Noah's PAST: Saved by a women
The memory came without warning.
Noah was small again.
Too small.
He stood at the edge of an alley behind the houses, fingers curled tight around the straps of his worn backpack. Three older boys were laughing ahead of him, their shadows long against the concrete. At their feet, a cardboard box lay overturned.
Inside it—movement.
A weak sound.
Kittens.
One of the boys nudged the box with his shoe. Another laughed when one of the kittens tried to crawl away, slipping on the rough ground.
"Hey," Noah said.
His voice didn't carry. It barely existed.
The boys turned. Looked at him. Then laughed harder.
"What are you gonna do?" one of them asked.
Noah didn't know. He only knew he couldn't leave them there.
He stepped forward.
The first hit knocked the breath out of him. The second sent him to the ground. Someone kicked dirt into his face. Someone else told him to stay down.
He did.
When it was over, the boys got bored and left. The alley went quiet again, except for the kittens.
Noah pushed himself up, every movement burning. His hands shook as he picked up the box and dragged it into the shade. He tore open his lunch bag, poured water into the lid, set it near them.
It wasn't enough. He knew it wasn't.
The next day,
They were there, Noah didn't hesitate to get involved again.
This time, someone came.
She stood in the alley as if she belonged to it—older, taller, hair tied back loosely. She looked at the box, then at Noah's bruises.
She yelled at the bullies, they ran away.
She didn't ask questions.
She took out her phone.
Her voice was calm as she spoke to someone on the other end. Clear. Certain. She described the situation, the location, the boys. She stayed until a van arrived, until the kittens were gently lifted away, until the alley was empty again.
Only then did she crouch down in front of him.
"You shouldn't fight people bigger than you," she said.
Noah clenched his fists. "They were hurting them."
She studied him for a moment. Then she smiled—small, tired, but real.
"You're not wrong," she said. "But there are better ways to protect things."
She stood, brushed the dust off her hands, and turned to leave.
"Wait," Noah blurted out.
She paused.
"I'll get big," he said quickly. "Really big. And strong. And—and I'll marry you."
For a second, she just stared.
Then she laughed.
Not mockingly. Not unkindly.
She reached out, ruffled his hair once, and said, "Focus on growing up first."
Then she walked away.
She never came back.
[BACK TO PRESENT]
"Noah."
The present snapped into place.
He blinked.
The classroom was quiet. Too quiet.
The new teacher stood at the front, chalk paused mid-air. Calm eyes rested on him—not accusing, not warm.
Ms. Mai set the chalk down.
Straight posture. Controlled breath.
"Class 3B," she said."Morning. I'm Ms. Mai. I'll be your homeroom teacher this term."
Her gaze swept the room once.Nothing lingered. Nothing missed.
"Let's begin."
"…Sorry," Noah said automatically.
A few students snickered. Lilly glanced at him, confused.
"It's fine," the teacher said. Her voice was even. "Since you're already engaged, why don't you answer?"
She asked a simple question. Too simple.
Noah answered without thinking.
The teacher nodded once and continued the lesson, but something had shifted. Noah could feel it, like a string pulled tight and left that way.
He couldn't stop looking at her.
She looked the same. Older, obviously—but the posture, the way she stood as if the room adjusted around her. It fit the memory too well.
It has to be her.
At the front of the room, the teacher felt his gaze like weight.
Not hostile.
Focused.
She didn't recognize him. Not really. Faces from that long ago blurred together, lost to time and work and other assignments.
But his attention lingered too long. Too openly.
Emotional anchor, she noted internally.
That made him unpredictable.
During the lesson, she asked him one more question. This time, she watched closely—how long it took him to respond, how his eyes moved, whether he scanned the room.
He didn't.
He answered like a normal student.
Too normal.
That bothered her more than silence would have.
Lilly noticed the tension even if she didn't understand it.
Noah barely spoke to her between periods. His eyes followed the teacher whenever she moved. Lilly caught the way the teacher's gaze returned—brief, measuring, then gone.
It felt like standing between two people speaking a language she couldn't hear.
Is she watching us? Lilly thought.
The idea settled uncomfortably in her chest.
Between classes, the teacher stood alone by the window, pretending to review notes. In reality, she recorded impressions in her mind.
Subject: Sato Noah.
Behavior: inattentive but honest.
Reaction to observation: none.
Conclusion: inconclusive. Monitor closely.
She erased nothing. Added no emotion.
[CONTROL ROOM - OVERSIGHT STATION]
In the control room, feeds split and shifted—crime data in one corner, school corridors in another.
"The assigned agent has eyes on them," someone reported.
The Chief Commander nodded. "Good."
"And Unit Zero?"
"Already moving."
No celebration followed. Only acknowledgment.
The school feed remained live.
Noah and Lilly walked together down the hallway. Ordinary. Unaware.
At the front of the building, the teacher watched them leave. From her angle, it looked like coordination.
From Noah's, it was familiarity.
From Lilly's, it was danger.
The bell rang.
And somewhere between memory and misunderstanding, a promise made years ago quietly tightened its grip on the present.