The apartment door opened slowly, accompanied by a click too soft to prepare anyone for what lay inside.
"Honey, I'm ho—"
The words died in his throat.
Work shoes still on his feet, his jacket still slung over his shoulder, his breath caught instantly when his eyes took in the two figures in the narrow living room. The lights were brightly lit. The curtains are half open. And on the sofa he had bought through long instalments, his wife sat far too close to a man he knew all too well.
The man looked up first. Neatly styled hair, an expensive shirt, a gleaming wristwatch. A face that gave him orders at the office every single day.
His boss.
"Ah…" The man smiled faintly, the same professional smile he always wore during meetings. "You're home early today."
His wife turned her head. Her face wasn't pale. She wasn't surprised. Only one eyebrow lifted slightly, as if annoyed.
"You're already home?" she said flatly. "Why didn't you say so?"
The air in his chest collapsed.
"Wh—" His voice came out hoarse. "What is this?"
There was no immediate answer. His wife stood up, straightening her blouse with an unhurried motion. His boss remained seated, even crossing his legs, as if this were his own space.
"You're misunderstanding," his wife finally said, but her tone was hollow, without any attempt to convince. "We were just talking."
"On the sofa?" He took one step forward, his knees feeling weak. "That close?"
His boss chuckled softly. "Don't overreact. Your wife simply needed someone she could talk to… like an adult."
That word, adult, hit harder than a slap.
"Aster," she said, calling her husband's name, or at least letting those five characters slip from her lips with irritation. "Don't make this complicated."
He stared at her, his eyes trembling. "Since when?"
She clicked her tongue. "Does that really matter?"
"Since when?!" His voice rose, cracking.
Silence fell for a moment. Then his wife laughed softly. Not a nervous laugh, but a mocking one.
"If you really want to know," she said, folding her arms, "since I got tired of living in poverty with someone who comes home every night carrying nothing but excuses."
The words struck dead centre.
"I work," he said weakly. "I try."
"Try?" His wife glanced toward the boss. "Look at him. A clear position, a clear salary, a clear future. Not a contract that makes you anxious every year."
The boss stood up now, adjusting his own shoulder with confidence. "You're a good man," he said, as if offering charity. "But being good alone isn't enough in the real world, right?"
His hands trembled.
"So… all of this?" He gestured at the sofa, the room, the life he thought was his. "You don't feel guilty at all?"
His wife let out a long sigh, clearly annoyed. "I'm more surprised you're still standing there. You should've known your place."
"Known my place?"
"Yes," she said sharply. "You failed as the head of this family. Don't blame me for finding someone more suitable."
Each word tore something inside him apart. He wanted to get angry. To shout. But all that came out was heavy breathing and an empty stare.
The boss picked up his jacket. "I'll head out," he said casually. "You two can sort out… whatever this is."
Before stepping outside, the man stopped beside him.
"Oh, and don't be late tomorrow. That project is important."
The door closed.
Silence.
His wife picked up her phone. "So what are you going to do now?" she asked without looking at him. "If you're going to make a scene, don't do it here. I'm tired."
He stood in the middle of the room, the world tilting. Everything he had built; trust, patience, love... collapsed without a trace.
"I…" His voice was barely audible. "I just wanted to come home."
She finally looked at him, coldly. "This isn't your home anymore if you can't be anything."
That was the end.
He grabbed his jacket, his hands moving on their own. There were no farewell shouts. No tears. Only unsteady steps toward the door.
The moment the door closed behind him, heavy rain greeted him, as if the sky itself had collapsed alongside him.
The city streets reflected neon lights blurred by water. He walked without direction, his jacket soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. People passed by with open umbrellas, not one of them noticing the broken man among them.
Step by step, his mind went blank.
All that remained was the sound of rain, and the life that had just been taken from him.
…
The rain had stopped, but the ground in the park was still wet. The park lamps glowed dimly, casting yellowish light on empty benches and silent paths.
There were no sounds; no children, no couples, not even insects.
Only one person stood in the middle of it.
He tilted his head toward the night sky, breathing slowly, hollow. Clouds drifted lazily, covering the pale half-moon hanging above.
"..."
No words came out. As if every question in his head was too heavy to be spoken.
What should I do now?
Where am I supposed to go?
Why am I still walking?
His hand clenched inside the pocket of his damp jacket. His chest felt tight; not because he wanted to cry, but because there was nothing left he could cry for.
"If you keep staring at the sky like that, your neck's going to hurt, you know."
The voice appeared out of nowhere.
He flinched, his body tensing on reflex. His gaze dropped immediately, turning to the side.
A man stood a few meters away. His dark jacket was open, revealing a tight shirt that showcased a muscular build; his expression was relaxed, as if an empty park in the middle of the night were just another hangout spot. A small smile curved on his lips; not mocking, but far too calm for a situation this strange.
"You…" His voice was rough. "Who are you?"
The man shrugged. "My name? Akira Date."
He stared at him for a few seconds, then let out a dry laugh. "If this is a dream, my brain is seriously exhausted."
"Could be," Date replied lightly. "Or maybe you're just at a weird point in your life."
Date stepped closer, then stopped beneath a park lamp. The light illuminated his face clearly.
"You look like someone who just lost everything," he said. "People with eyes like that are usually deciding whether to give up… or keep living."
He lowered his gaze. "What if I say I don't even know the difference anymore?"
Date grinned slightly. "An honest answer. I like that."
Silence followed.
"Why are you alone here?" Date asked.
He stayed quiet for a long moment before answering. "Because… I don't have a place to go back to."
"Home?"
"…Not anymore."
Date didn't respond right away. He leaned against a park bench, looked up at the sky for a moment, then turned back to him.
"You know," he said quietly, "I once lived for only one thing: money."
He frowned, looking at Date.
"I thought if I had enough money, everything would work out," Date continued casually. "My body was broken, my life was a mess. But as long as my wallet was thick, I was safe."
Date chuckled. "Turns out, that wasn't true."
"Then… what's the point of living?" he asked softly, almost like a whisper.
Date looked at him sharply now, but without pressure.
"The point?" he repeated. "There's no cool answer to that."
He let out a heavy breath.
"But I do know one thing," Date said. "As long as you're still standing, still breathing, your story isn't over."
"Standing?" He smiled bitterly. "I don't even know why my legs are still moving."
"Good," Date replied quickly. "That means your body's smarter than your heart."
Date then crouched down, opening a backpack that he seemed to have been carrying all along. From inside, he began taking things out one by one, placing them carefully on the wet ground.
A belt-like device. A gun that looked like a child's toy. And other components that were clearly not ordinary. The most striking among them was a strange silver tank.
"What is that…?" he asked quietly.
Date stood back up. "A tool to rise again. Or to fall even harder. Depends on the person using it."
He stared at the items without touching them. His hands trembled.
"I'm not a hero," he said quickly. "I'm not even anyone anymore."
Date laughed softly. "Who said you have to be an amazing person to be a Kamen Rider?"
He stepped closer, stopping right in front of him.
"Listen," Date said seriously, though his voice remained warm. "I didn't come here to save you. And I don't care whether you're strong or weak."
He pointed at the items on the ground.
"They're not there because you deserve them."
Date tapped his own chest.
"They're there because you're still alive."
He swallowed.
"And about that broken heart of yours," Date continued. "Leave it that way. Don't force it to be whole."
Date then turned around and began to walk away.
"Humans don't fight because they're healed," he said, waving a hand without looking back. "They fight because they aren't."
His steps paused for a moment.
"Oh, right," he added, finally turning with his trademark smile.
"If you want to be a Kamen Rider… don't look for noble reasons."
"Just find one small thing that makes you want to wake up tomorrow."
Then Date left, his figure fading into the shadows of the park, as if he had never been there.
He stood still, his breathing heavy, his gaze fixed on the tools at his feet.
His heart was still shattered. His hands still trembled.
But for the first time that night...
He didn't feel alone.
…
Three days passed without meaning.
No goals. No plans. Just footsteps that kept moving, as if stopping would mean collapsing completely.
The large silver tank was strapped firmly to his back; heavy, cold, and strangely… comforting. The Cell Medal Tank swallowed all the equipment Akira Date had left behind without a trace, as if it were made for someone who didn't want to be asked where he was going or why he was still holding on.
"..."
He kept walking from district to district. From station to station. Sleeping on public benches, in corners of parks, sometimes in cheap internet cafés when the rain fell. His body moved on autopilot; eating when he could, drinking when he remembered... never truly present.
Date's words still echoed in his mind, but he never fully understood them.
Find one small thing that makes you want to wake up tomorrow.
"Anything at all…" he murmured one night, staring at his reflection in a convenience store window. "I don't even know what's left."
On the third day, his stomach finally gave up.
His steps slowed at the side of a city street. The smell of food from small stalls stabbed at his nose, but the wallet in his pocket held only empty paper and cards that no longer mattered.
He stopped, leaning against a metal fence, his breathing heavy.
"Hungry…" he said without emotion. "Funny, isn't it… Something this simple is a problem now."
His hand reflexively touched the tank on his back.
"What's the point of all this…" he muttered. "If I don't even know why I'm still alive."
Then the voice came, sudden and sharp.
"Help—! Someone—!"
He lifted his head.
A woman's scream.
The tone was panicked, broken, real. Not a hallucination born from hunger.
He turned toward the narrow alley across the street. From there came the sound of something… not human. A low buzzing, accompanied by the clatter of many small legs scraping against asphalt.
"What now…" His breath caught.
The figure emerged from the shadows.
It was grotesque; its body like that of a giant insect, with a glossy black exoskeleton and layered jaws clicking together in a sound that made his skin crawl. Its compound eyes gleamed with hunger.
At the end of the alley, a woman had fallen to the ground. Her long hair was sprawled messily as she gasped, trying to crawl backwards with trembling hands.
"Don't come any closer!" she screamed.
He stood frozen.
His mind was empty. His body is exhausted. Logic screamed at him to run.
"This isn't my problem…" he whispered.
The monster raised itself, preparing to pounce.
The woman squeezed her eyes shut.
His hand clenched.
"I…" His voice trembled. "I don't even know why I'm still here."
His foot stepped forward before his thoughts could stop it.
The silver tank on his back felt heavier than ever.
"But if I walk away now…" His breath hitched. "What would I wake up for tomorrow?"
The monster shrieked and leapt.
And in that moment; between hunger, ruin, and confusion...
He stood his ground.
The chapter of his old life had already collapsed.
And without him realizing it...
a new chapter had just begun.