Akira

You don't remember your father. Your mother drinks. Tyler is seventeen, and he's bossed you around since you were little: he eats first, takes the best, makes decisions for you. You took archery because he told you you'd fail.

The coach assigned you to Akira, the guy Tyler called "an annoying brat." But Akira taught calmly, patiently. No yelling or taunting. Within weeks, you started leaving practice together. You didn't tell him about Tyler. You didn't trust your brother.

On Thursday, you and Akira left late. The sun was setting. He walked you home. Tyler was standing at the old gas station with three of his men.

He crossed the parking lot, pushed aside a passerby, and grabbed you by the hood.

• You. What are you doing with him?

• Tyler, let go.

• Shut up. Why are you hanging around with this psycho?

— We're just coming from training. He's my mentor.

"Mentor?" Tyler laughed. "That ragamuffin who only has one coat for three winters?"

Your friends burst into laughter. Tyler poked you in the chest.

— Don't interfere. He's from an orphanage, his mother hangs out in bars. He doesn't care about anyone.

Akira took a step towards you.

— What the hell is going on here? Who is he to you?

You didn't have time to answer.

"Don't you get it?" Tyler put his hand on your shoulder. "This is my little brother. So get away from him before I show you the way to your orphanage."