The day began like any other.
Hashina woke as the first light slipped through the torn edges of an old curtain. The clock on the wall kept ticking, slow and steady—reminding him that time still moved forward, even when he no longer did.
From the kitchen came the faint clatter of a pan on the stove. His wife was making breakfast. The smell wasn't what it used to be—no longer warm or comforting, just oil and a thin trace of burnt smoke drifting through the air.
He stepped out of the room in wrinkled clothes, his shirt half-tucked, the fabric creased and tired. His hair was tangled, falling over half his face, a few strands clinging to his forehead. He didn't bother fixing it.
His eyes lingered on the cabinet, where trophies and medals sat untouched, dulled by dust—proof of a dream that had long turned to rust.
"You're up. Breakfast's ready," his wife said softly. Her voice was calm, but it carried the rhythm of something repeated too many times to still mean anything.
"I'm not really hungry," Hashina murmured. He didn't look at her. His gaze stayed locked on the past, behind the glass of that cabinet.
She said nothing more. There was no anger left, and no hope either.
At the table, his son stirred his porridge without eating."Dad, we've got a soccer match today. Will you come watch me?"The boy's eyes glimmered—bright and expectant, fragile as morning stars.
Hashina froze. He turned toward him. He stood there, wanting to speak, but no words came. They caught somewhere in his throat, heavy and dry.
"Dad…"
"Maybe next time."
The boy nodded quietly. His eyes fell, and in that small motion was a kind of understanding—the kind that only children who've been disappointed too often can carry without tears.
He went back to eating, the spoon clinking softly against the bowl.
The room fell silent again, except for the slow rotation of the ceiling fan—steady, tired, like the rhythm of a life that had forgotten how to change.
Hashina sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in pale ribbons, twisting and fading into the sunlight. He watched as the light slipped through the window, breaking into long, soft streaks across the floor—as if trying to warm something inside him that had long since gone cold.
Through the haze, a voice came back to him—deep, rough, unwavering.
"Don't give up, son. A champion isn't just about strength. It's resolved. Be a man. Don't ever make the world pity you."
He narrowed his eyes. His father's voice still rang clear, echoing through the fog of smoke and years.
He knew he had to change. But the thought flickered, then died—a weak flame swallowed by wind.
It wasn't that he didn't know what to do. He just didn't believe that anything he did would matter anymore.
Outside, the hum of traffic began to swell, carrying the heat of an early summer morning. He stubbed out the cigarette, stood, and pulled on a wrinkled shirt. Engines roared beyond the window, each one racing against time, against itself.
Meanwhile, he built another wall—quiet, invisible—between himself and the world outside.
He straightened his collar and ran a hand through his hair. The fabric felt rough, suffocating, but he buttoned it anyway—as if order could be stitched back into a life already unraveled.
Then, the sound of a message notification broke the silence.
He glanced at the phone. It was a recruitment notice—from a fighting gym downtown.
For a brief moment, Hashina froze. Something heavy stirred inside his chest—unclear whether it was hope, or just the faint reflex of a man who once dared to dream. He stared at the message for a long while, letting it rest on the screen, unmoving.
Then he took a long breath and stepped outside—leaving behind a house so familiar, it no longer felt like home, but a cage.