It was the summer of his eight year.

Hitomi spent those long, lazy afternoons at his grandmother’s house, stretched out on the tatami floor in front of an old but sturdy rotating fan. The soft breeze fluttered the pages of the action manga he was re-reading for what must’ve been the tenth time. He didn’t mind it, he loved tracing the sharp lines of the drawings, getting lost in the movement and drama of each panel. At times, he’d stumble across a big word he didn’t quite understand yet, but that only made it more exciting. He’d read it again and again, trying to remember it, absorbing the sound of the word into his brain.

He liked being here. Even when he was alone, he never truly felt lonely. There was always the company of the cicadas buzzing like static in the heat, the low, rattling hum of Grandma’s old refrigerator in the background, and the flutter of birds on the clothesline watching curiously as a small boy lay on his stomach, legs kicking absentmindedly, lost in adventures printed in faded ink on yellowing paper.

The house creaked occasionally. The breeze slipping through kissed Hitomi’s skin. He felt held by his surroundings, safe, calm, the way a child should always feel.

The only downside to spending time here was the absence of other children to play with. It was a quiet neighborhood, and most of the residents were around Grandma’s age. gentle, slow-moving, kind, but not exactly the best people to ride bikes or play catch with.

Still, every now and then, especially during long holidays, some of the neighbors’ grandchildren would come to visit their families. Hitomi never asked about it out loud, but he quietly hoped for it. He’d watch the street from the window or pretend not to listen when Grandma mentioned a friend’s family coming over. Just the thought of running around with someone his age, even for a day or two, filled him with quiet excitement he didn’t know how to name.

He only saw them a handful of times each year, but that was enough to notice how much they'd grown since the last time. They’d come back slightly taller, a little louder, full of stories from school, and always eager to show off some new tricks: a cartwheel, a handstand, a daring leap off the swings. Sometimes, they brought along a shiny, new toy, the ones Hitomi had only seen in commercials on TV, still smelling of plastic and the city.

Together, they’d head to the neighborhood playground, a humble stretch of land with patchy grass, a single wide tree, and a few worn wooden structures bleached by the sun. It wasn’t perfect or fancy, but it was enough to be their temporary territory for the summer.

Hitomi wasn’t much of a climber. While the others dangled from monkey bars or balanced across wobbly beams, he sat back and watched, content in the shade. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it, he just never tried. Part of him worried about his glasses slipping off or cracking. Another part feared he’d do something wrong, fall, and hurt himself. He was cautious by nature, quiet, and careful.

But still, being part of that small world, even as an observer, felt warm and good.

The other kids never thought there was anything wrong with him. They quickly understood that Hitomi was simply quieter, less energetic than the rest, but no less kind or fun to be with. If anything, he was the one who held the group together. He wasn’t loud, and even less dominating, but he had a way of stepping in when things got tense, gently smoothing over small arguments or suggesting new games when boredom crept in.

He wasn’t a leader, not exactly, but if he ever wanted to be, he probably could’ve pulled it off. He just didn’t have the ambition for that kind of spotlight. He was happy on the sidelines, watching, thinking, guiding things in his own quiet way.

One day, one of the kids brought along a bug hunting kit, a small plastic container with air holes in the lid and a bright blue net that shimmered in the sunlight. That was all it took to decide the day’s adventure. 

The idea of chasing bugs made a few of them hesitate, squirming at the thought of touching something with too many legs. Others lit up with excitement, already betting on who would catch the biggest one. Hitomi, as usual, didn’t say much; he simply nodded with agreement.

He wasn’t afraid of bugs. On the contrary, he was secretly curious. He’d watched enough documentaries about bugs on TV to grow an interest. He’d play with the ants parading along the gate of the house, let one of them walk along his finger, and let it tickle him. He was always gentle, placing them down back with their families with a slow movement. Whenever he was too rough and killed one of them by accident, he felt bad and would stop playing for the day, a mood wrecker for sure. 

The afternoon slipped by in a blur of laughter and discovery, catching beetles, peering at them up close, then releasing them back into the grass. Drawing from his documentaries, Hitomi explained why some looked the way they did, why he thought one might be female and another male. When someone grew uneasy, he was quick to soothe them; he had a natural way of calming fear.

But then, a subtle movement at the edge of his vision caught him off guard. Something crawled near the fence, something unfamiliar.

The creature was strange, unsettling, long and wormlike, covered with too many legs, its body writhing in an odd, curling pattern through the grass as if pulled by invisible strings.

Without hesitation, Hitomi placed his palm in its way. The many sticky legs clung to his skin, tickling as they worked their way across his fingers and slowly crept up his wrist in a steady rhythm.

The other children recoiled, startled by his calmness. A few shouted for him to drop it; others backed away, their faces twisted with a mix of awe and disgust.

“What bug is that?” one of them asked, voice thin with both fear and fascination.

“Maybe some kind of worm… I’ve never seen one like this before,” Hitomi answered, eyes lit with excitement.

But one child, more unnerved than the rest, called for an adult. By chance, it was Hitomi’s father who came running from nearby.

And when he saw the source of the commotion, his face drained.

Hitomi stood there, smiling faintly, with a venomous centipede winding its way up his arm.

Hitomi’s dad stopped short at the sight: his son, quiet as ever, cradling a dangerous bug as though it were a harmless pet. For a moment, his expression flickered with alarm, but instead of yelling, he let out a low laugh.

“Damn, you’re fearless,” he muttered, already fishing out the little camera he was carrying around that day. The shutter clicked, capturing the image of his boy with danger crawling up his arm, as if he had no sense of danger whatsoever.

The other kids stared, waiting for him to snatch the bug away or scold Hitomi. But he only shook his head with a grin, amused by his son’s recklessness, as though it were nothing more than a funny story to tell later.

“Come on, Hitomi,” his dad said in a calm, almost playful tone, “drop that poor bug. Did you know those things can bite? Hurts like hell if they do. Better let him go back home.”

Obediently, Hitomi lowered his hand, watching the centipede slip back into the grass.

For the first time, doubt pricked at him. Maybe his dad was right, maybe he had been too careless. What if it really had bitten him? What if he had collapsed in front of his friends, humiliated, helpless?

A hot blush rose in his cheeks. The thought of being hurt, not the pain itself, and the embarrassment of it burned far sharper than the danger he had just cradled so fearlessly.

Ever since then, Hitomi questioned what danger really was. Other children shrieked at things that barely stirred him: shadows darting through grass, the flicker of wings, the brush of an insect with too many legs. He watched their fear with confusion, unable to understand why his own chest stayed so calm, why his pulse never quickened.

Maybe it wasn’t courage at all. Maybe it was something else, something bent in him. Perhaps his instincts for fear and survival were simply miswired, pointing in the wrong direction.

He remembers that day with the centipede as a core memory, lodged in him like a splinter: the moment he realized danger was not absolute. For him, it had crawled across his palm and up his arm like an invitation, like a test. He hadn’t recoiled, hadn’t flinched, on the contrary… he had welcomed it.

In hindsight, it felt like a bad omen that imprinted itself on his skin. A venomous creature winding its way around him as if to claim him, as if whispering that he belonged closer to peril than to safety.

And from then on, the thought came to his mind from time to time, maybe danger wasn’t something outside of him at all.

Perhaps it had always been inside, lying in wait like a venom, biding its time until it consumed him.