When I was eight, Hiroshima still pretended to be a place.
Nica and I sat on the broken steps of what used to be a storefront, legs dangling over a crack that ran through the concrete like the land had split its lip and never healed. We shared a cup of instant ramen between us, steam rising thin and hopeful into the cold air.
Nica was a few years older. He always treated me like a brother, always protected me.
I never asked why.
"Before the war," Nica said, blowing on his noodles, "this was farmland. Rivers ran clean. People complained about boring things."
I nodded like I understood. I didn't. The only rivers I knew were brown and slow, and boring things didn't survive long here.
"What war?" I asked.
He paused. Nica always paused before answering questions like that, like the truth was something sharp he didn't want to hand me by the blade.
"The one that taught everyone how easy it is to burn a home," he said.
The ramen tasted like salt and nothing else. I slurped it anyway. Hunger doesn't care about flavor.
That's when I smelled it.
Smoke doesn't arrive loudly. It slips in, thin and wrong, curling into your nose like it belongs there. I froze, chopsticks halfway to my mouth.
Nica noticed a second later. His face changed. Not panic. Calculation.
"Hey," he said, already standing. "Stay here."
I didn't.
I ran.
My feet slapped against cracked pavement, heart punching my ribs hard enough to hurt. The smoke got thicker the closer I got to home. Not the good kind, not cooking smoke. This one burned the back of my throat and made my eyes sting.
I called for my mom before I reached the door.
No answer.
The door was already open.
Inside, the house was wrong. Walls blackened. Furniture overturned. The air tasted metallic. I took one step, then another, my brain lagging behind my body, refusing to put the pieces together.
Then I saw her.
What was left of her.
She was on the floor, or parts of her were. Blood had soaked into the wood, dark and sticky, like it had time to settle. There were marks that told a story my head didn't want to hear. Signs that she hadn't gone quickly. That she had fought. That she had suffered.
I don't remember screaming.
I remember my throat hurting afterward.
I remember the smell. I remember thinking, very clearly, that I was late. That if I'd run faster, if I hadn't been eating ramen, if I'd known what smoke meant sooner—
Something grabbed me from behind.
I fought it. Kicked. Bit. Broke skin.
"Hey. Hey. It's me."
Nica's voice. Shaking. Real.
He held me while the house burned. While the world narrowed down to heat and loss and a silence so loud it hurt.
Later, much later, I would learn the first thing Hiroshima teaches its children.
Some fires don't go out.They just learn how to live inside you.
Years later, Hiroshima still hadn't forgiven anyone.
The second thing Hiroshima taught me was that silence lies.
People think ruins are quiet. They're not. They creak, hiss, breathe. Metal contracts at night like it's remembering being hot. Concrete sheds dust the way old skin sheds regret. Even the weeds make noise, clawing their way through cracks they were never invited into.
I grew up here. That should explain everything.
They call this place a restricted zone on paper. In practice, it's a trash can the government forgot to empty. Radiation warnings faded years ago, paint peeling into shapes that look like prayers no one finished. Nature's been slowly reclaiming the city, and honestly, it's doing a better job than anyone else ever did.
I walk through it with my hands in my pockets, shoulders loose, eyes sharp. Looking relaxed is important. Predators notice tension. So do idiots with knives.
Nica used to say that if you survive long enough, fear turns into muscle memory. I think he was wrong. Fear just gets quieter. It learns when to shut up.
I'm on my way back underground when I hear it. Not a scream. Screams are dramatic. This is rougher. Short. Desperate.
I should have ignored it. This kinda thing happens all the time down here. Laws are moot, the government no longer acknowledges our existence, we steal to survive. Things like this happen more often than not.
To this day, I still cannot explain why I moved that day.
The alley smells like rot and wet concrete. Three guys. One girl. The math is bad. The timing is worse.
I punch the closest one hard enough that his teeth clap together. Another turns, surprised, mouth opening for something clever. He never gets to finish it. I'm already moving, already tired, already annoyed that today is turning into this.
Within seconds, all three men lay crumpled on the floor. I ignored the bruising on my knuckles as I moved to go check on the girl.
Green hair, ash grey eyes, a physique hinting at years of struggle.
She looked around my age.
But what unnerved me the most was her expression.
A smile. Untouched by the wastelands we lived in. So innocent she looked out of place in these parts.
I wanted to ask her where her parents were. I never got the chance to.
Something whistles past my ear.
A dull, final sound follows. Like someone knocking once on a door they know won't open.
The man behind me drops.
I turn.
The girl is standing now. Calm. Composed. Cute in a way that doesn't ask permission. There's a kunai in her hand, identical to the one buried cleanly in the guy's forehead. Dead center. No wobble.
She looks at me and tilts her head.
"Are you hurt?" she asks.
Her voice is soft. Polite.
I laugh. I can't help it.
Hiroshima taught me a third thing, a long time ago.
The most dangerous things don't announce themselves.