Keisuke couldn't count the number of times his father had laid a hand on him.

He couldn't even remember how it had started. These distant childhood memories were too ancient for him to date. The first five years of his life spent in Europe, before he and his father returned to Japan, had all deserted his memory. Had he already been beaten before their return to his father's homeland? He didn't know. What he did know, however, was that from then on, these kinds of outbursts became part of their daily routine.

It was usually for no particular reason.

All it took was for his father to be in a bad mood or under the influence of alcohol, and for him to be around. Ichiro Akaashi wasn't known as a violent man, but when it came to his unwanted son, his actions seemed to know no bounds.

It usually began with a few degrading words, reminding him that how much his father wished that his son was never born at all. Then his anger would raise, as if his son's mere presence were enough to set things alight, and the shouting would escalate until it gave way to gestures; the adult was well aware that his offspring always remained impervious to words, but not to punches.

It wasn't unusual for slight bruises to mark his skin, but in those days, as a child, he was far too young and fragile to dare rebel. He'd learned to simply shut his mind, swallow his tears and take it in silence.

Of course, Keisuke couldn't remember how it all began. On the other hand, the memory of the last time his father had been abusive to him would remain engraved forever, both in his mind and skin.

It was eight years ago, when he was ten. In a fit of rage, and perhaps because he'd had drunk too much, his father had seized a jade vase and thrown it at him with all the anger he had.

It all happened so fast that Keisuke had no chance to avoid it. He barely had the reflex to shield his face before the porcelain vase hit him. It was the first time that anything other than a hand had fallen on him, but the consequences had never been as dramatic as on that day.

Keisuke still remembered the shrill sound of the vase breaking. He still remembered where the razor-sharp shards of glass were scattered around him. Some were covered in the crimson liquid that leaked profusely from his open right forearm, and others had ricocheted all the way to his father's feet.

Keisuke always remembered Ichiro's expression as he watched in horror the impressive pool of blood that had soaked his office floor in record time. And if he had dared to look at his son's mutilated arm, his eyes had instantly turned away as he took in the considerable amount of blood staining his face; one of the pieces had slightly nicked the top of his forehead, but the blood leaking from this small cut was no less significant.

Keisuke would never forget the look on his face. It was the first time any semblance of regret had crossed his tormentor's eyes, as if he realized he'd perhaps gone a little too far. Yet he hadn't apologized for it. Not then. Nor when he'd come home from the hospital with stitches. Nor afterwards. Nor ever.

His father's explanation for the injuries was "a simple accident", and no one disputed it. The doctor who had attended him had been a little suspicious, but faced with a child as quiet as a grave being the son of one of the most influential men in the country, he had accepted the explanation without looking any further. No one had ever known what really happened. Except perhaps his best friend and his ability to read him like an open book. And that was enough.

By now, the after-effects of that sad episode had all but disappeared, covered by the black anchor of the snake tattoo he'd drawn himself. Only the fine scar on his forehead remained visible, when his hair was - on rare occasions - pulled back.

And she of all people had to notice it...

At this last thought, Keisuke sighed heavily before dialing his locker code. Ever since the night Hana had - accidentally - spent at his place over a month and a half ago, he'd been dwelling on the past too often for his liking. And to make matters worse, the summer vacations had flown by in a flash. September had dawned, and classes had resumed a good week earlier, bringing with them their share of problems.

—Hi, Akaashi! Echoed Midori's voice beside him.

Despite his tumultuous past, Keisuke had never taken to violence. However, every time Akane Midori made an appearance, unsuspected murderous urges always made their way into his mind.

Their respective families had close ties, despite the fact that their working sectors didn't particularly coincide: one owned a world-renowned pharmaceutical company, the other an equally famous modeling agency.

As a result, the young man had known Midori since childhood. They had practically grown up together in an environment where business preceded family well-being, and while this commonality had initially brought them quite close together, Keisuke soon got tired of it as he realized the stakes that were being played out behind their backs. Their respective parents wanted to see the emergence of an alliance between their families through their children, and while this idea didn't seem to displease their daughter, the young man's opinion differed.

Certainly, with her many qualities, both moral and physical, Midori fulfilled all the traditional criteria one might look for in a wife. Keisuke could not deny that she had been spoiled by nature. The dark-haired man knew full well how privileged he must be to be in her good graces.

Too bad he wasn't into her at all.

Midori just didn't seem to understand. No matter how politely he dismissed her so as not to incur his father's wrath, she kept coming back. It was as if she didn't want to get the message. A real pot of glue, as he liked to call her.

At the same time, Keisuke couldn't entirely blame her. He'd been the one to accept her sexual advances the year before. And who'd done it again. Repeatedly. That was nice, but the fact that she took him for granted a little less. Outside the bedroom, he couldn't stand her. Sometimes he even regretted sleeping with her. No doubt the situation wouldn't have been so unbearable now.

Keisuke locked eyes with his classmate. As always, she was perfectly dressed. Light make-up highlighted her doe eyes, and her lips wore a slightly pink, glossy gloss. Not a hair stuck out from the long braid that rested on her shoulder, and her sweet perfume announced her arrival even before she appeared in his field of vision. A few buttons on her shirt had been deliberately undone, showing just enough for his eyes to blink for a moment, and Keisuke could only curse himself as he realized that his gesture hadn't gone unnoticed.

—We planned to eat with others on the roof, do you have any plans for lunch? Midori asked, leaning against the locker next to hers.

The boy's reply was not long in coming.

—Yeah.

Her comrade's smile froze, but she wasn't impressed.

—Igarashi will be there too, she told him, as if to make him understand that he couldn't get out of it. Are you sure you don't want to come?

The young man slammed his locker shut. She'd put him in a bad mood, and the urge to have a cigarette to calm his nerves was beginning to get the better of him.

—I've already eaten, he said simply.

—Oh, did you? She sighed, pouting. I didn't see you in the cafeteria.

—I came by during the morning break.

Realizing she wasn't going to convince him, Midori finally accepted her defeat.

—It's fine, we'll do it next time, she finally retorted in a slightly honeyed tone. And anyway, we'll probably be seeing each other at the dinner our parents have organized, she reminded him innocently, brushing his arm with her perfectly manicured hand.

At the mention of this event, which had slipped his mind, the boy held back a sigh of annoyance. He also restrained himself from stepping back to erase the physical contact she'd made and put on a pout that was meant to be most cordial.

—Yeah, we'll probably bump into each other.

—See you next time, Akaashi !

And then, just when he thought it would never happen, Midori finally turned on her heel. He watched her leave without any reaction, and as soon as she disappeared into the crowd of students, Keisuke left as well. With hurried steps, he skirted the high school building and made his way to the dead-end alley in which he always secluded himself, safe from the supervisors.

To his dismay, he didn't find Hana there. During the first semester, he had become accustomed to her presence during his smoke breaks, and it felt strange not to see her there again. It had been a week since classes had resumed, and not once had the young woman shown her face here. In fact, he couldn't even remember seeing her again in the corridors, although more than once he'd caught a glimpse of the classmate she often hung out with - the one who'd nearly drowned earlier this year.

In fact, since that night a month and a half ago, he hadn't heard a peep from Hana. It was as if she'd vanished into thin air and, besides, he was beginning to seriously miss their relationship. Maybe not to the point of throwing himself into Midori's arms, but not far off either.

Keisuke lit his cigarette, slightly annoyed by his observation. Where could she be? The young man would have liked to know, except that he couldn't think of anyone who could have enlightened him. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Shirai must know, since the two seemed close, but Keisuke would rather run ten laps around the field and take a cold shower than talk to his baseball captain.

Another sigh passed through him, and with it a cloud of opaque smoke. He could also have questioned his best friend, since the latter's little brother was in Hana's class, but the boy didn't want to arouse the younger Igarashi's suspicions unnecessarily. The mere prospect of new rumors spreading about him annoyed him deeply.

But Keisuke had always been a resourceful boy, and while he didn't know who to question, he did have one last little idea to dispel his suspicions.