Chapter 32 - The Funeral Everyone who attended Ri Warrior Public School lived in the nearby neighborhood. That was just how public schools worked, you had to be within a certain zone to even qualify for enrollment. It also meant everything important, including today's funeral, was within a thirty-minute walk from campus. The service was being held at the local community hall, a space often rented for everything from bingo nights to birthday parties, and now, for something far more solemn. That was why Max had chosen to walk, despite the light rain falling from the grey sky. Aron, loyal as ever, was by his side, holding an umbrella above his head to shield him from the drizzle. "I still say it would've been smarter to take the car," Aron said. "You'd be there by now, and completely dry." "Right," Max replied. "And I'd step out of a car worth more than half the neighborhood. Real subtle. It's not exactly the kind of thing Batman would use to stay unnoticed..." He trailed off for a second, questioning his own comparison. Aron raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The two continued on through the quiet streets, the soft patter of rain the only sound between them. Batman was supposed to be a creature of the night, a figure who thrived in the shadows. So why did he drive around in a flashy vehicle that could be spotted from a mile away? It practically announced his arrival with a neon sign. "Anyway," Max continued, glancing sideways at Aron, "my point is, it draws attention. And you, my friend, attract plenty of that yourself." "Me? But, sir—" "Look, I know the arrangement. You're supposed to guard me on weekends. That was the deal. But today isn't exactly a normal day. I just need you to hang back and follow through with what we discussed when the time's right." Aron looked like he wanted to argue, his expression tight with reluctance. But he said nothing. And when Aron went quiet, it usually meant he was on board. "I know," Max added with a faint smirk, "if we stay apart for too long, you start getting withdrawal symptoms." As the funeral site came into view ahead, Max gave a small nod, his signal. Then, without another word, he stepped out from under the umbrella and into the drizzle. He didn't flinch. He just kept walking, letting the rain soak through. "What was the point of me shielding the young master all this time," Aron muttered under his breath, "if he's just going to get soaked anyway?" But Max had his reasons. It was a personal rule of his, one he never broke. He never brought an umbrella on the day of a funeral. To him, the rain wasn't just weather. It was the sky weeping for the one who had passed. And he believed in accepting those tears, letting them fall. At the funeral service, Sam's mother and father stood at the front of the hall, dressed in mourning black. Each time someone entered, they bowed and thanked them softly for coming. Their faces were hollow, their eyes puffy and vacant, as if they'd been crying nonstop for days. When Max stepped in, he bowed his head respectfully to both of them. "Thank you for coming," they said, voices brittle and worn. Max scanned the room as he made his way inside. Tables were lined with modest snacks and refreshments, meant to comfort the guests. Most of the people there looked to be extended family, quiet, grieving, somber. There were barely any students. In fact, Max seemed to be the only one from school who had shown up. "I wonder what happened," someone whispered nearby. "Do you think it was trouble at home?" "No, you know Nancy and Ku... they were wonderful parents," someone whispered nearby. "They did everything for their child. If I had to guess, it was probably something that happened at school." The quiet hum of gossip floated through the room, soft, hushed, but still present. It was common at gatherings like this. People trying to make sense of tragedy in whispers. After a few more guests had filtered in and paid their respects, Sam's mother and father walked slowly toward the front, where a framed picture of Sam rested beside a small urn. They lowered themselves to their knees beside it, silent, still, broken. One by one, guests were invited to take an incense stick. Each person stepped forward, lit the stick, and bowed several times before placing it in the burner. It was a tradition, a way of offering hopes, prayers, and peace to the soul of the departed. A small wish for Sam to find joy in whatever came next. Some guests lingered afterward, sharing kind words with the parents, whispers of sympathy, gentle hugs. Max waited. He didn't want eyes on him, not for this. He waited until the chatter had returned, until the attention was elsewhere. Then he moved. He stepped forward, took an incense stick between his fingers, and bowed, once, twice, again. The motion was familiar, one he had done more times than he cared to count in his life before this one. He moved forward and gently placed the incense into the holder. "You look young," a voice said. Max looked up. It was Sam's father, his tired eyes suddenly blinking with faint awareness, like he'd broken through a fog just for this moment. "Could it be... did you go to Sam's school? Were you one of Sam's friends?" his mother asked, her voice laced with desperation, clinging to the possibility. "I was one of his classmates," Max replied softly. "Because of... some things going on with me, I couldn't attend school for a while. Sam was seated next to me, so... I didn't get the chance to know him well." He saw it—how their expressions shifted the moment he said that. Disappointment, like a wave, washing over their faces. But Max didn't want to lie. Not to them. "But," Max continued, his voice steady, "in the short time I did spend with Sam... he did a lot for me. He was kind. He had this foolishly generous heart. I just... I really wish I had gotten to know him better." And like that, something changed again. The disappointment melted. In its place, a new warmth—soft, tearful smiles as fresh tears traced down their cheeks. "He was," Sam's father said with a trembling voice. "He really was such a good kid." Their sobs continued, gentle but deep, and Max gave them the moment. When it eased just enough, he spoke again. "When the service is over," Max said, "there's someone who wants to meet you. You've never seen him before, but you'll know who he is when he arrives. He'll be well-dressed, speaks like he's from a different world than ours..." "But please," Max said, voice low but firm, "do me a favor, for yourselves, and for Sam. Just... listen to what he has to say." Sam's parents looked at each other, still unsure, still lost in their grief. But eventually, they nodded. Maybe it was because Max was the only classmate who'd shown up. Maybe it was just something in his voice. Whatever it was, they chose to trust him. Rising from the floor, Max felt that he had spent enough time here. He turned, heading toward the doors, ready to leave this heavy place behind, at least for now. But then, he stopped cold. His eyes landed on the entrance, and there they were. Three figures stepped through the doorway, their presence sharp and jarring in the quiet room. Max's stomach twisted. No way. Not them. What the hell are they doing here? he thought, his fists tightening. Walking into the funeral, as if they belonged, were Ko, Mo, and Joe, the same trio responsible for so much of Sam's pain. After everything they did... after what they caused... they don't deserve to be here.