The air behind the school reeked of nicotine and asphalt, a mix of damp concrete and burnt tobacco that clung to the late afternoon haze. Osoro leaned against the rusting chain-link fence, one boot pressed lazily against the metal, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. The ember flared as he took a slow drag, the smoke curling past his lips in a ghostly exhale.

The courtyard was mostly empty. Good. He hated crowds—too much noise, too many idiots who thought they had something to prove. Not that it stopped them from staring when he passed by. It was always the same: fear, curiosity, or that damn reckless bravado from guys who thought they could knock him down a peg.

He scoffed, rolling the cigarette between his fingers before flicking the ash onto the pavement. Like hell anyone would.

Osoro wasn't interested in posturing. He didn't need to be. His presence alone did the talking—the bruises on his knuckles, the way people tensed when he walked by, the hushed whispers of his name. It wasn't just respect. It was survival instinct.

Still, it got tiring. The same routines, the same predictable stares. It was like watching stray dogs snarl behind a fence, knowing none of them had the guts to bite.

With a heavy sigh, he let his head roll back, staring up at the sky. He wasn't waiting for anything. But then again, he never did.

Not until something—or someone—made it worth his time.