Class began, but Claut barely heard a word.
A thousand questions crowded his head; not one carried an answer.
Everyone around him cared only about money.
Even his own aunt, he thought, wouldn't spare him a glance if his father weren't rich.
So I have to follow my father's path…
Follow every line of his killer machine.
Rick touched his shoulder gently.
"Yo, bud. You okay? What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing, bro. Just… nothing."
The bell rang. Class ended.
Rick grinned.
"You know what? Let's hit the Game Station. I can't stand that gloomy face. Let's play—it's on me!"
"Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!" he chanted.
Claut gave a small shrug.
"Okay. Just for today."
They rushed out together.
Note: Game Station is a hall packed with PCs, PlayStations, and countless other consoles.
After a short walk they found an open PlayStation booth.
"Alright," Rick said, grabbing a controller. "Which team are you taking?"
"Real Madrid," Claut replied.
Rick chose Barcelona and burst out laughing.
"Hahaha! You're really picking Madrid when you know I'm a Barça fan?"
Claut blinked.
"I didn't know you were a Barça fan."
Rick twitched an eye.
"You're joking, right? Hehehe!"
Note: Rick is obsessed with Barcelona—bag, lunchbox, even his book covers scream Barça.
Everyone in school knows it. Even the principal.
The game began.
The game ended.
Final Score:
Barcelona 1 – Real Madrid 10.
Rick groaned.
"Awwww, you rich bastard. Why are you good at everything?"
Claut smirked.
"Maybe you're just that bad."
Rick pouted.
"Now I'm serious. One more match."
A few minutes later, a group of older boys in blue uniforms swaggered in.
"Yo, kid. This is our play area. Go somewhere else."
BAM!—one slapped the back of Rick's head.
Rick stayed silent, head down.
Claut watched, surprised.
He hadn't known Rick was bullied.
The fear in Rick's eyes looked too familiar—like the fear Claut once felt for his own father.
Another slap.
BAM!
Again.
BAM!
Rick trembled, unable to speak.
The boy raised his hand again—
but this time Claut caught it.
"Chill," Claut said coldly.
"This is a public space, not your shop. Why the hell are you harassing someone here?"
The high-schooler laughed.
"Hahaha! Look at this kid talking back to his senior. Where's your respect, huh?"
He swung again.
Claut loosened his tie, eyes flat.
The boy aimed another slap—
—but Claut caught his wrist, slammed it onto the table, and drove his knee into the arm.
BAM!
The boy screamed.
"AAHHHH! My hand!"
Another senior threw a punch.
Claut dodged easily, grabbed the arm, and struck back.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
His eyes stayed cold.
"You listen to me," he said, voice like ice.
"If you ever touch me or my friend again, I'll break every bone in your body and take a finger—even if it sends me to jail."
The bullies bolted.
Rick stood silent.
"…Why did you help me?" he asked at last.
"Did you help because you cared, or because you couldn't bear to watch me fall?"
Claut's reply was quiet, steady.
"I cared, yes—but caring is never pure.
I helped because your collapse would have echoed through me like my own.
Saving you was a way of saving the part of myself I still can't face."
Rick stared.
"…What do you mean?"
"Nothing," Claut said, lifting his bag.
"I have to go. See you tomorrow."
Tears welled in Rick's eyes.
"Thank you… for this."
His heavy heart finally softened, and he cried.
To the bully…
Do you hurt me to feel strong,
or because someone once taught you that pain is power?
Whose voice are you echoing
when you laugh at my fear?
Does my suffering feed you,
or only distract you from your own?
If no one were watching,
would you still need to break me to feel whole?
Who were you,
before cruelty felt like safety?