The sun pours over the brick wall. The courtyard is empty except for a juice box sitting on the bench.
Riko throws a punch. SPLAT — orange juice rockets off his fist, dripping down the bricks.
He resets his feet. Punch. Punch. Punch. The juice keeps running down the wall like a slow orange river.
Two kids shove the smaller one against the stone boulder. The cracker box clatters on the ground.
Riko's fist stops in mid-air. He just stands there, knuckles still clenched.
Riko plants his feet and raises both fists. "Back off," he says.
The taller one laughs, jerks back — and stumbles over the boulder. THUD. The other one bolts.
Riko crouches beside the little kid. He peels the last cracker from the box and holds it out.
"One punch," Riko says. He shows it — slow, neat, like a small wave.
Up on the rooftop, the wind tugs their shirts. Down on the courtyard wall, the orange smear still looks like a grinning face.