin, carrying with it the faint scent of grass and dew.
For a moment, everything felt... quiet.
No expectations.
No arguments.
No walls closing in.
Just him, the road ahead, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
The onlookers stared at him.
Some looked at him like he was an anomaly—something that didn't belong. To a few, it was curiosity. To others, suspicion. And to some... something darker.
Akira felt it. Those eyes on him.
This was something he'd have to get used to.
Something he'd have to endure.
He couldn't let their gazes swallow him whole.
Not paying attention where he was going, he bumped into someone. Purse on the ground, coffee spilled, and body crash to the ground.
"Oh—fuck! Great. Just fucking great," a feminine voice snapped, her accent unmistakably British.
Akira hadn't even opened his eyes yet when he replied, already sighing.
"Shit—my bad. I shoulda watched where I was goin'."
He stepped back instinctively, hands raised a bit—not defensive, just reflex. The kind you learn growing up where bumping into the wrong person could turn ugly fast.
Only then did he open his eyes.He was surprised.
He was speechless.
He was mesmerized.
Shaking his head, he offered a hand.
"Sorry," he repeated, scratching the back of his head.
The girl accepted it and spoke calmly.
"It wasn't entirely your fault. The blame lies with me as well—I wasn't paying attention either."
Her words were proper, almost elegant.
The complete opposite of his street-born slang.
"Here—take this."
Akira fished a few yen from his pocket and pressed them into her hand.
"Should cover the coffee."
Before she could even respond, he was already jogging away.
The girl stood there, staring down at the money in her palm.
"Hey, Octavia! There you are—you just walked out of the shop," a girl called out.
She was dressed similarly to the girl now named Octavia, sharing the same goth aesthetic, though hers had a sharper edge—a hint of punk woven into her style. Uh—n-nothing. Anyway... let's just go home," Octavia muttered, her face faintly pink as she turned away.
Loona squinted at her. "...Wow. Okay. What the hell's wrong with you?"
She stepped closer, hands shoved in her pockets.
"Didn't you just say you wanted to get away from that old bitch? Like—five minutes ago?"
Octavia didn't answer.
Loona sighed, rolling her eyes. "Whatever. If that's what you want, fine. I'm not stoppin' you."
She yawned, already half-checked out. "I need to finish my nap anyway."
The girls headed home through the quiet town of Kuoh.
When Akira finally rolled back home, the air went ice-cold.
"You've been gone over three hours," Anko said, her voice flat, eyes sharp as steel. "Explain yourself."
"I was checkin' out the city. Relax," Akira shot back with a shrug. "Didn't think you gave a damn."
Anko adjusted her glasses, the motion slow, deliberate. "Pull something like that again, and I'll have you sent to a boarding school."
Akira let out a dry laugh, leaning against the wall. "Sounds better than stickin' around a mom who don't even want me here."
The silence that followed was heavy—thick enough to choke on. It cut deeper than either of them wanted to admit.
"...Go to your room," Anko finally said, pointing toward the stairs.
"Tch."
Still, he turned and headed up.
"And Akira," she added.
He paused.
"Your school arrangements are finished."
He glanced back. "Ryoukuu High?"
"No." Her tone hardened. "You'll be enrolling at Kuoh Academy."
That got his attention. "Kuoh? The hell for?"
"Your grades are far too high for a school like that," she replied coolly. "I won't let you waste your potential. And"—her voice lowered just slightly—"this is what your father would have wanted."
Akira's jaw tightened. He turned fully now. "Oh yeah?" An eyebrow lifted. "And how the hell would you know what my dad wanted for me?"
Anko's gaze didn't waver. "Stop asking questions."
She straightened. "You start at Kuoh tomorrow. You'll be given a tour, so dress properly—and try, for once, to act like it."
Akira scoffed under his breath and turned away.
"Yeah... whatever."