To Hayate, clothes were not just pieces of fabric for dressing up. They were a modest symbol of salvation for those who feel "I look a little better" the moment they put them on. Standing before the mirror in the morning. Slipping into a new jacket on a night after a breakup. The way the heart leaps when finding a favorite piece in a crowd. In those moments, clothes become magic. That is why Hayate chose the path of fashion. But reality was not so sweet.

At the school exhibition. Among the students' works lined up in the hallway, Hayate's design sketches passed through without a ripple. No awards, no mention in the critiques. In the next booth, a classmate was being praised by an instructor. "This is an interesting idea," they laughed. Hayate let the conversation wash over his back as he bought a canned coffee from the vending machine. The sound of the tab opening echoed with startling loudness.

Hayate started to take out his phone but stopped. Night invitations, drinking buddies—none of it mattered right now. Instead, he grabbed his pack of cigarettes and headed up the stairs to the roof. Stepping over the "No Entry" chain, he pushed open the rusted door with the broken lock. This was Hayate's private space. The concrete of the roof was cold. The November wind crept through the gaps in his jacket. Hayate leaned his back against the fence and lit a cigarette. The purple smoke rose slowly, dissolving into the gray sky. He felt as though something was gradually wearing away along with the smoke he exhaled.