The hallways of the school were mostly empty, the distant murmur of students fading into a dull hum. The air hung thick, charged with a tension only late afternoons and unspoken grudges could conjure. Fluorescent lights flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the scuffed tiles. It was that liminal hour, post-classes, pre-emptiness, where the lingering ghosts of the day still clung to the walls.

Kuse Aki wasn't looking for a fight. He rarely did. But conflict, like a stray cat, had a knack for finding him, often in the form of people with something to prove. Today's offering was particularly irksome.

His hazel eyes locked onto the delinquent, a name that echoed with a certain notoriety. A figure synonymous with trouble, someone whose mere presence made students shrink and avert their gaze. Kuse had no personal vendetta, but the scene unfolding before him tightened his jaw.

A wiry kid stood pinned against a row of lockers, clutching his backpack like a shield. The delinquent loomed, a predatory stillness in his posture, a cruel twist to his lips. The kid flinched, his shoulders hunched, a trapped animal.

Kuse sighed, a weary sound. He rolled his neck, then shoved his hands into his pockets, resigned. He moved with a quiet purpose, stepping between the two without hesitation. His hand closed around the delinquent's wrist, a firm, decisive grip.

"Oi," Kuse's voice was deceptively casual, a low rumble that carried weight. "That's enough." The wiry kid, seizing his chance, bolted down the hallway, sneakers squeaking on the tile. Cowardly, perhaps, but Kuse's focus was laser-sharp, fixed on the delinquent.

Up close, the tension was a physical thing, a palpable force. The delinquent's expression was a mask of tightly coiled anger, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. Kuse had seen him fight, and he knew he wasn't a mindless brawler. He was calculating, deliberate. And right now, those eyes were dissecting him, assessing the threat.

Kuse didn't flinch. "I don't get it, man," he said, his voice level. "Why do you always have to be such a prick?"

No reaction came. No movement, no blink. That intense stare remained fixed on Kuse's mouth, but it was devoid of recognition, devoid of anything. No retort, no pushback, just a chilling silence.

Kuse's brows furrowed. "Are you even listening to me?" He loosened his grip on the delinquent's wrist, but didn't let go entirely.

Still nothing.

A flicker of something akin to frustration crossed the delinquent's face. His hands clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. Kuse's gut twisted. This wasn't the usual defiance, the cocky arrogance he expected. This was something else.

"Are you deaf?" Kuse blurted out, the question hanging in the air, a ridiculous, almost mocking thing to say.

Then, he noticed it. A small, white object lying near the lockers, half-hidden in the shadows. He bent down, picking it up, turning it over in his hands. It was a strange device, a small plastic casing with intricate wires and a tiny speaker. He turned it over in his hands, confused. It was broken, the wires frayed and the casing cracked. He twisted it, examined it, and a dawning realization began to form in his mind.

A hearing aid.

The pieces started to fall into place, the aggression, the isolation, the strange, unreadable stares. He held the broken device up, his eyes meeting the delinquent's.

"Is this yours?" he asked, his voice laced with a sudden, unsettling understanding.