**Chapter 1: The Weight of Mornings**
Kanji's eyes snapped open at 4:37 AM, his body jolting awake as if startled by an unseen hand. The thin cotton sheet clung to his skin, damp with sweat despite the predawn chill that seeped through the cracks in the apartment walls. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths—the remnants of another nightmare dissolving like smoke in the stale air.
He lay still, listening.
The rhythmic creak of his father's cot sounded from the other side of the paper-thin wall. His mother's muffled sniffling—the sound she made when she thought no one could hear her crying—drifted through the darkness. Outside, the distant rumble of the first garbage truck of the day echoed through the narrow alleyways of their lower-class neighborhood.
Kanji counted the water stains on the ceiling. *One... two... three...*
His fingers found the raised, puckered skin on his collarbone almost instinctively. The scar had long since faded from angry red to a dull, waxy white, but the memory burned as fresh as the day it happened.
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**Memory: Age 5 - Aunty Meera's Yard**
The scent of jasmine tea had been overwhelming that day—sweet and cloying, clinging to the thick summer air.
"Hold it properly, boy," Aunty Meera had snapped, her gold bangles clinking as she shoved the delicate china cup into his small hands. "Don't embarrass me in front of my guests."
Kanji remembered the way his fingers trembled, the way the cup wobbled dangerously in his grip. The laughter of the women seated around the courtyard garden sounded like birds screeching.
Then—
A sharp slap to his wrist.
The cup shattered on the stone tiles.
"Useless!" Aunty Meera's face twisted in disgust as she grabbed the kettle from the table. The next moments blurred—the steaming arc of boiling liquid, the searing pain as it splashed across his face and chest, the way his skin *sizzled*.
His screams had brought the neighbors running.
"It was an accident," they told the doctor. "The clumsy boy knocked it over himself."
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**Memory: Age 7 - The House of Shouting**
Kanji crouched behind the bedroom door, knees pulled tight to his chest, as his father's voice shook the walls.
"*Look at these marks!*" A fist slammed against wood. "*He'll end up a beggar at this rate!*"
His mother's reply was barely audible. "*He's trying... the teacher says—*"
"*That witch Naisy is ruining him!*"
Kanji pressed his hands over his ears, but the words slithered through anyway. He didn't understand why the numbers on his tests made the air in their tiny apartment turn thick and heavy. Didn't understand why Mam Naisy's ruler cracked down on his knuckles every time he hesitated over simple math problems.
"*Pay attention!*" she would hiss, her breath smelling of betel nut as she loomed over his desk. The other children snickered when he flinched.
He *was* paying attention. He just couldn't think past the buzzing in his skull, the way his throat closed up whenever she called on him.
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**Present: 14 Years Old**
Kanji swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold concrete floor. The mirror across the room caught his reflection in the dim light—a gaunt face with shadows under his eyes, a mouth set in a tight line. The scar on his collarbone peeked above the frayed neckline of his undershirt.
He dressed methodically: the patched school uniform with its threadbare elbows, the socks with holes carefully darned by his mother's tired hands. His schoolbag slumped against the wall, its contents meticulously arranged the night before—pencils sharpened to perfect points, notebooks aligned just so. Control. Order. Things he could *fix*.
A crash sounded from the kitchen—a pot clattering to the floor, followed by his mother's hissed curse. Kanji froze, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.
Then, silence.
He exhaled slowly and reached for the door.
Today, like every day, he would walk to school with his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the cracks in the pavement. Today, like every day, he would count his steps.
But today—
Today, something would change.
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