Chapter Text
The wind tonight carried the scent of metal and rot.
Akutagawa Ryuunosuke pulled his coat tighter around his frail frame, its frayed edges barely shielding him from the bite of the evening air. His ribs ached, part hunger, part memory. Behind him, Gin trailed like a shadow, her steps silent, her eyes unreadable beneath overgrown bangs. She didn’t ask where they were going. She never did.
They hadn’t eaten in two days.
Ryuunosuke had gotten used to the hunger clawing at his belly. But Gin, she was still small. Still too soft, even after all they’d lost. And he couldn’t let her fade away just because he couldn’t find a scrap of food.
The slums curled around them like a dying animal, buildings leaning into each other, whispering secrets only the broken could hear. That was when he saw it, an orphanage. No lights. No sounds. Just silence.
"Stay out here," he muttered to Gin without looking. She didn't respond, only sank down beside a cracked wall, tucking her legs into her chest. She knew the drill.
He stepped inside the orphanage like a ghost.
The place smelled like mildew and sweat, stale bread, and something else. Something older.
He crept through the hallway, silent as a breath. In the kitchen, he found a half-loaf of moldy bread and a bruised apple. He hesitated only a second before stuffing them into his coat. For Gin. Always Gin.
But just as he turned to leave—
Clink.
Rattle.
A sob.
His head snapped toward the sound.
It was faint. Barely there. But real.
A noise, from below. From somewhere under the building, behind the cracked walls and rusted hinges. And something inside him, something buried deep beneath the hunger, exhaustion, and bitterness, suddenly stilled.
There was someone down there.
Not a rat. Not creaking pipes.
Someone.
The Basement
The boy had stopped counting the days. Time didn’t mean anything down here.
The dark didn’t change. The cold didn’t leave. The chains didn’t loosen.
He sat curled up in the corner of his cage, knees drawn to his chest, eyes wide open because he had learned not to sleep too deeply. The last time he had, the caretaker had poured freezing water over his head and left him naked until morning.
He didn’t remember their names.
Some of them never had any to begin with.
Just like him.
But unlike him, they were given names eventually. Even the quietest ones had something, a nickname, a syllable, anything more than a number.
He was never given one. Not even by the others.
Sometimes they stared at him. But most didn’t want to talk.
Some had names. Some had sharp eyes. Some had bruises.
But none of them ever reached out.
And him?
He had no one.
No friends.
No hand to hold when he was shaking.
No voice calling to him in the dark.
No arms to run to.
Comfort.
He was unfamiliar with that.
He didn’t even know what it felt like.
Not really.
He only knew what the books said, the ones he read in secret when he had enough points to borrow them, or when no one was looking.
They said comfort was when someone stayed beside you.
When a voice was gentle.
When a hand reached out, to hug, to hold, or even just to touch, and remind you that you weren’t alone.
That you mattered.
A kiss on the forehead.
An arm wrapped around shaking shoulders.
A quiet “It’s okay. I’m here.”
That was comfort.
But for him?
There was no presence.
No soft voices.
No arms.
No “here.”
Just silence.
Just chains.
Just cold.
So he could only imagine what it felt like, the way someone might imagine the stars without ever seeing the sky.
He didn’t know what it felt like.
No one had ever touched him kindly.
No one had ever soothed his pain.
And him?
He had nothing.
Not even a name.
Only a number, 78, stamped in cold ink on every chart and whispered like a warning.
Even in the system that ruled their days, he was lowest.
Here in the orphanage, everything was about points.
You earned points for obedience. For silence. For smiling when the benefactors came. For eating the food they gave you, no matter how bitter or cold.
Points meant privileges, an extra piece of bread, a clean blanket, a chance to read.
Lose enough points? You lost everything.
He had almost no points.
He barely spoke.
He barely smiled.
He barely existed.
And the few times he tried, the staff said his eyes looked "wrong." Like he was dangerous. Like he was cursed.
So he stopped.
He stopped trying.
Stopped hoping.
Stopped asking.
Just 78.
A ghost boy in a cage.
No name.
No comfort.
No one.
He was just Number 78. That’s what they called him. That’s what he was.
He didn’t know what a name felt like. He didn’t know what "outside" was, really. Just that once, someone told him the sun burned your skin and the sky was too wide and too blue to understand.
He’d cried himself hoarse yesterday. His throat still burned. But the sob slipped out again anyway, because it was too quiet, and he was too alone, and sometimes crying was the only thing he still knew how to do.
So when the floor creaked above, when the basement door let out a tired groan, Atsushi did what he always did when the staff came—
He shrank into the corner of his cage, held his breath, and waited.
But it wasn’t them.
The footsteps were light. Careful. Hesitant.
Then a pause.
"…the hell is this?"
A voice.
Different.
Not cruel. Not flat. Not one of them.
The light from the stairwell spilled in just enough for him to make out the outline of someone, a boy, older, staring in from the top of the steps.
An unfamiliar boy with hollow cheeks and sharp eyes.
They stared at each other for a long time.
The boy didn’t speak.
Because what if speaking scared him away?
But he couldn’t help the whisper that slipped out of his dry, cracked throat.
"…a-a-are you… real? Y-You're not from here."
The unfamiliar boy flinched. “Of course I’m real. And yes, I'm not from here. I sneaked in. What the hell are you doing in a cage?”
The boy blinked. “They said I’m not a person. Just… Number 78.”
The unfamiliar boy’s brow furrowed. His eyes were dark, not kind. But they weren’t empty either.
“Number?” he repeated, voice low. “That your name?”
The boy hesitated, clutching his knees tighter. “I… I don’t have one.”
That seemed to hit the unfamiliar boy harder than he expected. His lips pressed into a thin, pale line. For a second, he looked away, like he was trying to hold something back.
“…Are there more of you?” he asked, voice quieter now.
“No.” the chained boy looked at the other cages. “Just me.”
Upstairs
Ryuunosuke stood frozen in the doorway of that basement.
He’d seen a lot in the slums. Corpses in alleyways. Kids with ribs poking through skin. Men with knives for hearts.
But this?
A child in a cage?
A child who didn’t know what a name was?
He gritted his teeth. Something sour burned in his throat.
He didn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
But Gin’s face flashed through his mind.
And suddenly, it wasn’t about food anymore.
He took a step forward. "I'm… coming back. Stay alive till then."
The boy, nodded slowly, like someone trying to understand a dream.
And Ryuunosuke ran.
The unfamiliar boy disappeared.
Not vanished, no, but the shadow at the top of the stairs was gone, swallowed by the creak of the closing basement door. And then silence again.
The boy didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He curled deeper into himself, unsure if he'd just dreamed the whole thing. Maybe his mind was slipping. Maybe that boy wasn’t real.
Maybe freedom wasn’t either.
But the footsteps had been light. Careful. Not the kind that came with keys and kicks. Not the kind that barked orders or hissed “Worthless mutt.”
So, maybe…
Just maybe…
Someone had seen him.
For the first time in years.
Ryuunosuke didn’t speak when he reached the alleyway again.
Gin looked up, quiet and sharp as always, her eyes asking the question her lips didn’t.
He threw the bread and bruised apple into her lap.
"Eat."
She broke the apple in two and held a piece out to him.
“I said eat.” He sat beside her, fists clenched. "You first."
She obeyed without protest, chewing slowly. It was never a matter of politeness. It was survival. They both understood the unspoken rules of living in dirt.
But her gaze stayed fixed on him.
"You saw something."
He didn’t answer.
Gin waited.
There was a time when he would’ve lied. Said nothing. Walked away.
But tonight, his voice slipped out like a wound.
“There’s a kid.”
Gin blinked. “In the orphanage?”
“In the basement,” he said flatly. “In a cage.”
The silence between them turned heavy.
Gin didn’t ask if he was sure. She knew her brother didn’t say things without reason.
“What do we do?”
“We don’t do anything,” he muttered.
“But—”
“We can’t.” His voice was low. Firm. Almost angry. “We don’t even have enough for ourselves. We're no heroes."
He hated how small that made him feel.
The chained boy whom he referred to himself as 78 stayed awake the whole night.
He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the voice. Or the eyes. Or the fact that, for once, his imagination wasn’t the only thing keeping him company.
He thought about the boy’s coat. It looked torn. Dirty. But it looked warm.
He thought about his voice. Rough, but not cruel.
He wondered if the boy had a name.
What it felt like to have one.
Was it a sound? A feeling? A badge? Did it protect you?
Could it be taken away?
Was it earned?
Would he ever have one?
He squeezed his knees tighter.
They used to say the outside world was cruel. That he wouldn't survive it. That he didn’t belong there.
But that boy, he came from outside. And he looked like he survived. Like he burned and bled and walked through it anyway.
Could he?
No, of course he couldn't. He was a monster, that's at’s what he was. Just that. Only that.
It was two days before Ryuunosuke went back.
He told himself not to.
He told himself it wasn’t his problem.
He told himself Gin was his only priority.
But he found his feet dragging back anyway, like something in the air had hooked itself around his ribs and pulled.
The orphanage was still quiet.
He slipped in through the side window again. Past the kitchen. Past the cracked wallpaper and broken picture frames. Back to that rotting door that led into the dark.
He crept down the basement steps.
The cage was still there.
So was the boy.
The same position. Same eyes. A little weaker, maybe.
He didn’t say anything when he saw Ryuunosuke.
Just blinked.
“…You came back.”
Ryuunosuke stared at him through the bars. “You didn’t die.”
The corner of the boy’s lips twitched. He didn’t know if it was a smile.
“I’m not supposed to yet.”
That made Ryuunosuke pause.
“…They say that?”
The boy nodded.
Ryuunosuke knelt by the bars. “Do they feed you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Water?”
A nod. “Enough not to die. I think.”
“…Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Ryuunosuke’s jaw clenched. “You don’t fight back?”
The boy shook his head slowly. “I don’t… I don’t know how. And I’d get punished worse.”
The chains clinked as he adjusted.
"Besides," he whispered, "they said I'm not meant to leave. That the world outside will kill me. That I’m… not meant to be seen."
His voice cracked a little.
"And I believe them. Most of the time."
Ryuunosuke stared.
This wasn’t some story of an orphan looking for a home. This wasn’t a tale of survival and strength.
This was a boy who had forgotten what hope even looked like.
And somehow, that was worse than anything he’d ever known.
“You said a number,” Ryuunosuke muttered after a while. “What do they call you?”
The boy blinked. “…78.”
“That’s not a name.”
“I know.”
“You want one?”
The boy hesitated. His eyes were wide again. Hesitant. Like someone being offered a key but afraid of the door it would open.
“…Can I?”
The weight of that question made Ryuunosuke feel like he’d swallowed a stone.
“…Not yet,” he said. “But maybe.”
He stood up.
“I’ll come back again.”
“Why?”
Ryuunosuke didn’t answer right away. His hand tightened on the railing. His eyes burned.
He thought of Gin. He thought of the time someone offered her food and called her a "thing."
He thought of how small the world was when no one saw you.
“…Because you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster,” he said finally.
“And I figure I owe you that much.”
Then he left.
And in the dark, the boy who had no name curled up in his cage and, for the first time in a long time, did not cry himself to sleep.
He stayed still.
And listened.
Just in case the sound of footsteps returned.
When he climbed out of the window again, the air hit differently.
It wasn’t cold. But Ryuunosuke’s chest felt hollow.
His hands were stained with dust and wood, but that wasn’t what itched. It was something underneath, something he couldn’t name, like something had settled beneath his ribs without asking.
He’d seen a lot of things in the slums. Starving kids. Dead ones. Mad ones. People who'd bite for a crust of bread.
But that boy…
That boy had nothing.
No words. No pride. Not even a name.
Ryuunosuke wasn’t sure how that was worse—but it was.
When he reached the spot where Gin waited, she was sitting in the same crouch she always did, arms hugging her knees, eyes distant. She looked at him when he arrived.
Just once.
And then looked away again.
That was their language.
But tonight, he sat beside her instead of walking past.
She glanced sideways. Noticed the way his jaw twitched.
“You went back.”
It wasn’t a question.
Ryuunosuke said nothing at first. Then nodded.
“I did.”
“Is he still there?”
A pause.
“Yeah.”
Gin looked down at her hands. They were calloused like his, small and quiet and sharp.
“Did you feed him?”
“…No.”
“Talk to him?”
He nodded. “A bit.”
Gin looked at him again, this time longer.
“You’re not the same.”
Ryuunosuke frowned.
But Gin didn’t mean it as an insult. Just fact. Her eyes held no judgment. Just a quiet understanding, the way only she could manage.
She reached into her coat and held something out to him.
A piece of dried fish wrapped in old paper.
“Take it to him next time,” she said softly. “We have enough.”
His throat tightened.
“…Gin.”
She didn’t answer, only curled back up.
That was their way.
Back in the basement, the 78 boy counted cracks in the wall.
It kept his mind busy.
He didn’t know what time it was. There was never a clock. He just watched how many times the cold air came down, or how the chains felt heavier after a while. He had little ways of marking days. Sometimes, he scratched the wood with a broken nail—quietly. So they wouldn’t notice.
He thought about the boy again.
He had strange eyes. Tired eyes. Sharp, but not cruel. But it's dull, empty. As if he saw and experienced something cruel outside the world, outside from this chains and cage. Was the outside scarier than here? He's curious if the boy is a bad person like the others. But,
He was the first person to look at him without flinching. Without considering him as a monster, didn't call him useless and worthless.
The first one who asked if he was hungry—not just if he was obedient.
The first one who didn't call him 78 like he was just a number on a list.
He didn’t dare hope the boy would come back.
But he did.
He hoped anyway.
Even if it hurt.
That night, the window creaked again.
A faint sound.
He blinked. Sat up slowly, chains dragging against the concrete.
A shape stepped into the dark.
He held his breath.
“…It’s me,” came the same low voice.
78 pressed closer to the bars.
“You came back.”
The boy, Ryuunosuke, said nothing.
He knelt and slid something through the rusted grate.
Wrapped in cloth.
Bread.
Just a scrap, but to the boy in chains, it might as well have been gold.
78 stared at it like it was magic. His hands trembled as he reached for it, like someone would take it back.
He held it to his chest first.
As if it might vanish if he looked too fast.
“…C-Can I eat this?” he whispered.
Ryuunosuke blinked. “Of course you can.”
“...Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“R-Really?”
“Eat it,” Ryuu muttered, irritation creeping into his voice, “before I change my mind and shove it down your throat.”
The chained boy flinched, but the corner of his mouth twitched, like he almost smiled.
Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth. His fingers still shook.
He bit it gently, like he wasn’t sure how. The taste, salt, faint sweetness, real, hit his tongue and he froze.
Then he swallowed.
Too fast. Too big.
Tears spilled from his eyes before he could stop them.
“…Thank you,” he whispered. “B-But... I don’t have anything… to give you back.”
Ryuunosuke looked away, jaw tight.
“…No need,” he said, voice low. “Just eat.”
78 bit again, slower this time. A piece of the cloth curled in his lap.
“You’re kind,” he whispered.
Ryuunosuke flinched.
“No,” he said. Too fast. Too sharp. “I’m not.”
“You are,” the boy murmured again. “You gave me food. You asked me if I wanted a name.”
Ryuunosuke’s jaw tightened. “I can’t save you.”
“…You don’t have to.”
They looked at each other, barely more than kids, one chained and broken, the other barely holding his own pieces together.
78 smiled. A small, thin, grateful thing.
“But you saw me.”
Upstairs, somewhere in the dusty halls of the orphanage, a floorboard creaked.
Ryuunosuke stood, fast and alert.
He glanced down once more.
“I’ll come back,” he said simply.
Then slipped into the dark.
And for the first time in years, the boy whispered to himself before sleeping:
“Maybe someone finally sees me as something... not just a worthless monster.”
And that, for now, was enough.
To be continued...