It started with a list.
Ren's name at the very top—handwritten in bold marker, posted outside the principal's office, fluttering in the breeze for all the school to see.
Academic Excellence Scholarship: Top Candidate – Ren Hayashi
By the time Ren read it, a crowd had already formed. He slipped through it quietly, eyes down, heart rattling against his ribs. He didn't stay long. Just long enough to confirm that yes, his name was first, and yes, his scores had held.
And yes—someone had already circled it in red ink. Mockingly. As if to say, this doesn't belong to you.
Ren walked away before he could hear the whispers. But he felt them, like invisible hands tugging at his sleeves.
By lunch, the news had spread.
And by afternoon, someone had locked the second-floor art room.
He knew what that meant.
That was where he went when he needed quiet—when the world pressed too hard, too loud, too fast. Someone knew.
So instead, Ren wandered the halls until he found himself standing before the rooftop access door. Rusted hinges. Faint graffiti. A sign that said "Authorized Staff Only" peeled halfway off.
He hesitated.
Then he pushed it open.
The rooftop was quiet.
Wind hissed low across the concrete. The chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter rattled gently. Distant city noise echoed faintly below—traffic, a dog barking, a siren far off.
Ren moved toward the far bench—his bench. The one he sometimes used to sketch in peace. But this time, he didn't sit.
He didn't even pull out his sketchbook.
He just stood, hands in his pockets, eyes on the sky, breathing like each inhale might anchor him to the present.
"You don't belong up here."
The voice cut through the silence like a blade.
Ren froze.
Then turned.
It was Daiki Watanabe—second place on the scholarship list. Older. Taller. Built like a track star who'd coasted on talent more than grades.
He wasn't alone.
Two others flanked him, both wearing that same smug look—the kind that said, We've done this before. You've never fought back.
Ren swallowed. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"Too late." Daiki took a step forward. "You think you're better than me because you study all day?"
"No."
"You think you deserve that scholarship?"
"I just… did my best."
"Your best doesn't count when it makes people like me look bad."
Ren didn't answer.
Because there was nothing he could say that would matter.
Daiki's hand shot forward, shoving Ren back a step. His shoulder hit the fence.
One of the others laughed. "You're lucky we're not worse."
Ren's fingers curled tightly at his sides.
Daiki sneered. "You ever think what happens when someone like you takes what's meant for someone like me?"
"I didn't take anything," Ren whispered.
"Yeah?" Daiki stepped closer. "Then why do I feel like I'm losing something?"
The next shove was harder. Ren stumbled. His sketchbook slipped from his bag, pages fluttering across the rooftop like wounded birds.
A drawing landed face-up near Daiki's foot.
He looked down.
Snorted.
"Is this her?" He kicked the paper toward Ren. "You really are pathetic."
Ren dropped to his knees to gather the pages, breathing sharp, jaw tight.
He didn't look up when the foot came toward him again.
But it never landed.
Because the rooftop door slammed open with a bang like thunder.
And Aika stormed through.
She didn't speak at first.
Didn't need to.
Her eyes scanned the scene: the scattered sketches, the cornered boy, the bullies.
Then she walked forward and threw her schoolbag—hard—so it skidded across the concrete and smacked into the toe of Daiki's shoe.
He jerked back instinctively.
She didn't stop.
Her voice was low, sharp, cutting.
"Pick on someone who can kick your teeth in."
Daiki blinked. "What—who the hell are you?"
"Someone who remembers you crying when you lost last year's tournament," she said flatly. "Don't make me remind you again."
One of the other boys laughed. "You're just a girl."
She looked at him, and her smile was ice.
"I'm not just anything. I'm the reason you're going to regret coming up here."
Daiki lunged.
Aika met him halfway.
She didn't hesitate.
One pivot. One step inside his reach. One strike to the gut.
He folded.
The second boy tried to circle behind her—she spun, caught his wrist mid-air, and flipped him onto the rooftop in a practiced, clean motion.
The third hesitated.
She turned slowly toward him.
He raised his hands and backed away. "Not worth it."
"Good choice."
Aika didn't chase him.
She walked back to Daiki, now groaning on the concrete, and crouched beside him.
Her voice was calm.
"You touch him again, and I'll stop pulling punches."
Then she stood, walked to Ren, and knelt in front of him.
Her fingers moved gently, gathering the last of his sketches. She handed them over one by one.
Ren took them with shaking hands. "You didn't have to—"
"I told you. I hate bullies."
He looked down. "Thank you."
"I still hate that word," she muttered, but there was no venom in it this time. Just… something softer. Worn. Familiar.
She stood and helped him to his feet. As the last of the boys staggered away and the rooftop quieted once more, Aika turned to Ren fully for the first time.
He was still kneeling, one palm pressed to his side. His breath came unevenly, and though he tried to shift his weight to stand, his face flinched with pain.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Where?"
Ren blinked. "What?"
"You're hurt," she said. "Where did he hit you?"
"I—It's fine. Just a bruise." He tried to straighten up again, but the movement pulled too hard on his ribs. He winced and gasped.
She was beside him in seconds.
"You're terrible at lying."
"I didn't want to ruin the moment," he muttered.
Aika rolled her eyes. "Moment's already ruined. Sit down."
He obeyed without protest this time.
She pulled off her hoodie in one swift motion and crouched beside him in her school shirt—sleeves rolled, hair half-loosened in the wind. From her backpack, which she retrieved quickly, she pulled out a small first-aid kit she always carried. Her grandfather insisted she keep one on her "just in case someone deserved her fists more than she planned."
Ren tried to speak, but her hands were already working—lifting the edge of his shirt gently, inspecting the blooming bruise on his left side.
"You're lucky nothing feels broken."
"It's not that bad."
"You're shaking."
"No, I—" He stopped. There was no point.
Aika tore open an alcohol wipe. "This'll sting."
"I figured."
He flinched anyway when the cold hit him.
But she worked quickly, fingers sure, movements practiced. She dabbed the bruise with antiseptic, then wrapped gauze gently around his side.
The bandages weren't perfect. They didn't have to be.
They were enough.
She tied the final knot and sat back on her heels. Her hands hovered for a moment—then lowered.
Ren looked at her. "You always carry first aid?"
"Only since I met you," she muttered.
That startled a laugh out of him.
Aika met his eyes for a beat too long. Then she glanced away and stood.
"Come on," she said, offering her hand. "Let's get you somewhere with less bruises per square foot."
He took it.
Her grip was steady. Strong. Familiar.
And this time, he didn't need his glasses to see clearly:
She wasn't just the girl who fought storms.
She was the one who stayed behind to bandage what the storm left behind.
That night, Ren drew her again.
This time, she stood with her back to him—arms crossed, head turned just enough to glimpse the side of her face.
Behind her, the rooftop fence bent like a shield around them both.
He called the sketch: Before the Sky Could Break.
She warned him she wouldn't always be around. But he never believed she'd disappear… until she did.