NAGI

Nagi Seishiro's childhood was not bright.

His parents were decent, in the way a vending machine is decent—insert the coin, receive the item, no conversation required. They gave him whatever he wanted.

Whatever he needed. Games. Food. Manga. A room at the end of the hall where his noise wouldn't reach them.

Anything for him.

But.

They never really cared about him.

All they did was fulfill their duty.

Once he could survive on his own, they would never bother to see him again. This was not a fear of his.

It was a fact he overheard at age four while pressing his bare feet to the cold hallway floor.

He was still small and at first he didnt understand those words.

Until he experinced it himself then he understood.

"Parenting is such a burden," his mother sighed, clicking through her phone, a wine glass sweating onto the mahogany table.

"Honey, you can't say that," his father replied, loosening his tie. "We just have to wait for the right moment. Then we'll be free."

"Well, at least this kid is a good one."

"Indeed," his father agreed. "He doesn't cause trouble."

Of course they would say that.

Nagi is smart.

Nagi is good at sports.

Nagi is good at listening to adults.

Nagi is polite.

Nagi never defied his parents.

Nagi is good at everything.

So when he heard those words, something inside him flickered and went dark.

He think of it much.

He didn't cry.

He didn't run in screaming.

He simply walked back to his room, sat down with his toy figure, and stared at it for a long, long time.

Those words became his daily routine.

And worse of all?

He got used to it.

His parents had never wanted a child to begin with, but they couldn't abandon him.

Reputation mattered.

Appearance mattered.

And suprisingly Nagi, without trying, was a trophy. A child who excelled at everything, who never failed to raise their standing.

"Nagi is so smart," a neighbor said.

"Nagi is an excellent student. His parents must have educated him well," the teacher preened.

"Having a child like Nagi is such a blessing," a cousin whispered at a family gathering.

Those words fed his parents' egos like fuel to a furnace.

I'm so lucky.

What a useful child.

With this, I'll get more recognition.

Oh, what a great parent I am.

He could only wish to have parents like me.

That was what the couple thought. But they never once cared about Nagi at all.

Where is he going?

Who cares.

What is he doing?

Why would I mind.

What does Nagi like?

Not my problem.

Why is Nagi sad?

He's just going through puberty.

Why does Nagi talk less to his parents?

He doesn't want to burden us.

Why did Nagi have so many sleeping pills in his room?

He's just tired.

What if Nagi died?

We can always get another one.

Who is Nagi to you?

A thing that grants us more ego and recognition.

Nagi, at four, had still believed his parents loved him. But the truth came like a slow-acting poison. After that hallway night, his parents shifted tactics.

They began giving him everything he asked for. No questions, no limits.

New console? Done.

Endless snacks? Arriving in bags.

The more distant they became behind closed doors, the more they performed affection in public.

A mother's gentle hand on his shoulder at school pick-up. A father's proud laugh at his report card, loud enough for the other parents to hear. Cameras clicked.

Reputation secured.

Inside the house, silence ruled.

Moving felt like a burden. Eating felt like too much effort. Breathing—what a drag.

He became a ghost in a pristine home.

Every morning he rose, dressed himself, attended school, scored perfectly, came back, and disappeared into a screen.

His life became like the games he played.

He would grind them.

Master them.

Get everything he wanted and when he had it all, he grew bored.

He would leave the game and find a new one. Over and over.

The same cycle was his life.

He learned how to get good grades. How to do well in sports.

How to earn his parents' "lovely" embrace in front of the neighbors—brief, warm, hollow. He yearned for it even though he knew it was fake.

Until he grew bored.

He thought to himself.

Why do I need their affection?

Because you're a child.

Why do I work so hard for them?

That's your responsibility.

Why did I waste my time for them?

Because you're a good child.

Did they ever sincerely love me?

No. They don't and they never will.

And so he decided he had enough.

One gray afternoon, Nagi sat on the roof of his middle school, legs dangling over the edge, watching the students below move like ants.

The wind tugged at his white hair. His phone was in his pocket, loaded with a gacha game he hadn't opened in days.

He felt nothing.

Neither anticipation nor sorrow. Just a vast, flat plain of exhaustion.

He thought, If I killed myself, would they care?

I doubt they would.

But atleast they would remember him right?..

The question sat in his mind like a stone. He didn't feel sad about it. He just wanted to know the answer. Or maybe he wanted to stop asking questions entirely.

He leaned forward slightly, testing the air.

And then a hand grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him backwards with brutal force.

Nagi's spine hit the concrete roof floor. The sky spun.

A figure stood over him, blocking the clouds—a boy his age with dark hair, two sprouts sticking up like broken antennae, and the emptiest blue eyes Nagi had ever seen.

Eyes that looked like a war had been fought behind them and no one had won.

"Hey," the boy said flatly. "I wanted to talk to you."

Nagi blinked, dazed. "What—who—"

"You're Nagi Seishiro." Not a question.

"What's it to you?" Nagi's voice came out raw.

The boy—Isagi Yoichi—looked down at him with a strange, unnerving calm. He had gone searching for the genius Reo had mentioned and found only whispers.

A female student, pale-faced, had pointed toward the rooftop stairs. "I saw him walking up there alone," she had said.

Isagi didn't hesitate. He climbed the stairs two at a time, pushed open the heavy door, and saw the figure balanced on the edge like a feather about to fall.

He moved before thinking.

Now, staring at Nagi, Isagi recognized the look in his eyes immediately.

The exhaustion that had nothing to do with sleep.

The weight that made every breath a negotiation. It was the same look Isagi had worn as a child in the alleyways of Shibuya, eating garbage and waiting for the cold to take him.

"I know what you were trying to do," Isagi said, voice low. "Stop. It's not worth it."

Nagi's expression twisted—not into tears, but into a sneer. The first real emotion he'd shown in months.

"You don't know anything about me. You're just some idiot who thinks he can meddle in other people's business. You have no idea what it's like. So just leave me alone."

He scrambled to his feet and shoved Isagi hard in the chest. Isagi stumbled a step back but didn't retaliate.

He simply stood there, absorbing the push like he'd absorbed so many worse things before.

"I know," Isagi said quietly.

Nagi froze.

"Because I've been there. I've sat on the edge too. I know how it feels when waking up is worse than not waking up at all." Isagi's voice never wavered.

"But throwing your precious life away for people who aren't worth it—isn't that a waste? A pity? You're going to let them win? You're going to end your story because they never bothered to read it?"

The words struck something deep and splintered inside Nagi's chest. He didn't want to care. Caring was a burden. But his throat tightened. His eyes burned.

"You don't get it. Nothing matters. Nothing is interesting. I'm just... tired. All the time."

"Then let me give you a reason not to be."

Isagi stepped closer, not touching him, but close enough that Nagi could see the faint black ink of a jigsaw pattern creeping past his collar.

Close enough to feel the intensity radiating off him like heat from a furnace.

"Hey. Don't you want a purpose for your life?"

Nagi let out a hollow laugh. "As if that isn't what I've been searching for."

"Then live for me."

The words dropped between them like a gauntlet. Nagi stared. "What?"

"I'm sure I can make your life much more interesting," Isagi said. There was no kindness in his tone—it was a statement, a challenge, a transaction.

"You said everything feels like a game you've already beaten. Then play a new one. With me."

"Hah. As if I'd believe you."

"Wanna bet?"

Silence stretched. The wind picked up again, ruffling their hair. Nagi's eyes searched Isagi's face for a lie, a pity, a hidden agenda.

He found only the same emptiness he carried himself—but in Isagi, it was shaped into armor. Into fuel. Into a reason to keep moving.

"Fine," Nagi muttered, voice cracking. "But if you're boring, I'm going to beat you up."

Isagi's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile. "Deal."

Present Day

They grew together, the three of them—an heir, a stray, and a ghost. Against all odds, they became something resembling friends.

Reo Mikage, the purple-haired scion who had collected Isagi like a wounded hawk and now found himself with a second treasure he hadn't anticipated.

Nagi Seishiro, still lazy, still prone to napping in the most inconvenient places, but with a flicker of light behind his silver eyes that hadn't existed before.

And Isagi Yoichi, who had once moved through life like a transaction and now, slowly, was learning to laugh.

They all had changed for the better.

Isagi actually now laughes quite often.

It was indded a rare sound coming from him, but when it came, it was always in their presence.

Now seventeen, they sprawled across the plush floor of Reo's private lounge.

Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo.

A half-played chess game sat abandoned. Nagi was lying on his back with his head planted squarely on Isagi's lap, phone held above his face, some mobile game chiming softly.

Isagi absently rested a hand on Nagi's hair, not quite stroking, just... present.

"Nagi." Reo's eye twitched. "Get off Yo-chan's lap. You've been there for an hour."

"Comfy," Nagi said without looking away from his screen.

"You're heavy. You're crushing him."

"Isagi's not complaining."

Reo looked at Isagi, who shrugged. "He's not heavy."

"That's not the point!" Reo threw his hands up.

"Yo-chan is mine. I found him first. You can't just use him like a body pillow."

Nagi finally glanced up from his game. "Jealous?"

Reo's face flushed. "I am not—"

"You're turning red," Nagi observed flatly.

Isagi snorted. The sound was soft and unexpected—a genuine, unguarded laugh. It silenced both of them. Reo stared. Nagi tilted his head.

"There," Nagi said. "He laughed. My win."

Reo opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. A slow, satisfied grin spread across his face.

"Fine. I'll allow it just this once."

Isagi shook his head, still smiling faintly, and looked down at the two of them.

Reo, who had pulled him from the streets and given him a brand that became a roof.

Nagi, who he had pulled from the rooftop and given a purpose.

Both of them bickering over him like children over a favorite toy, and yet, somehow, it didn't feel like being owned anymore. It felt like belonging.

Like..

He had finally found a place to go back.

A home.

And..

A family.

He glanced down at the black jigsaw on his wrist, the elegant cursive spelling Reo.

He thought about the day he had found Nagi on that roof, the way those empty eyes had slowly started to fill.

He thought about the deal he had made with Reo all those years ago in the rain.

He smiled.

"It wasn't a bad deal after all," he murmured.

"What was that?" Reo asked.

Isagi looked up, blue eyes no longer empty but full of something quiet and fierce.

"Nothing. Just... checkmate in four moves."

Reo laughed, bright and warm. Nagi closed his game and settled deeper against Isagi's lap, eyes drifting shut.

Outside, the city hummed. Inside, three boys who had been given nothing, everything, and nothing again held onto each other.

And it was enough.

He didn't want it to change.