One week passed.
In the chaos of school life, subtle things changed.
Kaiser, once untouchable, now walked beside Shinoa. They sat together in class. Ate lunch under the same tree. Trained in the same court.
To everyone else, it looked impossible.
But for them… it felt natural.
Then came the day Shinoa asked, casually, "Where do you live?"
Kaiser hesitated. "Far from here."
She smiled. "I don't mind the distance."
---
The neighborhood was small and worn-down—far from the polished gates of Holy Cross. Shinoa stepped off the bus and followed Kaiser through narrow lanes, broken fences, and quiet shadows.
His house was simple. Old. Rusted doors, cracked windows, a silence that felt heavy.
When she entered, her smile faded—not out of judgment, but empathy.
No parents. Only the distant sound of a fan. A little shelf with a few books. Two small rooms, one of them filled with girls' clothes and toys.
"Kaiser…" she asked gently, "is this… where you live?"
He didn't reply.
Instead, he sat down quietly, eyes low.
"I didn't want you to see this," he finally said. "But you're here now."
There was a long silence.
Then—slowly, painfully—he began to speak.
"My mother left. Said she loved someone else… and just walked out. I still remember how she smiled at us that morning. Like nothing was wrong."
Shinoa said nothing. She only listened.
"My father couldn't handle it. He started drinking. Then gambling. Said he'd win us a better life… but he kept losing. Everything. The money, the hope, the kindness."
He looked toward a half-open door.
"I have two little sisters. I take care of them. I'm all they have now."
His voice was steady. But his hands trembled.
Shinoa knelt beside him. No pity in her eyes. Just quiet strength.
"You're not alone," she whispered.
And for the first time in years…
Kaiser believed it.