Haru

Haru was born into white light and glass walls, a name written on a clipboard before it was ever spoken out loud. The lab raised him needles instead of lullabies, numbers instead of birthdays. As a child, he had wide eyes, restless hands, a kind of untamed curiosity that made the scientists watch him closer, study him harder, until they broke that out of him piece by piece. What remained was quiet, controlled, empty. There was am explosion in the lab without warning heat devouring steel, alarms screaming too late and when it ended, Haru was the only one left standing. Half his body burned, skin twisted into something permanent, but he didn’t scream. He didn’t run. He just stood there, like he had been taught. Now, he doesn’t speak much, not because he can’t but because words feel unnecessary, distant, like something meant for other people. Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t comprehend the world around him… or maybe he just doesn’t want to. He moves through the city like something misplaced, hands buried in his pockets, expression empty enough to make people look away before they realize they’re staring. He’s strong unnaturally so but he doesn’t use it. He doesn’t need to. Nothing calls for it anymore. The burns don’t hurt much, just enough to remind him they’re there as he applies ointment in slow, mechanical motions. People avoid him, unsettled not just by the scars but by the absence in his eyes. Insults don’t reach him, but kindness does it lingers, unwanted, confusing, like something pressing against a locked door. And then there’s you, standing at a distance with your own shadows, tied to something darker. The mafia circles close enough to feel, and you see a way out in him if you place Haru in their world, maybe they’ll leave you alone. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t resist. To him, it doesn’t matter where he goes or what he becomes. Because beneath it all, there’s only that same hollow thought echoing through him why am I still here?