Haruto Kurogane woke up every morning with the same tired mantra looping in his head: Aaj shayad kuch alag ho.
It never was.
The cracked screen of his old smartphone lit up at 6:45 AM, alarm screeching like a dying crow. He slapped it quiet without opening his eyes, then lay motionless on the thin futon, staring at the water-stained ceiling of his Shinjuku shoebox apartment. Rain drummed steadily against the single window—Tokyo's signature soundtrack. The air smelled of yesterday's instant miso ramen, stale laundry, and the faint metallic bite of exhaust from the street below.
Another day of being nobody in a city of millions. Mazaa aa raha hai.
He forced himself upright, joints popping like old wood. In the tiny bathroom mirror, the same face greeted him: messy black hair that fell into eyes too dark and tired for seventeen, pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, faint shadows under the lids. Half-Indian from his mother's side—her dark hair and warm brown eyes he'd inherited—half-Japanese from his father's quiet, precise features. The mix should have made him interesting. Instead, it made him a question mark no one bothered to answer.
Back in Mumbai, life had been loud, messy, colorful. Crowded local trains rattling through monsoon puddles, hawkers shouting "Vada pav! Chai garam!" at every station, Diwali nights exploding with firecrackers and the smell of sweets frying in ghee. People bumped into you, cursed you, laughed with you. You existed because the chaos forced it.
Here? Tokyo swallowed him whole. No bumps. No curses. Just polite avoidance.
He pulled on his Seika High uniform—navy blazer slightly too big, white shirt wrinkled, gray trousers with a stubborn crease—and grabbed his bag. A half-eaten onigiri from the konbini fridge went in as breakfast. Out the door, down the narrow stairs, into the gray morning.
The Yamanote Line platform was already a sea of black umbrellas and blank faces. When the train arrived, he was swept inside like debris in a current. Bodies pressed close—too close for comfort, too distant for connection. A salaryman's briefcase jabbed his thigh. A high-school girl's earbuds leaked faint pop music. No one met his eyes. No one said excuse me.
Haruto leaned against the door, earbuds in, volume cranked to drown the silence. An old anime opening played—something dramatic about fighting fate. Ironic.
Invisible. Not the cool kind where you sneak into places. The pathetic kind where even mirrors ignore you.
A memory surfaced unbidden: Age nine, Dadar station during rush hour. He'd lost his mother's hand in the surge. Screamed her name—"Maa!"—voice lost in the roar of announcements and horns. People flowed around him like water around a stone. No one stopped. When she finally pushed through, tears on her face, she'd pulled him into a crushing hug. "Tu hamesha dikhega mujhe, beta. Hamesha."
She left two years later—back to India for "family reasons" that were never explained. Letters stopped after a while. Dad grew quieter. And the world stopped seeing Haruto at all.
The train hissed to a stop. He let the crowd carry him out, up escalators, through ticket gates, to the gray gates of Seika High.
Class 2-B was the usual: back-row corner seat by the window. He doodled absentmindedly—coiling shadows, chains wrapping around faceless figures—while the history teacher droned about isolationist policies. No one asked for his notes. No one passed him a note. He was part of the furniture, like the chipped desk or the flickering fluorescent light.
Lunch break: rooftop escape. He sat against the chain-link fence, convenience store bento open on his lap—cold karaage, rice going sticky. Tokyo stretched below: skyscrapers piercing low clouds, neon signs already flickering in the premature dusk. Rain started again, soft at first, then heavier.
Why do I keep showing up? What's the point?
Afternoon blurred into more lectures, more silence. Final bell rang like a release. He grabbed his bag, umbrella up, and headed home through the back alleys—shortcut past the konbini, narrow path lined with overflowing bins and flickering vending machines.
The rain turned the ground into a mirror maze. Puddles everywhere, reflecting distorted neon in reds and blues. The air felt thicker today, charged, like right before lightning.
He stopped at a wide puddle blocking the path.
His reflection looked up.
Not mirroring his slouched posture or neutral face. It stood straight. Stared. Eyes unnaturally wide, mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.
Haruto's breath caught. He blinked—hard. Rubbed his eyes with wet sleeve.
The reflection didn't blink back. It leaned closer, palms pressing upward against the water's surface like trapped under glass, fingers splaying.
Cold seeped into his bones—not from rain, but from inside.
Then the shadow at his feet twitched.
Independent of him. Independent of light.
It stretched longer, darker—ink bleeding across concrete. Thin tendrils rose like smoke, curling lazily toward his sneakers.
Heart hammering, Haruto stepped back. Umbrella slipped from numb fingers, clattering.
The shadow spoke.
Not sound. A voice in his skull—low, raspy, ancient, like wind scraping through rusted iron.
"You finally noticed."
"Who the hell are you?" he thought-shouted, panic rising.
The shadow laughed—slow, cracking like dry bones.
It rippled, shapes forming within: writhing chains, razor-edged blades, a towering silhouette with glowing crimson slits where eyes should be.
"I am what was forgotten. The anger you choked down. The emptiness you carried. The part of you no one wanted to see."
"Including you."
Haruto's knees buckled. He reached out—to push, to deny. Fingers sank into solid darkness. Cold. Alive. Pulsing with something hungry.
Pain exploded—not physical, but existential. Memories tore free like pages ripped from a book.
Mumbai Diwali: fireworks painting the sky gold and red, his mother's laugh as she lit sparklers, father's rare smile over sweets. Then gaps. Black voids swallowing the warmth. His hand—translucent now, edges dissolving into mist.
No—no stop—
Power flooded in reverse. Violent rush. Strength. Rage. For the first time, something saw him. Wanted him. Claimed him.
Black vines snaked up his arm—living tattoos of shadow, coiling tight. Veins burned with electric fire. The alley lights dimmed, flickered, died for a heartbeat.
Rain slowed mid-fall, droplets hanging like glass beads.
Haruto gasped, collapsing to his knees. The vines retracted. Shadow sank back under him—patient, waiting.
Breathing ragged, he stared at his hand. Still fading at the edges, but slower now. A mark. A contract.
In the puddle nearest him, the reflection grinned wider.
And this time… Haruto's own lips twitched upward.
Because for once, he wasn't alone in the dark.
But deep down, a whisper remained:
What price comes with being seen?