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And they meet
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 22:00:06 +0000 UTCCan you tell who is who?
Suki’s Story
Today was a huge day for me. As a 19-year-old college student, it was my first day as an intern teacher at a local secondary school. I’ve been preparing for this for months, and I was equal parts excited and terrified.
But life, as usual, decided that teaching is not difficult enough for me.
About a week ago, I went bouldering with some friends to blow off steam before my internship started. The new wall was only 8 feet high, so nothing that should’ve been a big deal. I was feeling good, climbing confidently, and was almost at the top when it happened.
The final hold was slightly out of reach, but I was determined to finish strong. I stretched for it, and that’s when my fingers slipped.
One second, I was focused on my grip, and the next, I was airborne.
I twisted mid-air, trying to land properly, but when my right foot hit the padded mat, it rolled inward… hard. Instead of absorbing the impact, my leg buckled under me. I heard and felt the snaps. It wasn’t a dull crack or a quiet pop, the snap was loud, like branches breaking under pressure.
Pain doesn’t even begin to describe what I felt. My entire body lit up with this searing, white-hot agony, and I immediately collapsed. I looked down and saw my foot pointing the wrong direction, my ankle grotesquely dislocated. Worse, my shin looked… bent. The middle of my lower leg had this unnatural dip where my tibia and fibula had snapped cleanly in half.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. The pain was so intense that I thought I might pass out, but somehow, I stayed conscious. My friends and the gym staff rushed over, and someone called an ambulance. I was trying to stay calm, but every tiny movement sent fresh waves of pain shooting up my leg.
When the paramedics arrived, they stabilized my leg with an inflatable splint, which helped a little, but it still hurt like hell. The ambulance ride was a blur of bumps and unbearable pain, and by the time we got to the hospital, I was drenched in sweat and shaking.
The ER team worked quickly, but I was dreading the X-rays. They needed to position my leg to get clear images, which meant moving it. The grinding sensation of the broken bones shifting against each other was nauseating. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood, tears streaming down my face even as the nurse tried to soothe me. They finally got the images, and the doctor came in to break the news.
“Tibia and fibula, midshaft fractures,” he said, pointing at the X-rays. “Your ankle is dislocated, and you’ve torn most of the ligaments.”
Then came the bombshell: I needed surgery.
The doctor explained that surgery was the best option to ensure my bones healed properly. They’d insert rods and screws to stabilize everything, which would reduce the risk of complications like misalignment or improper healing. It would also help with reconstructing my ankle since completely torn ligaments will not heal on its own.
But here’s the thing—I had my internship starting in less than a week, and surgery would mean staying in the hospital for days, plus weeks of recovery before I could even think about walking. So I said no.
The doctor wasn’t happy. He warned me about the risks of skipping surgery: my bones might not heal straight, I could develop arthritis in my ankle, and there was a chance of needing even more invasive surgery down the line. But I was stubborn. I told him I’d consider surgery during summer break when I had more time. For now, I just wanted my leg set and casted.
Since I refused surgery, the doctor had to realign my bones and pop my dislocated ankle back into place manually. They gave me some local anesthetic, but even with those, it was absolute torture.
First, they had to pull on my foot to stretch the muscles and ligaments enough to realign the bones. I could feel the broken ends of my tibia and fibula moving under my skin—it was the most stomach-turning sensation I’ve ever experienced. Then, they wrenched my ankle back into position with a sickening pop. I screamed so loud I’m pretty sure half the hospital heard me.
Once the bones were aligned, they wrapped my leg in a soft splint to hold everything in place while they prepped for the cast.
When it came time to cast my leg, the nurse asked what color I wanted. I was still shaky from the reduction, but I managed to say, “Purple, please.” I figured if I was going to be stuck in a cast for weeks, I might as well make it look cute.
They started with a layer of padding to protect my skin, then wrapped my leg in purple fiberglass. The cast went all the way up to my thigh, immobilizing my knee and ankle to keep everything stable. The nurse smoothed out the edges, and when they were done, I had this massive, shiny purple cast that felt both surreal and weirdly satisfying.
The doctor wanted to keep me in the hospital for a week for observation, but I wasn’t having it. I told him I had things to do (my internship), and I felt stable enough to go home. He reluctantly agreed but made me promise to come back immediately if I noticed any swelling, numbness, or unusual pain.
I left the hospital on crutches, but at least my purple cast fits my teaching outfit. The first few steps were awkward and painful, but I was determined to make it work.
Anyway, back to internship day. So, there I was, hobbling down the street on my way to the school, trying to mentally prepare myself for my first day. I was so focused on not tripping over my crutches that I almost didn’t notice someone familiar walking toward me.
It was Hanako-sensei, my mentor teacher.
Now, Hanako-sensei is a total legend. She’s strict but incredibly fair and has this commanding presence that everyone respects. I’ve always looked up to her, so I was excited to see her… until I got a good look at her.
Her left arm was in a long cast and sling, and her right arm was in a shorter cast that covered her wrist and thumb. She looked like she’d been through hell.
When she saw me, she stopped and started laughing. “Suki, what happened to you?”
I laughed nervously and gave her the quick version of my bouldering accident. “I didn’t want to miss my first day,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.
She gave me a small smile. “You’re as stubborn as I am,” she said, which honestly felt like an honor coming from her.
Then I asked her what happened to her, and her expression shifted.
“Oh, just some student drama,” she said with a casual shrug. But the way she said it felt… weird. Like there was more to the story she wasn’t telling me.
Before I could ask anything else, she glanced over my shoulder and that’s when I noticed someone sitting in a wheelchair near the street corner.
It was another student, or at least, I think it was. She couldn’t have been much older than me. She had long black hair and this distant, tired look in her eyes. But what really caught my attention was how badly injured she was.
Her left arm was in a shoulder spica cast, immobilizing her entire upper arm, while her right arm was in a long cast as well. Both her legs were in long casts propped up on the wheelchair’s supports. She looked… broken.
Hanako-sensei wanted to walk towards the girl but stopped. Then she turned to me, giving a small, almost sad smile before turning back to me. “Come on, Suki,” she said, her tone suddenly brisk. “We’re going to be late. Walk with me.”
I hesitated for a moment, my curiosity about the girl in the wheelchair practically burning a hole in my chest. But I didn’t want to press Hanako-sensei too much, so I nodded and hobbled along beside her.
I don’t know what’s going on, but something about all of this feels… off. First, Hanako-sensei’s injuries, now this girl is in the wheelchair. What kind of “student drama” ends with people getting this badly hurt?
Hanaka Story
I teach at this school that’s sort of infamous in my town. It’s known for taking in “bad” students, you know, kids who’ve been expelled, gotten into trouble, or just fallen through the cracks. Our school gives them a second chance. The work is tough, but I’ve always believed in what we do, and I’ve seen some incredible transformations over the years.
One of my students is Yoko. She’s 18, but at first glance, you’d think she’s older. She carries herself with this world-weary confidence, like she’s seen things no teenager should ever see. Yoko is smart—really smart—but she doesn’t apply herself. She skips assignments, barely shows up to class, and seems completely uninterested in her future.
I’ll admit, I’ve been harder on her than on most of my students. I see so much potential in her, and it frustrates me to no end that she’s wasting it. Last week, I confronted her after class. I told her she was better than this, that she needed to stop throwing her life away.
And then something I didn’t expect happened: Yoko started crying.
She never cries. She looked at me with tears streaming down her face and said, “It’s useless, Hanaka-sensei. No matter how hard I work, it doesn’t matter.” Before I could respond, she bolted out of the room.
I followed her, determined to talk to her, but before I could catch up, it happened.
A group of masked men appeared out of nowhere. They grabbed Yoko, and she screamed. I was frozen for a split second, but then instinct kicked in. I ran toward them and jumped onto one of the men, trying to pull him off her.
He threw me off like I weighed nothing. I tried to catch myself with my left hand and heard a pop, but I got up and tried again. This time, another man kicked me hard in the chest. I lost my footing and tumbled down the staircase nearby. I stretched out my arms to try and break my fall, and the pain that followed was instant and excruciating.
As my left arm reached the ground it buckled under the force, my right hand then makes contact with the ground and another crack echoed in my ear.
My left arm quickly went numb. As I glanced down, I saw my left arm in a Z shape close to my wrist. I couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but watch as they dragged Yoko away. She turned to look at me, calm despite everything, and mouthed, “You are out of your league. Stay away, or you’ll get hurt.”
Then she was gone.
The masked men fled before my colleagues arrived. I told them to call the police about the kidnapping of Yoko. They then rushed me to the hospital, where they told me the extent of my injuries. My right arm had a crack in the carpal bone and a fracture in the ulna, which required a short arm cast that also immobilized my thumb to keep my hand from moving. My left arm was worse—both the radius and ulna were fractured and displaced, so they had to manually reduce the bones before casting.
They started with my right arm, which was the less severe injury. The fracture in the ulna was stable, so they didn’t need to do much other than immobilize it. However, the crack in my wrist required some adjustment.
The doctor gently but firmly held my forearm while the nurse braced my elbow. “You’re going to feel some pressure,” the doctor said, which I now know is medical code for “This is going to hurt.”
As they adjusted the wrist, I felt a deep, grinding sensation that made my stomach churn. It wasn’t sharp pain, but it was this awful, deep ache that radiated through my entire arm. They worked quickly, and within minutes, my wrist was stabilized. They wrapped it up in a short arm cast that included my thumb to limit movement and allow the carpal bone to heal.
Then came the left arm. This was the bad one.
Both the radius and ulna were fractured, and the bones weren’t lined up properly. The doctor explained that they’d need to manipulate the bones back into alignment before casting. Even though they gave me painkillers, I was still wide awake, and the thought of what was coming gave me chills.
The process started with traction, which is a fancy way of saying they had to pull on my arm to stretch the muscles and ligaments enough to create space for the bones to move. Two nurses held my upper arm steady while the doctor grabbed my wrist and gently but firmly pulled.
I can’t even describe the pain. It felt like my entire arm was being ripped apart. I bit down on a towel they gave me, tears streaming down my face as the doctor worked.
Once the traction was done, the doctor began realigning the bones. I felt a sickening pop as the radius shifted back into place, followed by another as they adjusted the ulna. The grinding sensation of the broken edges rubbing together was nauseating, like nails on a chalkboard but inside my body.
After the reduction, they prepped my arm for casting. They started with a layer of soft padding to protect my skin, then wrapped the fiberglass material around my arm. For my left arm, the cast extended all the way from my hand to just below my shoulder, immobilizing my elbow to keep the bones stable.
The cast was a long-arm thumb spica design, which means my thumb was also enclosed to prevent any wrist movement. It felt heavy and awkward, but I was so relieved that the reduction was over that I didn’t even care.
They held me in the hospital for observation, all the while I kept asking if they found Yoko. No news. It was like Yoko was off the face of the planet.
I was discharged a few days later, though I’m still dealing with the casts and pain. I went back to school, determined to keep teaching despite everything. My first day back was the day I met Suki, our new intern teacher on the way to school.
Suki was hobbling toward me on crutches, her right leg encased in a bright purple cast that went all the way up to her thigh. She looked nervous but determined, and I asked her what happened. As she was responding, I wasn’t listening because I saw someone behind her.
It was Yoko.
She was in a wheelchair, and she looked… broken. Her left arm was in a shoulder spica cast, immobilizing her arm and upper body completely. Her right arm was in a long arm thumb spica cast with her wrist in an odd angle. Both her legs were in full-length casts propped up on the wheelchair’s supports. I felt my stomach drop.
I wanted to run to her, to ask her what had happened, but before I could move, she looked at me. She didn’t say a word, but her lips moved, forming a silent message:
“No. They’re watching. I’ll be back at school soon.”
I froze. The calm in her expression reminded me of the day she was taken. She didn’t seem scared—she seemed resigned.
I don’t know who “they” are, but whoever they are, they’ve hurt her. Badly. And now I’m terrified that if I push too hard, I’ll make things worse.
Yoko Story
I was born into the Yakuza. For most people, that probably sounds like something out of a movie. Glamorized gangsters, loyalty, and power. But the reality is much darker.
From the time I could walk, I was trained to fight. My father said it was a cruel world, and the only way to survive was to be stronger than everyone else. Pain became a part of my life early on. Bruises, cuts, dislocated joints—nothing scared me because I was used to it. My family made sure I understood that fear was weakness, and weakness wasn’t allowed.
By the time I was ten, I was already helping with "business." Running messages, collecting debts, watching my father negotiate with rivals. I saw violence that most people can’t even imagine. Blood, broken promises, betrayal—it was all just another day. In the Yakuza, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I learned early on that trust is a luxury you can’t afford.
Because I missed so much school growing up, I eventually got kicked out of every “normal” school. When I was 14, I ended up in Hanaka-sensei’s class at a “second chance” school. They called it a place for kids who had lost their way, where they could turn their lives around.I didn’t want a second chance. I didn’t need it. I already knew my path: I’d follow in my father’s footsteps, just like he wanted. The moment I turned 16, I planned to drop out and dedicate myself fully to the family business.
But Hanaka-sensei changed something in me.
She was strict, always scolding me for skipping classes or not doing my work. At first, I hated her. She didn’t understand my life, so what right did she have to judge me? But over time, I realized something: she cared. She was the first person in my life who cared about me because she wanted me to be better, not because she wanted something from me.
I stayed in school because of her. I didn’t care about the lessons or the other students, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. She was too good, too kind, too naive for the world I came from.
A few weeks ago, my father killed the son of a rival Yakuza boss over a turf conflict. It wasn’t surprising, conflicts like this happen all the time. But this time, I knew I was the target. Retaliation was inevitable, and as the only child of my father, I was the easiest way to hurt him.
That morning, I went to school, knowing it might be my last day. I didn’t want to be there, but I also didn’t want to leave without seeing Hanaka-sensei. She pulled me aside after class, scolding me about how I was throwing my life away. “You’re so smart, Yoko. You could do so much more if you just tried!” she said.
I wanted to tell her the truth. That there was no future for me. That I’d probably be dead by the end of the day. But I couldn’t. Instead, I let her believe I was just being stubborn.
Then they came. I could hear their footsteps outside while Hanaka Sensei was still telling me off.
I ran out of the classroom, pretending to cry, hoping they would leave Hanaka-sensei alone. But she followed me.
A group of men rushed up the stairs, dressed in black, their faces covered. I knew they were here for me. Hanaka Sensei tried to stop them, throwing herself in their way.
I told them not to hurt her. “Take me,” I said. “I’ll come willingly. Leave her alone.”
The leader of the group stared at me for a moment, then nodded. They dragged me out of the school, leaving Hanaka-sensei behind, broken and crying.
They took me to their boss, the father of the boy my father had killed. I thought they’d kill me, but the boss had something worse in mind.
“Killing you would be too easy,” he said. “Your father needs to feel a pain worse than burying his own child. He needs to watch you suffer.”
“Start with her left arm,” he ordered.
I don’t know if it was random or intentional, because I am left handed, but they grabbed me and pinned me down, forcing my arm out to the side.
The boss stood over me, calm as ever, and said, “Your father will learn what it’s like to watch something he loves fall apart.”
One of the men held my arm down against the cold concrete floor while another swung a sledgehammer down on my upper arm.
It felt like an explosion upon impact.
I heard the bone crack before I even felt it. The pain was instant and overwhelming, radiating from the break all the way down to my fingertips. It was like my entire arm was on fire. I tried my best not to scream. I am not about to show weakness. They didn’t stop and the hammer came down once more.
I could feel the bone shifting under my skin, jagged edges grinding together as the hammer hit my arm again.
“Let’s see how long you can stay quiet.” the boss stood over me.
He grabbed my arm and it was limp. The arm is clearly broken. “Move on.” the boss ordered.
One of the men held my upper arm just below the break. I could see the bruising and swelling setting in. The pain was immense but I bit my lips to stop myself from screaming. Another one then grabbed my forearm and bent it sharply, dislocating the elbow with a sickening pop. The pain was so sharp and sudden that it felt like my entire body seized up.
But they weren’t done. They took the hammer and brought it down on my dislocated elbow, shattering it completely. I felt the bone fragments scatter inside my arm, tiny shards tearing into muscle and tissue.
I can’t even describe that kind of pain. It wasn’t just physical, this torture was mental. The wanted me to cry out in pain, they wanted me to beg. I am not going to give them that satisfaction.
The boss looked pleased with the destruction of my elbow and waved the men to move on.
One man lifted my wrist, placing a brick midshaft of my forearm. The other man then steps on my broken elbow to hold my arm in place.
“You can scream if that would make you better,” the boss moved down close to my face.
I quickly spat in his face.
The boss took out his handkerchief to wipe his face while gesturing the men to contine.
The hammer was brought down again and again on my wrist breaking the radius and ulna. I could feel the bones splintering, the jagged edges grinding against each other under my skin.
I whimpered.
The corner of the boss’s mouth lifted slightly. “I don’t want her to ever use her hand for anything again.
I quickly held my voice again. The pain came in waves, sharp and stabbing one moment, deep and aching the next. I couldn’t move my arm anymore, but that didn’t stop them.
One of the goons moved the brick under my hand and the other one continued to bring down the hammer. The bones in my hand crunched as the brick under my hand started to crumble. The sound was worse than the pain—a wet, crunching noise that made me want to vomit.
Then they moved to my fingers, bending them back one by one until the joints dislocated at my knuckles. I didn’t make a sound but my body is betraying me now. A lone tear fell from the eye because of all the pain. They were unbearable.
“I can see that you are in pain, but you can’t imagine the pain I am feeling now for my son!” the boss said to me. “If you beg, I will give you a more comfortable end.”
I kept my mouth shut. Staring sharply at him from the floor as the goons were still on me.
The boss points his finger at me. “Go on.”
I thought they might move to my legs next. I was wrong. They weren’t done with my arms yet.
They grabbed my right arm and stretched it out to the side. One of the men stepped on my elbow while the other man grabbed my forearm. That man then slowly lifted my forearm. Each pop signifies a ligament snapping in my elbow. That continued until my elbow was completely out of the socket.
The pain was sharp and immediate, like a lightning bolt shooting up my arm. I heard each pop of the joint dislocating, and my arm went limp besides me instantly.
Another drop of tear fell from my eyes. They neglected it and continue to work destroying my arm.
One of the men grabbed my wrist and pulled, stretching my arm out as far as it would go. My dislocated elbow protested by screaming at me in pain but that wasn’t the worst of it. As he pulled, another man used his knees to bend my forearm in the middle.
At first, it didn’t break. It just hurt—a deep, aching pain as my bones resisted the pressure. But then, with one final bend, both the radius and ulna snapped. I felt the bones give way, the fractures sharp and jagged under my skin.
They continued to twist my forearm until the broken bones are displaced. I could feel the shards grinding against each other, sending fresh waves of pain through me with every movement.
“Still no sound from you, you are a tough cookie.” said the Boss
They bent my wrist backward until I thought it would snap, but instead, it just tore more ligaments and dislocated my wrist. It felt like my hand was barely attached to my arm anymore.
The pain was relentless. It was a different kind of agony from anything I felt in the past. I wanted to scream but I am my father’s daughter. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. All I could do was allow the occasional tear fell from my eye, as my body shaking from the sheer intensity of the pain.
“You two, a bonus for you if you make her cry in pain in the next five minutes.”
The goons nodded and sat me up next to the wall. My arms now dangling by my side like two pieces of dead meat.
One of the gang members kneeled on my left thigh to keep it in place. I used all my strength to stop myself from screaming, I no longer had any strength in me to fight back. Another man stood over me with a heavy metal baseball bat. He wasn’t in a hurry, he was taking his time. The way he looked at me, I could tell he was savoring the moment.
The first blow came down on my knee cap.
The bat hit with a loud, hollow crack. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through my entire leg, and the pain was instant and blinding. It felt like my knee cap had exploded. The man swung the bat again, hitting the same spot. This time, the sound was less sharp and more wet, like the shattered pieces of my patella were grinding into the surrounding tissue. The pain was so intense that my vision blurred, and I thought I might pass out.
A third hit came, and by then, my knee cap was completely destroyed. I could feel the jagged fragments tearing into the muscle and ligaments around my knee, every tiny movement sending fresh waves of pain radiating through my leg.
After they were satisfied with my knee, they moved up to my femur. The man with the bat dropped the bat and grabbed the sledge hammer again. He adjusted his grip and aimed just above my knee.
The first swing connected with a sickening thud. The bone didn’t break immediately, but I felt it crack under the force of the blow. The deep, aching pain from the fracture felt like it was radiating through my entire thigh.
The second swing did it. The hammer came down with full force, and my femur cracked. The sound of the bone breaking was horrifying—a deep, wet snap that made my stomach churn. I carelessly let out a whimper as I looked down and saw the broken ends of the bone shifted under my skin.
The men stopped and looked at the Boss.
“Scream, not that squeak! Go on,” commanded the Boss
One of the man then held my shin up while the other man held my foot. My knee was bending backwards without any resistance. My arms and now knee is burning white hot. I was going to lose my consciousness as the man twisted my foot sharply, forcing my leg into an unnatural position.
The man with the hammer swung at an angle, targeting the side of my shin. The combined twisting force and the hit of the hammer must have cracked the bone in my leg but it still felt solid. A spiral fracture isn’t like a clean break; it’s jagged and messy, and it feels like the bone is tearing itself apart with every movement.
The second blow came down harder, the tibia completely cracked. This pain was a whole different world. It felt like my bone tore itself apart like a spiral. The pain was not concentrated in just one spot, it felt like my whole lower leg was broken.
The man who was grabbing my foot continued to twist it and with a sudden jerk the remaining smaller bone in my leg was broken too.
The break was sudden, and the pain was like a lightning bolt shooting up my leg. The broken ends of the bone felt jagged, shifting painfully under my skin every time I moved. They dropped my leg and I passed out.
The relief was temporary as a splash of cold water splashed oh me waking me back up to this hell of pain. I just gasped for air, my body trembling uncontrollably.
“Think you had enough? It is not enough until my son is brought back to life!” cried the Boss.
One of the men then grabbed my right foot and twisted it violently to the side. I felt the joint pop out of place, the ligaments tearing as the bones were forced apart. The pain was sharp and immediate, like someone had driven a knife into my ankle.
I couldn’t take it any more and let out a scream.
“Good! So you are not a mute! Continue and I will double the bonus each time she cried out in pain, go on!” the boss laughed.
They continued to twisted my foot, tearing all the remaining ligaments that hold my ankle together. Quickly one of the men knelt on my thigh to hold it in place while another grabbed my lower leg and yanked it upward.
The ligaments in my knee stretched to their limit before snapping one by one. I could feel them tearing inside my leg, like rubber bands snapping under tension. The pain was so intense that I couldn’t even scream—I just gasped, my body convulsing from the shock.
Once the ligaments were torn, they moved on to my knee cap. They brought down the hammer again on my knee. The first blow cracked the patella in half, sending shards of bone into the surrounding tissue. The second blow shattered it completely.
The sound was indescribable—a wet, crunching noise that made my stomach churn. I couldn’t move my leg anymore; it was just a broken, useless mess.
After destroying my knee, they moved down to my tibia. Maybe they are too eager to get their bonus, one of the men stomped on my shin with his boot.
The first stomp cracked the bone. I felt the fracture run up my leg, a deep, sharp pain that made my entire body seize up. The second stomp broke it completely, the bone snapping with a sickening pop.
They stomped on the tibia several more times, creating multiple fractures along the length of the bone. Each impact sent fresh waves of pain through me, the broken edges of the bone grinding together with every movement. With a final stomp, the remaining bone, the fibula snapped in half as well.
“AH!!!!!” I finally let out an actual scream from the bottom of my heart. To be honest, it felt good and bad at the same time.
I didn’t even feel human anymore. The pain was so intense, so all-encompassing, that it felt like my body wasn’t mine. It was just a vessel for suffering.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t even cry anymore. I just lay there, shaking and gasping for breath, my mind barely clinging to consciousness.
The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the helplessness. Knowing that no one was coming to save me. Knowing that they could do whatever they wanted to me, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.
“Give you Pops a message for me?” said the Boss “I will come visit you again once your are healed and I will break anything that you find joy or happiness in. Any person or thing! If I know it would bring you joy, I would crush it!”
After the gang broke every bone in my arms and legs, they didn’t bandage me, didn’t splint me, didn’t even bother to stabilize anything. They just left me in that raw, broken state. Then they threw me into a van like a sack of garbage. I was lying on the cold, hard floor of the van, my broken body jostling with every bump and turn. Every movement was agony. My arms and legs were completely useless, shattered into so many pieces that I couldn’t even tell where one break ended and the next began.
My left arm was bent in ways it shouldn’t be, my right arm was no better.Both my legs were a wreck. I tried to stay still, but there was no way to escape the pain. I felt the van's metal floor was cold against my skin, and every time we hit a bump, my body shifted slightly, sending fresh waves of agony through me. I finally screamed at the top of my lungs while the goons in the van just laughed. My mind was racing, but it kept coming back to the same thought: This is it. They are going to bury me somewhere.
After what felt like hours, the van finally stopped. I heard the doors open, and rough hands grabbed me, dragging me toward the edge. They didn’t care about the damage they’d already done, they just wanted to get rid of me.
They pulled me out of the van and stood me up. Or at least, they tried to.
“You are free to go little bird. FREE~” said one of the goons, "remember to send him the message now. Walk home.”
The moment they let go, my body crumpled. My legs couldn’t hold me at all. The shattered bones in my legs gave out instantly, and I collapsed onto the ground. The impact sent a fresh surge of pain through my broken body, and I screamed—a raw, guttural sound that didn’t even sound human.
My arms were useless. My left arm twisted awkwardly beneath me, the broken bones grinding together. My right arm flopped to the side, the shattered elbow collapsing under the weight.
I was lying there in a heap, my limbs bent at unnatural angles, every nerve in my body screaming in pain.
I recognise the place, it was home. I cried out for someone, anyone at home to help me. I’ve never felt more powerless in my life. I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight, couldn’t even crawl. My body was completely broken, and all I could do was lie there, sobbing quietly as they laughed and walked away.
The humiliation was worse than the pain. I’d been reduced to nothing. Every part of me hurt, but what hurt the most was knowing that this was exactly what they wanted. They wanted me to feel powerless, to know that I was nothing more than a message to my father.
As I lay there on the ground, I kept thinking about Hanaka-sensei. She was the only person who ever believed in me, who ever made me feel like I could be something more. And now… now I was nothing.
When they found me outside the house, my body was a mangled mess. Every tiny movement sent fresh waves of pain through me, and I was barely holding on to consciousness.
The doctor was called immediately. He arrived within an hour, carrying a bag of supplies that looked frighteningly small for what needed to be done. He took one look at me and sighed, his face grim.
“This is going to hurt,” he said, almost apologetically.
The doctor started with my left arm, which was the worst of the two. The humerus was snapped in half, my elbow was shattered and dislocated, my forearm was broken in four places, and my wrist and fingers were a mess.
The first thing he worked on was the humerus. He gently pressed around my upper arm, feeling for the broken ends of the bone. Even his lightest touch made me cry out in pain.
“I need to realign the bone,” he said. “Try to stay still.”
He gripped my upper arm firmly, one hand above the break and the other below. Then, in one swift motion, he pulled and twisted, forcing the broken ends of the bone back into alignment. The pain was indescribable, it was sharp, deep, and overwhelming, like my arm was being torn in half all over again. I screamed so loudly that my throat felt like it was shredding.
Next was my elbow. The joint was completely dislocated, and the shattered fragments of the bone had to be realigned. He braced my upper arm with one hand and my forearm with the other.
“This is going to pop,” he said, and before I could process what he meant, he yanked my forearm sharply.
The joint snapped back into place with a loud pop, and I nearly blacked out from the pain. Then he carefully manipulated the smaller bone fragments, pressing them into position as tears streamed down my face.
My radius and ulna were broken in four places, and each fracture had to be set individually. He used his hands to feel for the alignment of the bones, then slowly pushed and twisted them back into place. Every adjustment felt like fire shooting through my arm, the broken edges grinding together before they finally settled.
The carpal bones in my wrist were fractured, and my fingers were all dislocated. He pulled on each finger one by one to reset the joints, each pop sending fresh jolts of pain through me. The wrist was worse—he had to carefully press the bones back into position while stabilizing my forearm.
The right arm wasn’t as bad as the left, but it was still a nightmare. He started by resetting the dislocated elbow, pulling my forearm while bracing my upper arm. The joint snapped back into place with another pop, and I screamed into the pillow they’d given me to bite down on. Then he worked on aligning the shattered fragments, carefully pressing them into place. The fractures in the radius and ulna were set the same way as my left arm. He pressed and adjusted each bone, his hands steady as I sobbed and begged for it to stop.
My left leg was completely destroyed. The knee cap was shattered, the femur was cracked, the tibia had a spiral fracture, and the fibula was snapped clean. The doctor had to press the fragments of my shattered patella back into place as best he could. Each press felt like a knife stabbing into my leg, and my screams turned into hoarse gasps as I ran out of energy to cry.
He gripped my thigh firmly and pulled, aligning the broken femur. The bone grated against itself, and I nearly passed out from the pain. The spiral fracture in my tibia required careful manipulation. He twisted and adjusted my lower leg, the jagged edges of the bone grinding together until they finally aligned. The fibula was simpler—it was a clean break, so he just pulled and pressed it back into place.
My right leg was even worse than the left. My knee ligaments were torn, the patella was shattered, the tibia and fibula had multiple fractures, and my ankle was dislocated.
The doctor started by resetting my dislocated right ankle, pulling it sharply until it popped back into place. Then he pressed on my shattered knee cap, aligning the fragments as I screamed into the pillow with each movement. Just like my left leg, he manipulated the tibia and fibula, aligning the fractures one by one. Each adjustment sent fresh waves of agony through me, and I could feel the broken edges of the bones grinding together.
Once all the bones were reset, he began the process of immobilizing everything with casts.
Both my arms were encased in casts. My left arm was put in a long arm cast with a shoulder spica to immobilize the humerus, elbow, and wrist. The left wrist was placed at an odd angle to help with healing. My right arm was put in a long arm thumb spica cast to stabilize the shattered elbow and fractured forearm.
Both my legs were put in full-length casts. My left leg was stabilized with a cast from the top of my thigh to my toes, while my right leg required extra support around the knee and ankle due to the torn ligaments.
The entire process was pure agony. The resetting, the grinding of bones, the sharp jolts of pain with every adjustment—it felt endless. I’ve been through a lot in my life, but this… this was something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
By the time it was over, I was completely drained. My body was encased in heavy casts, my limbs immobilized, but the pain didn’t stop. Every nerve in my body felt like it was on fire, and I couldn’t even move to try to find relief.
The doctor said that I will not be able to walk ever again with the extent of my injures. Even if they could send me to the hospital for surgery. I would be lucky to gain motion in my injured limbs. My father was furious and vowed to take revenge for me. But I don’t feel anything, only pain. I was not asked to be born into this family. I have given all I could to the family but what do I get in return? The promise that this ‘empire’ will be mine in the future?
Yesterday, my caregiver wheeled me outside for some fresh air. The morning was quiet, and for a moment, I let myself relax. That’s when I saw her.
Hanaka-sensei was walking toward the school, her usual determined stride and no-nonsense expression. She looked just like I remembered, but when her eyes met mine, everything changed.
She froze, her expression shifting from surprise to shock to pain. She looked at my wheelchair, at the casts covering my legs and arms, and I saw tears well up in her eyes.
“Yoko?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
I couldn’t speak. My throat tightened, and all I could do was stare at her. The moment felt surreal, like I was dreaming. Part of me wanted to call out to her, to tell her how much she meant to me, but I couldn’t.
She started to walk toward me, her casted arms trembling slightly. I could see the worry and sadness in her eyes, and it broke me. She didn’t know the full story, she didn’t know how dangerous it was for her to even look at me.
I mouthed the words, “Stay away.”
She stopped in her tracks, confusion flickering across her face. I could see her trying to understand, trying to piece together what had happened to me.
“They’re watching,” I mouthed again, my lips trembling.
Her eyes widened, and she glanced around nervously, like she could sense the danger I was warning her about. I saw her hesitate, torn between coming closer and listening to me.
“Please,” I mouthed, tears streaming down my face.
She finally stopped, her shoulders slumping in defeat. I could see the pain in her expression, the way she wanted to help me but didn’t know how.
Watching her walk away was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. She kept glancing back at me, her face full of worry and sadness, but I forced myself to look away.
I felt like I was breaking all over again, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Hanaka-sensei doesn’t belong in my world. She’s too good, too pure, and I won’t let her get hurt because of me.
A part of me wanted to call her back, to beg her to stay and tell her how much she meant to me. But I couldn’t. If she got too close, they’d hurt her, and I’d never forgive myself.
