Night.
The only light in the room came from the monitor.
Renji sat at his desk, slightly hunched forward, headphones on. The screen flashed with colors, skill effects, and fast movements. His fingers pressed the keys automatically, without thought.
He had been playing for a long time. Too long.
Outside the window, the city was quiet. That kind of quiet that felt heavier than noise. A car passed somewhere in the distance, the sound fading almost immediately.
Renji's eyes stayed on the screen, but his thoughts didn't.
The street came back to him.
The crowd.
Miyuki.
That brief look something about it had shifted inside him, like he had seen the world from a different angle.
If things were as simple as a game…
You lose, you restart. You win, and it's over.
His character collapsed on the screen.
"…damn," Renji muttered.
He took off his headphones and leaned back in his chair. The room became painfully quiet again. The clock on the wall showed well past midnight.
Renji closed his eyes.
And somewhere else in the city.
The alley was crowded.
Girls and guys moved forward in a dense flow, as if drawn toward the same place. Conversations overlapped, laughter sounded a little too loud, like people were trying to hide their tension.
At the end of the alley stood a door.
It was open.
Beyond it was an empty space. An old market. Bare concrete floor, exposed walls, a faint smell of dampness. A place stripped of everything unnecessary.
A boy stepped out of the doorway.
He stopped at the entrance and calmly looked over the crowd. His presence alone changed the mood the noise softened, movements slowed.
From the center of the crowd, another boy stepped forward and faced him.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
The boy at the door didn't look away.
"And what's your name?" came next.
A brief pause.
"Shinya," he said. "Shinya Kyoto."
Low voices rippled through the crowd.
"Did you come here for no reason?" the boy in the center asked.
Shinya took a step forward.
"No," he said. "I didn't come here for nothing."
There was no aggression in his voice.
But there was no hesitation either.
Fukuoka.
The station was alive with noise. People rushed past, talked, laughed, argued. Announcements echoed one after another. Suitcases rolled endlessly across the floor.
On the platform stood a boy with white hair.
He was fifteen years old. A suitcase rested in his hand. He stood slightly apart from everyone else, as if he had arrived too early or too late.
His gaze was lowered.
A train pulled into the metro platform. The sound of metal spread through the station, and the crowd suddenly moved faster, as if pushed by something invisible.
Then it began to rain.
At first, softly. Then harder. Drops struck the roof, ran along the edges of the platform. The floor grew wet, reflecting the station lights and distorting the shapes of people.
The boy didn't move.
People brushed past his shoulder, but he didn't react. The suitcase remained beside him, heavy, as if it carried more than just belongings.
The train doors opened.
Slowly, he raised his head.
Noise, light, and rain blended together, creating the feeling of standing between what had already ended and what was about to begin.
The train waited.