Chapter Text
The car ride lasted forty-three minutes, though Isagi only knew that because he kept checking the clock on the dashboard like it might suddenly change its mind.
8:17.
8:19.
8:24.
Every time he looked up, barely any time had passed.
The morning traffic moved too normally for what was happening.
Cars merging. Brake lights flickering. A delivery truck blocking the right lane. Someone honking two streets over. The world operating on schedule, completely indifferent.
He sat in the back seat with his hands shoved into the sleeves of his hoodie, fingers tucked into his palms to keep them from shaking. The fabric still smelled like home—detergent and something faintly citrus his mom used when she cleaned. He focused on that smell like it might anchor him.
The heater hummed softly near his shoes. Too warm. It made the air thick.
No one had turned on the radio.
That was the worst part.
His parents always played something in the mornings. News, old pop songs, anything to fill the space. Silence wasn’t normal for their car. Silence meant something.
He leaned his head against the window and watched the neighborhood slide by in reverse.
The convenience store at the corner.
The narrow park with the crooked swings.
The crosswalk he used every day in middle school.
Places he’d walked past a hundred times without thinking.
Now they looked staged, fake, like a set being taken down after a show.
He had the strange, irrational thought that if he memorized everything hard enough, it wouldn’t disappear.
Up front, his dad drove with both hands on the wheel, posture stiff like he was taking a driving test. Ten and two. Eyes forward. Too focused. He hadn’t said more than three sentences since they left the house.
His mom kept twisting her wedding ring.
Over and over.
Metal clicking softly against itself.
Isagi noticed because it was the only sound in the car besides the engine.
Click. Twist. Click. Twist.
It got on his nerves.
He almost asked her to stop.
Didn’t.
If he spoke, they’d probably start talking again, and he didn’t want that either.
Talking meant explanations.
Explanations meant pretending this made sense.
It didn’t.
None of it did.
They hadn’t used the word hospital. Or treatment. Or anything that sounded serious enough to justify this.
Just phrases like “program” and “support” and “temporary.”
Temporary.
Like summer school.
Like tutoring.
Like he’d be back in a week.
Except they’d packed a duffel bag.
You don’t pack a duffel bag for something temporary.
He’d watched his mom fold his clothes last night at the kitchen table while pretending not to cry. She’d kept smoothing the fabric flat like she was ironing out something invisible.
He hadn’t helped.
He hadn’t stopped her either.
He’d just stood there and felt weirdly detached, like it was happening to someone else.
Now the bag sat beside him on the seat, heavy against his thigh.
Sweatpants. T-shirts. Socks. Toiletries.
No electronics.
His dad had said they weren’t allowed.
“Focus on recovery,” he’d called it.
Recovery from what, exactly, no one had clarified.
Not going to school?
Being tired?
Existing wrong?
The highway ramp curved ahead. His dad flicked the blinker on too early.
The car merged.
Buildings got taller. Then shorter. Then spaced farther apart.
He recognized less and less.
His chest tightened a little.
“…how long is this again?” he asked finally.
His voice sounded small in the quiet car.
His parents both reacted too fast.
“Not far,” his dad said.
“Just a bit more,” his mom said at the same time.
They glanced at each other.
That glance.
Like they’d rehearsed something.
He hated that glance.
He stared back out the window.
Fields now. Wide, empty lots. Low buildings that looked like warehouses or offices. Everything more spread out, less walkable, less alive.
It didn’t look like somewhere you visited.
It looked like somewhere you were sent.
His stomach twisted.
“You guys can visit, right?” he asked, still not looking at them.
“Of course,” his mom said immediately. Too fast again.
“Weekends,” his dad added. “They have visiting hours.”
Visiting hours.
That wasn’t how you talked about normal places.
You visited zoos. Hospitals. Relatives in other cities.
You didn’t visit your own kid unless they weren’t living at home.
Something in his throat went tight.
“So… how long?” he tried again.
This time there was a pause.
Not long.
But long enough.
“We’ll see how it goes,” his dad said.
Which meant: we don’t know.
Which meant: not soon.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
Like the air had been sucked out.
He pressed his forehead harder into the glass, watching the scenery blur past.
He thought about just opening the door at the next red light and walking away.
Not running. Just walking.
Going somewhere random.
Anywhere but there.
But he didn’t even know where “there” was.
He didn’t have money. Or a phone. Or energy.
The fantasy died as fast as it formed.
He was too tired to even rebel properly.
That realization scared him more than anything else.
If he couldn’t even fight this, what could he fight?
A tall fence came into view up ahead, stretching along the side of the road.
Metal.
Too tall for decoration.
Behind it sat a cluster of low buildings, all the same dull, practical colors. Nothing flashy. Nothing welcoming. Just functional architecture, like a school built by people who cared more about budgets than feelings.
His dad slowed the car.
Turn signal.
The tires crunched onto gravel.
His heart started pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“…is that it?” he asked quietly.
Neither of them answered right away.
Which was answer enough.
The sign near the entrance came into focus as they rolled closer.
Blue Lock Residential Center.
Simple letters. Clean font. No mascot. No cheerful banner.
Just a name.
Like a fact.
His mom stopped twisting her ring.
His dad exhaled slowly through his nose.
The car kept moving forward.
And for the first time since they left the house, Isagi understood with complete, awful clarity that they weren’t turning around.
The tires made a dry crunching sound as the car rolled fully into the lot, the kind of sound you only heard in places that weren’t meant for pedestrians. Gravel and old pavement, sun-faded lines marking parking spaces that had probably been repainted too many times. The engine hummed lower as his dad eased off the gas and started looking for a spot like this was any other errand, like they were at a grocery store or a doctor’s appointment.
Isagi wished he would just park badly. Crooked. Half over the line. Something careless and human.
Instead, he straightened the wheel and pulled perfectly between two white stripes.
The engine shut off.
The sudden quiet felt louder than the drive.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The ticking of cooling metal came from under the hood. Somewhere across the lot a door slammed. Wind scraped lightly against the side of the car.
Up close, the buildings looked even more ordinary than before. That was the worst part. They didn’t look threatening. No barbed wire. No gray concrete towers. Just low campus buildings with wide windows and double doors and trimmed hedges that someone clearly maintained.
It looked like a small college.
Or a middle school.
Or an office park.
Somewhere boring.
Somewhere permanent.
The sign near the entrance read the same way it had from the road: Blue Lock Residential Center. Beneath it, in smaller letters, were words like wellness, structure, growth. The kind of vocabulary that meant everything and nothing at the same time.
He stared at the doors.
His mom unbuckled her seatbelt first. The click sounded too sharp in the quiet car.
“Okay,” she said softly, like they were arriving at a dentist appointment. “Let’s… let’s go check in.”
Check in.
He hated how casual she made it sound.
His dad turned halfway around in his seat. “Grab your bag, Yoichi.”
The duffel sat beside him like it had been waiting.
He didn’t touch it.
For a second he considered pretending he hadn’t heard.
If he didn’t move, maybe time would stall. Maybe they’d sit here forever until someone changed their mind.
His dad’s voice came again, gentler this time. “Yoichi.”
Not stern.
Not angry.
Just tired.
That tiredness did something to him. It slipped past his defenses too easily. He reached for the bag before he could think better of it.
The zipper teeth scraped quietly when he lifted it.
It felt heavier than it had this morning.
Or maybe his arms were just weaker.
When he stepped out of the car, the air hit him all at once—cooler, thinner, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and disinfectant drifting from somewhere inside the building. The door shut behind him with a dull thunk that sounded too final for something so small.
His mom smoothed her hands down the front of his hoodie automatically, like she used to when he was little and leaving for school. Straightening wrinkles that didn’t matter.
“You’ll be okay,” she said.
She didn’t sound convinced.
He didn’t answer.
If he opened his mouth, something ugly might come out. Anger or begging or both. He didn’t want either. He didn’t want to make a scene in the parking lot.
People could see them.
The walk to the entrance wasn’t far. Maybe thirty steps. It felt longer.
Gravel shifted under his shoes. The duffel strap dug into his shoulder. Each step felt delayed, like walking through water. He focused on counting them just to keep from turning around.
Five.
Nine.
Fourteen.
His dad reached the door first and held it open.
The glass reflected all three of them back for a second—his parents standing a little too close together, him half a step behind like a kid being led to the principal’s office.
He barely recognized himself.
His hair was a mess. Dark circles under his eyes. Hoodie sleeves covering his hands like he was trying to disappear inside it.
He looked smaller than he remembered.
Inside, the air conditioning hit immediately. Cold and dry. The lobby smelled faintly citrusy and sterile, like every clinic he’d ever been to. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The floor was polished enough to reflect their shoes.
A front desk sat directly ahead with a woman typing into a computer. She looked up the second they entered, already smiling in that professional, practiced way.
“Good morning,” she said. “You must be the Isagi family.”
Like they’d been expecting them.
Like this was scheduled.
Because it was.
His dad handled most of the talking. Names. Paperwork. Signatures. Insurance. Words blurred together into administrative noise. His mom stood close enough that their arms brushed occasionally, like she was afraid he might drift away.
No one asked him anything.
Not really.
Once or twice someone glanced at him and said, “Hi, Yoichi,” in that overly gentle tone adults used when they thought a kid might cry.
He nodded because it seemed required.
That was it.
No dramatic speech.
No explanation.
Just forms being passed back and forth across a counter.
The normalcy of it made his skin crawl.
This wasn’t an emergency.
It was a transaction.
Finally, the woman behind the desk stood and came around with a clipboard. “We’ll get him settled upstairs,” she said. “You can say your goodbyes here.”
Goodbyes.
The word hit harder than anything else that morning.
His mom inhaled sharply like she hadn’t been prepared for that part yet.
Already?
Here?
In the lobby, under fluorescent lights, between a vending machine and a fake potted plant?
There wasn’t even a room for it.
His dad put a hand on his shoulder.
Firm. Warm. Familiar.
“We’ll visit this weekend,” he said. “Okay?”
Isagi nodded.
He didn’t trust his voice.
His mom hugged him too tight, face pressed into his hoodie. He felt her breathing shake against his chest.
“Just try,” she whispered. “That’s all. Just try a little.”
He didn’t promise anything.
Because he didn’t know if he could.
When they stepped back, there was a second where nobody moved.
Then the staff member gently gestured toward the hallway.
“This way, Isagi.”
Not your parents.
Not home.
This way.
He adjusted the duffel strap on his shoulder.
And followed,
The hallway past the front desk was narrower than the lobby, quieter too, like the building swallowed sound the deeper you went. The fluorescent lights continued overhead in a straight line, evenly spaced, humming faintly. The floor shifted from polished tile to something softer and rubberized, the kind that muted footsteps and made everything feel strangely contained.
The staff member walked a few steps ahead of him, not rushing, just moving with the confidence of someone who knew the layout by heart. Her lanyard bounced lightly against her chest with every step. She didn’t look back to check if he was following.
She didn’t need to.
There wasn’t really anywhere else to go.
The duffel strap kept sliding off his shoulder. He adjusted it twice, then gave up and just carried it in one hand. It felt heavier now, like someone had filled it with sand while he wasn’t looking.
Behind him, he could still feel his parents standing in the lobby.
Even without turning around, he could picture them.
His mom watching until he disappeared down the hall. His dad pretending to look calm.
The urge to go back hit suddenly and hard, like a reflex.
He almost stopped walking.
Almost turned around.
Just to see them one more time.
But if he did that, he knew he wouldn’t keep it together. Something ugly would come out of his mouth—anger or begging or both—and he didn’t want the last thing they saw to be that.
So he kept walking.
Left foot. Right foot.
Don’t think.
Just move.
They passed open doors as they went.
An office with a printer humming.
A small classroom with whiteboards and stacked chairs.
A room with couches and a TV where three kids sat half-watching something while a staff member filled out paperwork nearby.
All of it looked painfully normal.
That was the part his brain couldn’t process.
This wasn’t some hidden facility in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. It looked like a school that had decided to never let you leave.
A boy on one of the couches glanced up as Isagi passed.
Their eyes met for half a second.
The boy didn’t look scared.
Didn’t look curious either.
Just… assessing.
Then he looked away.
Like new kids happened all the time.
Like Isagi wasn’t special.
Like he’d already seen this exact walk before.
The thought made something sink in his chest.
They turned another corner.
Then another.
Each hallway looked almost identical.
White walls. Blue doors. Bulletin boards with printed schedules and laminated “coping skills” posters.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Count to ten.
He felt stupid just looking at them.
“I just need you to meet with the nurse first,” the staff member said casually, still walking. “Standard intake stuff. Vitals, a quick check-in, then we’ll get you to your room.”
Her tone was light.
Routine.
Like this was the least interesting part of her day.
He swallowed.
“…how long am I staying?” he asked.
She didn’t slow down.
“That’s something your case team will talk with you about.”
That wasn’t an answer.
“I mean like— days? Weeks?”
A small pause.
“It depends on how things go.”
Depends.
On what?
On him behaving?
On eating enough?
On not being weird?
The answer slid out of reach again.
His breathing got a little tighter.
They stopped outside a door with a small red cross symbol beside it.
Medical.
The nurse’s office.
Something in his chest pulled tight.
Too familiar.
Too close to the van.
Too close to that warm, heavy fog from earlier.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, before she could open it. “I don’t need— like— I’m not sick or anything.”
She gave him the same polite, professional smile he’d seen three times already today.
“It’s just policy,” she said. “Everyone goes through it.”
Everyone.
Again with that word.
Like he wasn’t different.
Like he wasn’t allowed to be.
She pushed the door open.
The room inside was bright. Too bright.
White cabinets. Stainless steel sink. Paper-covered cot. The faint smell of antiseptic hanging in the air.
It hit him all at once.
The finality of it.
If he stepped in here, it meant he was officially checked in.
Documented.
Processed.
Placed.
Not visiting.
Not touring.
Staying.
His feet stopped moving.
“I don’t—” he started, but his throat tightened halfway through.
She waited.
Not impatient.
Just waiting.
Like time was on her side.
Because it was.
His heart started beating too fast again.
The room felt smaller than it actually was.
Like the walls were closer than they should be.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I don’t need this. Can’t I just go to the room?”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” she said.
Few minutes.
That’s what everyone kept saying.
A few minutes.
A little while.
Temporary.
None of it meant anything.
He took one step back without realizing.
Then another.
The hallway behind him suddenly felt like the only open space left.
Like oxygen.
“I just— I wanna call my parents first,” he said.
“We don’t allow phones during intake,” she replied gently.
The words landed harder than expected.
No phones.
No calling.
No texting.
No quick “come get me.”
Nothing.
The building shifted in his mind then, from school-like to something else entirely.
Closed.
Contained.
Permanent.
His chest squeezed tight.
“I don’t wanna—” he said, shaking his head.
The sentence didn’t finish.
His body decided before his brain did.
He turned.
And bolted down the hallway.
Not fast.
Not athletic.
Just desperate.
Two steps.
Three.
The duffel slipping from his hand.
A voice behind him: “Isagi— wait—”
He didn’t.
He just ran.
Like a kid who’d missed the bus.
Like if he moved fast enough the whole day might rewind.
He barely made it past the first corner before hands caught his shoulders again.
Firm.
Steady.
Not violent.
But impossible to shake.
“Hey— hey— stop—”
“I’m going home!” he snapped, twisting hard. “I’m not staying here— let me go—”
His voice cracked halfway through.
It sounded pathetic even to him.
He hated that.
More staff now.
Calm faces.
Practiced movements.
Like this was familiar.
Like they’d already done this a hundred times.
And that thought—
That he wasn’t unique, wasn’t special, wasn’t even surprising—
broke something small inside his chest.
He struggled anyway.
Not because he thought he’d win.
Just because doing nothing felt worse.
His shirt rode up slightly as someone grabbed the back of it. Cool air hit his skin. His elbow knocked into the wall. Shoes scraping uselessly against the floor.
He caught flashes as they guided him back—
A doorway.
A couch.
Kids in the rec room looking up.
Whispers.
“New guy?”
“He’s freaking out.”
“Damn…”
Their eyes followed him.
He looked away fast.
Face burning.
Then the nurse’s office door again.
Too bright.
Too white.
Too final.
“Just something to help you calm down,” someone said near his ear.
He didn’t understand what they meant until the room tilted slightly.
Until his limbs started feeling heavy again.
Warm.
Slow.
Like gravity had doubled.
“…wait,” he tried.
The word came out slurred.
Everything blurred at the edges.
Voices stretching out.
Lights smearing.
The fight drained out of him all at once, like someone had pulled a plug.
His knees gave.
Hands caught him again.
Always catching.
Never letting him fall on his own.
The ceiling slid sideways in his vision.
White tiles.
Fluorescent lights.
Someone saying his name.
Then nothing.