Mid School — Age 10
The classroom buzzed with noise—students talking, laughing, passing time until the bell. Near the window, Zaren sat alone, a book open in front of him.
Human Muscles & Nerve System.
The door slid open.
Three boys walked in late.
The room went quiet.
Everyone knew them.
Rex led the way—loud, confident, dangerous in the way only school tyrants were. Kane followed close behind, tall and heavy, built for violence. Milo trailed last, grinning, already amused.
Rex's eyes landed on Zaren.
"Oi," he said, smirking. "Who's that?"
They walked up to Zaren's desk.
Milo leaned forward. "Hey, what's your name again?"
Zaren didn't look up.
He kept reading.
Milo laughed. "Za… aa… za—" He broke into laughter. "Man, what a f***ing name. I can't even say it."
Around them, other students turned away. Eyes dropped. No one said a word.
Zaren stayed silent.
Rex's smile faded.
"You ignoring us?"
Still no response.
Kane stepped forward and grabbed Zaren by the collar—
The door slammed open.
"What's going on here?!" the teacher shouted.
Rex immediately stepped back, hands raised in mock innocence.
"Nothing, sir."
As the teacher turned away, Rex leaned in slightly, his voice low.
"I'll see you later… you f***er."
Class resumed.
Zaren looked down at his book again.
Lunch Time
The cafeteria was loud and crowded. Zaren sat alone at a table, eating very little. His book lay open beside his tray.
A shadow fell across the page.
Rex slammed his hand down on the table.
"You son of a b***h," he snarled. "How dare you ignore us like that?"
Kane's fist connected with Zaren's face.
THUD.
Zaren fell from the bench.
Punches followed. Kicks.
Faces blurred—only motion and shadows.
Zaren didn't fight back.
When it ended, he lay on the floor, bruised and still.
No tears.
No anger.
Milo looked down at him, confused. "…What's wrong with this guy?"
They walked away.
Home — Evening
Zaren entered the house quietly.
Maki saw him immediately.
Her face changed.
"Zaren—what happened?!" she asked, rushing toward him.
She touched his arm carefully, afraid to hurt him further.
"Why are you getting involved in school fights?" she said, panic creeping into her voice. "Look at you… you're hurt."
Zaren answered without looking at her.
"…It doesn't matter."
He walked past her.
Zaren's Room — Night
Zaren sat on the floor, notes scattered around him. He was drawing from memory.
A black scarf.
A pure black outfit.
A tattoo—an R marked on the hand.
He typed on an old laptop.
Search results scrolled past the screen.
Local hitmen.
Black clothing.
Tattoo symbols.
Nothing useful.
No results found.
Zaren clenched his fist.
Top-ranked hitmen don't exist online…
He paused.
But the local ones…
They copy everything.
Zaren closed the laptop.
His eyes sharpened.
If I can't find the killer…
I'll start with those who imitate him.