A week passed.
In the chaos of school life—bells ringing, papers flying, teachers shouting—something subtle began to shift.
Kaiser, once known as the Ice Prince of Holy Cross, now walked the halls beside someone new.
Shinoa Kurai.
They sat together in class. Ate lunch beneath the old camphor tree. Practiced on the same court long after the others had gone home.
To everyone else, it looked unreal.
Unbelievable.
Impossible.
But for them… it just felt right.
One afternoon, as they rested on the bleachers after training, Shinoa turned to him, swinging her water bottle idly by the strap.
"Where do you live?" she asked, casually. Like she was asking about the weather.
Kaiser looked away. Just for a second. "Far from here."
"I don't mind the distance," she said with a smile.
The bus ride was quiet. Long. Awkward in places, but not uncomfortable.
Shinoa gazed out the window as the city shifted around them—glass towers giving way to crumbling walls, sleek cars replaced by rusted bikes and silence.
Eventually, they got off.
The neighborhood was small, worn-out, like a forgotten corner of the world. Paint peeled from fences. Dogs barked in the distance. There was no shine here—only survival.
Kaiser led the way through narrow lanes until they reached a small house tucked behind a leaning gate.
It was simple. Too quiet. The door creaked when he opened it.
Inside, the air was still. A weak fan turned in slow, tired circles. The furniture was sparse. A tiny bookshelf. A cracked photo frame. Two rooms—one of them scattered with girls' clothes and small stuffed toys.
Shinoa stepped in slowly. Her smile softened—not out of pity, but something deeper.
Empathy.
"…This is where you live?" she asked quietly.
Kaiser didn't answer at first. He sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders tense, eyes low.
"I didn't want you to see this," he murmured. "But you're here now."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was heavy—full of things he hadn't said.
Then, with his hands shaking slightly, he began.
"My mom left when I was ten. Said she loved someone else. That morning, she made us breakfast. Smiled like everything was normal. And then… she was gone."
Shinoa didn't interrupt.
"My dad… couldn't take it. He started drinking. Then gambling. He said he'd win us a better life. But all he did was lose. Everything. The money. The house. Himself."
Kaiser looked toward the second room. His voice dropped.
"I have a little sister. I raise her. She's the only family I've got left."
His words were calm. But the tremble in his fingers betrayed him.
Shinoa moved beside him, kneeling gently. She didn't speak right away. Didn't offer empty words.
Just placed her hand over his.
"You're not alone," she whispered.
And for the first time in years…
Kaiser let himself believe it.