Monsters

The rain in South Carolina washed away the remnants of former glory with the same ease it eroded the mud on the roadsides. Riko Moriyama sat on a concrete curb by a closed gas station, clutching his right arm to his chest. The bones had been broken so professionally and brutally that he could barely feel his fingers—only a pulsing, brain-searing pain.

The Moriyama clan hadn't just exiled him. They had erased him from the list of the living. Without money, without documents, with the "Number One" tattoo that now felt like a brand of shame, he was nobody. He didn't ask for help. He simply waited for the cold to finally claim the last of his strength.

The screech of an old SUV's brakes sounded like a gunshot. David Wymack stepped out of the car, frowning at the downpour. He stared for a long time at the hunched figure, in whom the "King" of exy was barely recognizable.

"You look like shit, Moriyama," Wymack said hoarsely.

"Go away," Riko snapped, though his voice broke into a whisper.

Wymack didn't leave. He silently opened the passenger door.

"I have one open spot on the team and a hell of a lot of patience, which you're currently testing. Get up. If you want to die here—that's your right. If you want a chance to become a human being instead of a monster from the 'Raven's Nest'—move it."

The next three weeks in Wymack's apartment were hell for Riko. Helplessness suffocated him more than the master's anger ever had. He couldn't tie his own laces; he couldn't eat properly. He snapped, threw glasses with his left hand, and glared at the coach like a wolf, expecting a blow. But the blows never came. There was only silence, strong coffee, and a cold: "Sit down and calm down, Riko. You're not at Edgar Allan anymore."

When it was time to move into the dorms, the Foxhole greeted him with emptiness—summer wasn't over yet, and the players had all gone home. Wymack put him in a room with the monsters, deciding that if Riko was to survive, it would only be alongside those who weren't afraid of him.

Riko sat on his new bed, pulling his knees up to his chin. His broken arm, encased in a cast, rested on the pillow. The room was quiet and unusually bright.