The Fall of Daiki

Chapter 2: The Fall of Daiki

The hallway didn’t echo with laughter for long.

After Shiro’s shove sent Daiki crashing into the lockers, the usual cackles from his crew followed, sharp and cruel. But they died quickly—fading like smoke in wind—as Daiki didn’t move.

His body lay there awkwardly slumped, backpack torn open, contents splayed out across the floor like a crime scene. Spiral notebooks, pens, flashcards, and a crumpled rice ball wrapped in plastic. A cracked pair of glasses skidded a few inches ahead of him, catching the overhead light with a fractured gleam.

And yet, he made no sound.

No crying. No gasping.

Just silence.

Shiro stood over him, one hand still clenched, now… uncertain. His breathing wasn’t ragged, but his heart pounded too loud in his chest. He stared at Daiki as if expecting a plea.

It didn’t come.

Daiki stirred.

His right hand twitched first, then pressed flat to the floor, then the left. He groaned faintly as he raised his torso, wincing but careful, as if intimately familiar with the location of each bruise.

Takumi leaned forward from Shiro’s side. “Damn. He’s still conscious?”

Another guy chuckled. “You hit him harder last time, right?”

Shiro didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on Daiki’s face.

The boy slowly adjusted his glasses—cracked lens and all—and sat on his knees. Then, with painstaking calm, he began to gather his scattered belongings. Not frantically. Not trembling. Just… methodically. His hands moved with a strange self-possession, even as chaos swirled around him.

That was the moment Shiro felt something twist in his chest.

Then Daiki stood.

Wobbly at first, his left leg favoring itself, but he stood tall. His chin wasn’t high—but it wasn’t lowered either.

He looked directly at Shiro.

There was blood at the edge of his lip, and his eyes were glassy. But behind the pain, there was something else—clarity. A thread of defiance woven through stillness.

“Thanks,” Daiki said quietly. “But I didn’t ask for your help.”

Shiro blinked.

“What?”

“You did all this,” Daiki continued, his voice steady despite the tremor underneath. “But it wasn’t about me. You needed someone to prove yourself to, right? Someone beneath you. So… congrats, I guess. You helped me be your stepping stone.”

Takumi stepped forward, scoffing. “Yo, you trying to get slapped again, four-eyes?”

Daiki barely glanced at him. “I’m just saying—if I really mattered to you, you’d remember why you hit me. But you won’t. Because it was never about me.”

He turned.

A limp dragged his steps, but his spine remained straight. His fingers clutched his broken books, arms trembling slightly under the weight, but his head didn’t dip once. Not even as students parted like the current around a stone.

And in that moment, it was like Daiki walked through a different world entirely—untouchable.

Unimpressed.

Unafraid.

Shiro didn’t follow.

Didn’t call out.

Didn’t move.

The world felt muted now. The walls were too distant, the hallway stretched and unreal.

He could still hear Daiki’s words echoing in his head.

It wasn’t about me.

It wasn’t supposed to land like that. This was what Shiro did—assert dominance. Burn the weak and remind the rest where they stood.

So why did his chest feel cold?

Why did it feel like he’d been the one exposed?

Takumi nudged him. “You good, man? That was… weird.”

“Yeah,” Shiro muttered, voice distant. “Weird.”

He glanced down at his hands.

Still trembling.

Still clenched.

But they didn’t feel strong.

They just felt… hollow.