Chapter 2: Emotions Are For The Rich, Kid.
The train rattled on, still carrying them toward the tired, sprawling suburbs they both called home. Akari sat beside him, every muscle locked tight, her head slightly bowed. She was quiet, but the sheer force of her controlled trembling made her feel loud.
The fluorescent overhead lights were sharp and aggressive now, buzzing with a high-pitched whine that did nothing to fill the emptiness between them.
Elijah glanced at her. The profile was sharp, Japanese, drawn tight with pain and a hatred that was too expensive for her to afford right now. He watched her hand lift slowly, tentatively, trying to pull the hem of her grey school skirt down over her knees, a tiny, desperate attempt at dignity that was already years too late.
Stupid.
"Useless," he finally said, the word cutting through the tense silence like thin ice. He didn't bother looking at her when he spoke.
"You're trying to fix something that's already broken. You should've thought about the skirt back at the designer's shop when you decided to design it that way, before you put it on."
Akari flinched, a faint, almost invisible shudder running through her shoulder, but she didn't respond, a tear escaping to trace a path through the grime on her cheek. She smelled like salt and stale terror, mixed with the faint sweetness of cheap shampoo. She just pulled her hand back and fixed her gaze on the grimy floor.
The silent defiance was annoying, but predictable. He hated wasted energy, and her lingering trauma was inefficient. She was a liability, prone to hysterics, potential suicide, maybe a report that could connect him to the scene, even if only as an uninterested witness. He needed to contain the threat.
The train lurched violently as it hit a bend, throwing Akari sideways, her shoulder bumping against his arm. She recoiled instantly, flinching away as if burned, her breath catching sharply. Under the harsh lights, he saw the red mark already blooming from his slap, stark against her pale skin.
"Look at me," he commanded.
When she didn't, he grabbed her chin with his index finger and thumb, not roughly, but with the cold, controlled pressure of a vice, forcing her face up until her red, swollen eyes met his.
"Don't waste my time with that victim act. It's pathetic. You survived. Good job. You think I care about the rest? No. You're quiet, you're cheap, and you're predictable. If you keep looking like that, someone's going to notice, and then we both have a problem." He released her jaw. "What's your name?"
She stared, paralyzed. Her lips moved, a dry, faint whisper. "A-Akari."
"Akari," he repeated, testing the sound. "And you're Eleventh Grade. See? Simple. Now, stop being dramatic. Tears won't pay for the dry cleaning, and they sure as hell won't change what happened." He leaned back, letting his words land.
"You need a place to crash, don't you? Somewhere quiet before you have to face your parents with that look on your face."
She swallowed hard, finally finding a breath, but her answer was another tremor in the equilibrium. "I… I live alone."
Elijah paused. The movement of the train outside, the distant screech of metal, seemed to fade out for a beat. Alone. That simple word changed the equation entirely. No immediate parental inspection, no witnesses to her state, no awkward explanations to an authority figure.
He leaned closer, "Living alone," he echoed softly, his gaze sweeping over her torn uniform strap and the dried tear-streaks staining her jawline. "Perfect. Means tonight doesn't belong to anyone but you." His voice crept lower, more intimate. "Unless you want it to belong to someone else."
A predatory, utterly self-interested sense of calm settled over him. "Well, that complicates things," he said, his tone shifting from abrasive to strangely considerate, like a doctor discussing a prognosis. "A girl like you, small, alone, looking vulnerable—it's like putting a target on your back in this part of town. You're asking for trouble, Akari."
He paused again, letting the weight of the statement sink into her isolation. He watched her eyes dart around the carriage, seeking escape routes that didn't exist.
"I'm going home. It's a full house. People. Noise. Better security, if you want to be practical about it. You should come with me."
Her glare snapped back, fueled by raw survival instinct. The look was sharp, hot with suspicion.
The fact that the bastard didn't care about her plight hadn't surprised her; the fact that he'd launched into this bizarre sales pitch for his home did. Her glare sharpened—a trapped feral animal assessing a new predator scenting blood. "Why?" The word came out cracked, barely audible above the train's rhythmic groans. "So you can finish what he star-"
He cut her off before she could speak the accusation. "What? You think I'm asking for sex? Honestly, Akari, you're in a state, but try to keep up. I'm not that guy." He gave a small, mocking chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "Besides, even if I was, it would be for your own good."
She frowned, confusion battling horror on her face. "What are you… talking about?"
"Relax. It's a technique," he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, pseudoscientific murmur. "Trauma, especially sexual trauma, leaves a chemical imprint. A grotesque memory. They say the best way to weaken that memory, to dilute the poison, is to replace it with a new, caring, and passionate experience right away. A positive counter-memory to re-wire the association."
Akari's breath hitched, her trembling intensifying against the cracked vinyl seat as his predatory logic slithered around her fractured thoughts. She stared at his calm expression—no empathy, just the dispassionate assessment of a mechanic explaining engine repair.
He let her process the twisted, sophisticated absurdity of his statement. He saw the faint blush of shame and the deep confusion—the desired effect. He had broken her instinctual defense by making the idea of sex sound like therapy.
Then, just as quickly, he dismissed it. "But don't worry, I was just joking. Dark humor. You know, to lighten the mood." He gave a slight, insincere shrug. "The actual invite is about safety. My home is full of people. I'm a student, a schoolmate.
You're a liability alone in this town, especially now. You come home, you have protection, you have company, and you're off the street. Simple exchange. What are you so afraid of, Akari? That I might actually be offering you a practical solution?"
He knew that last line—practical solution—would burrow deep. She was alone, scared, and physically vulnerable. His house, even with his dubious nature, represented structured safety over solitary danger. Her exhaustion and the fear of repeating the last hour would do the rest of the work.
Akari stared at the stained floor for a long time, the rhythmic clack-clack of the train marking the time she spent calculating her risks. She wasn't consenting; she was submitting to the path of least resistance. Safety first. She looked back up at Elijah, a slow, grudging nod.
"Fine," she whispered, the sound thin and brittle.
"Good girl," Elijah replied, picking up the phone he'd stolen, already tapping at the screen. "Now let's talk about my math homework, Akari. I missed half the lesson today."
He rummaged in his backpack and tossed her a half-crumbled energy bar. "Protein," he said without looking at her. "Shock makes you stupid." She didn't move to touch it, so he ripped the wrapper open himself and shoved it against her lips until she took a mechanical bite. The smell of artificial chocolate chips mingled grotesquely with the coppery tang still clinging to her uniform.
The rest of the ride passed in a grim, detached conversation about school, utterly mundane topics overlaying the raw, sticky trauma between them. Elijah made her talk, made her focus, preventing the spiral. He was managing his asset.
The train hissed to a final, tired halt.
"This is us," Elijah said, standing up.
He didn't offer her a hand. Akari, still stiff and sore, struggled to her feet. The remaining cash, the payment from the man, was still on the floor, untouched.
"You left your money," Elijah noted, nodding at the bills.
Akari didn't look down. "You keep it. It's dirty."
Elijah only shrugged, picking the bills up. "Money is money, Akari. It just made people do all sorts of things back there. Same as always." He put the cash away with his own stolen haul.
He stepped out onto the concrete platform without waiting. Akari followed, a haunted, silent shadow, stepping out of the train's dead light into the colder, open air of the station. She was breathing hard, every step a painful effort.
The city waited, dark and indifferent.
Akari's breath hitched sharply as her bruised thighs burned with every dragging step. She kept her eyes fixed on Elijah's backpack—the frayed straps were safer than the hungry shadows pooling beneath the broken station lights.
Elijah didn't slow his stride, forcing her to hobble faster until she stumbled against a graffiti-smeared pillar. He paused, turning back with an expression like a bored clerk assessing damaged inventory. "You move like wet laundry dragged through the dirt—heavy and too slow," he remarked, plucking a discarded soda can from a bench. "Hold this. Looks less suspicious than clutching yourself."