It felt like he screamed from the fact he was one centimeter away from crashing into his chest again. With such a large gap in height, Kip thought he would've recognized him before. The boy snatched his hand with just as much force as his words and jumped back up on his feet.

“I’m Bul. I just transferred here. My best friend told me lots about you!” he exclaimed.

That explains how he knew him, but who would have talked about him? He was way too excited to have found him. “Who's that?”

“Kijuro did, duh! You must really be popular if you have to ask who's been gossiping about you.” 

“Oh, sorry.” Since when did Kijuro speak to little kids? Or, Bul thinks he's best friends with him—in that case he wasn't sure if he should break it to him.

Just then, the man himself materialized behind Bul and snaked his arms around his neck, and unexpectedly, Bul would yelp and pat his fists against the grip. “I told you to wait until lunch, you little fox. I bet you scared him,” he scolded in a playful manner.

“Owowow! It was an accident! Kip, help me—help!” he would cry,  though clearly he had no urgency in his tries to get away. It was the first time he started to feel like the ordinary of the group soon to come. He couldn’t channel the same childish mischief they expressed, nor the laughs they shared, nor the tones they used with one another. Should he have pulled Bul away, or teased along, or stand there like he had chosen?

Kijuro finished his gag with a small laugh to himself, giving Bul a pat on his head and placing his attention on Kip. “I apologize. He’s a friend from elementary. It’s hard not to be goofy around him.” 

“It’s nice to meet you! We’re gonna be even bester friends from now on,” Bul said, bobbing his head at Kip with a wink implying a sly joke. Soon enough, or perhaps even always, it wasn’t a joke. 

That year twisted the floor below the whole gang’s feet. Kijuro had gotten a brother, who wouldn’t be attending until Kip and Bul’s junior year, the gang had grown exponentially, and more fights lit faster than the teachers could snuff out. Each time Kip wished Kijuro a goodbye and counted the scattered bandages on his body, it made him remember Eliu, his adopted brother. Did he ever wonder why his brother always came home with a new injury? 

That line of questioning put a rest to his fights. At the time he believed he needed to stop before his sister ever had that suspicion. Unfortunately, his previous interests in the school’s gang life was a venom with neverending side effects.

“...Kijuro must’ve really pitied you!”

What occurred in spring wasn’t a cruel punishment. It was a sentence.

“What a shit excuse for a head.”

Kip had a routine of arriving late to school since his mornings included taking his sister to school. When he stepped outside the subway station, a group of men in pink and orange eyed him down immediately. It seemed a little too coincidental for them to be skipping class there—the station’s parking lot was a hike from the main building, and it was too hot to laze around on the asphalt.

“Hey,” one whistled when he started walking. “You got a minute?” He paid no mind as though he didn't know they were talking to him. They decided to approach him instead. “Hey, Kip, don't ignore us.”

“We can talk another time. I’m running late—” the man snatched his wrist and whipped him into the crowd. The next thing he knew he was planted into the ground, the ruffled asphalt digging into the crevices of his back and corroding the skin on his arms the more he pushed to get up. 

The more he struggled, the more energy he wasted. The rest of the group stripped him of his bag and piled onto his limbs. He couldn't remember how many there were or much of their faces either. All that he could recall were the bright bandanas and shirts shadowing the sky.

“Why don't you fight for the gang anymore, huh?! You turned for the fuckin’ Kings, huh?!” the leader of the group snarled right onto his face. The burning asphalt became increasingly distracting. 

“I didn't,” Kip winced. The members stomped on his palms. He tried to release heavy breaths, but the weight of the leader limited his movement. The scorching of the ground was unbearable. 

And with the leader’s gesture, the pain became all the more memorable. The shoes delved into his palms, contorting the fragile tissue on his knuckles. Kip muted his shrieks through his bared teeth, mustering all his strength to stand. The weight of the man on his waist kept him flat. “You’re either lyin’, or you’re a pussy. C’mon, get up!” All of his resistance collapsed in his body. “God, Kijuro must’ve pitied you. You’re useless.”

The heat began to absorb into his clothes, but the pain in his knuckles was all he could think about. It had exacerbated so much that the pain was soothed by his own spilt blood cooling until the members dragged his hands to a hotter spot on the ground. They had even laughed about the blood.

“What a shit excuse for a head. You got soft little hands!”

“Kijuro must be happy with the beating you deserve.”

“You’re never gonna live this down, asshole.”

From then on, when he returned home, he did so with bandages on his hands and wrists, even months after the wounds healed. It was easy to tell his sister that he needed them for boxing at the gym. But anywhere else, he soon found out what his sentence was. He was a laughing stock—an inside joke for The Prisms.

Kijuro furrowed his brows at the members snickering and eyeing down Kip on their way to the cafeteria. It had become a regular occurrence at that point. The joke was dead for Kip ever since it started.

“Cut it out,” Kijuro demanded through the hallway. He leaned over to Kip and muttered, “Why are they finding it so funny? I’ve never seen them like this.”

“I don’t know,” he lied. 

His scars weren’t just a punishment. They were to let everyone know he was Kijuro’s utterly useless rat. Everyone but Kijuro knew the meaning of the scars. He didn’t want him to feel any guilt for what happened. Eight years later, most people are unaware of its existence. The gang has grown exponentially since then, and his fingerless gloves are seen as part of his everyday accessories. Although he still despised the idea of fighting, he made one exception: if it was a threat against his family, he wouldn’t take it lightly.