The speech went viral.
Not instantly, but enough.
Someone posted a clip on social media, just the part where Haruki said "Money didn't fix me." It struck a nerve.
By the next morning, his inbox was flooded.
Messages from students, parents, former classmates, anonymous strangers.
Some shared their stories. Others begged for help. A few simply said thank you.
Rina was fielding emails with the focus of a battlefield commander. "You've got three media interview requests, two podcast invites, and a student group asking if you'll speak at their seminar."
Haruki blinked. "That's... a lot."
"Welcome to being relevant," she said. "You ready for this?"
He wasn't.
But he was willing.
What he didn't expect was the backlash.
By noon, someone had leaked old yearbook photos, one in particular, showing Haruki crouched behind a row of lockers while someone scribbled "crybaby" on his bag in marker.
It was humiliating. But more than that, it was weaponized.
Anonymous accounts popped up overnight.
"This guy's just chasing sympathy points.""Bet he's using the sob story to cover up something worse.""Ten million yen and still whining? Must be nice."
He tried to ignore it. But one message, buried deep in the threads, cut deeper than the rest.
"He never stood up for anyone else. Just himself. Ask Kagawa."
Haruki read it three times.
Then slammed his laptop shut.
Rina noticed immediately.
"Hey. Don't spiral. That stuff's noise."
"Is it?" he muttered. "Because I didn't help Renji back then. I didn't help anyone."
"You were a kid," she said. "You were drowning. You don't blame someone for not saving others while they're trying not to sink."
"That doesn't make it right."
Rina hesitated, then placed her hand on his. "Maybe not. But it doesn't mean you haven't changed."
Meanwhile, somewhere across the city, Kazuki scrolled through his phone with growing irritation.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
Ryo glanced up from the couch, chips in hand. "What?"
"This Takeda crap. People are calling him brave."
Ryo laughed. "Didn't you dump his bag in the fountain that one time?"
"Multiple times," Kazuki said, grinning. Then the grin vanished. "Now he's on TV talking about trauma like he's some kind of saint."
Ryo shrugged. "So what? Let him be sad and rich."
Kazuki's eyes narrowed.
"No. I think it's time we reminded people who he really was. Who we all were."
Ryo paused, wary now. "You sure you want to stir that up?"
"I'm not stirring anything," Kazuki said, voice sharp. "I'm telling the truth."
That weekend, Haruki received an anonymous letter. No return address. Just one sentence inside.
"The world's going to remember what you were, not what you're pretending to be."
There was no signature.
But Haruki didn't need one.
At the same time, Miyu sat alone at a small café, sipping coffee and reading through the forums.
She wasn't surprised by the backlash.
People feared things they couldn't categorize. And Haruki was no longer easy to label. He wasn't weak anymore. But he wasn't untouchable either.
He was human.
And that scared them.
She pulled out her notebook and began writing a list.
Ways to protect Haruki without him noticing:
Monitor social media tags for hate clusters.
Track known aliases of Kazuki and Ryo.
Talk to Aya about background support.
She stared at number three for a long time.
Then crossed it out.
No. This was her task. Her responsibility.
Not because she owed him.
But because when she gave him that five hundred yen, she had seen something in him.
And now that it was finally blooming, she wasn't going to let anyone stomp it out.
At a quiet temple on the city's edge, Aya lit incense for her late grandmother.
She bowed, then sat quietly beside the offering stand, her eyes distant.
Haruki hadn't returned her calls since the speech.
Not because he was ignoring her, he was simply... overwhelmed.
Still, she worried.
About the pressure.
About the attention.
About the people circling around him now.
Miyu, Rina, even his enemies.
Where do I fit in anymore?
Aya closed her eyes and tried to remember the boy who used to share sandwiches with her at the riverbank. The one who couldn't sleep during thunderstorms unless he texted her first.
That boy was still in there.
But he was growing, changing.
And so was she.
At night, Haruki sat on his balcony, laptop in lap, fingers hovering over the keys.
He was supposed to write a follow-up post, something short and hopeful. A thank-you note to supporters.
Instead, he typed:
"I wasn't brave. I was scared. I still am. But I'm not ashamed anymore. I used to think silence kept me safe. Now I know it just kept me small."
He paused.
Then added:
"If I hurt anyone by not speaking up sooner, I'm sorry. I'll never be able to go back. But I can go forward. And I will."
He clicked Post.
Then closed the screen.
Moments later, a reply came in.
From a private account.
No profile picture.
"Maybe I'll step forward too. Eventually. Until then, keep talking."
He smiled, just faintly.
Renji.