My name is Shin Chihiro, it's Japanese if you couldn't tell and it means "Truth-Seeker." It's because I sought the truth that I lay on the cold grey pavement ground bleeding out from gun-shot wounds that hit my vitals.

I'll be dead long before help arrives, so I might as well recount the story of my life and how I pathetically ended up somewhere in the filthy backstreets of metropolitan Tokyo.

Let's quickly go over my childhood, I was born in America to two entrepreneur parents who were constantly away and left me in the care of my uncle. He is a mystery and horror writer who was a big fan of Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. I'm personally more of a Hercule Poirot and Agathe Christie fan, I say this because I've never picked up a Sherlock Holmes novel in my life. One of the many regrets that'll go unfulfilled.

My uncle was a somewhat eccentric man who was devoted to his work. During his and my free time, we would both watch movies or read novels. While regular kids watched superhero movies, cartoons and whatever shows or movies girls watch, me and my uncle watched the latest horror masterpieces and mysteries that leave you questioning your own existence and reality.

Anyways, increased exposure to murder mysteries, shocking betrayals, and gruesome gore made me develop an interest for digging deeper into the darkness. You know how all boys seem to hit that chuuni-stage when they're twelve? That was when I solved my first mystery. 

I still remember how I broke into Mr. Gargoci's home in the dead of night and accidentally uncovering his secret drug stash. Then I reported my findings to the cops (which took a lot of convincing and sitting through several lectures by the local authorities) and the next day, I saw Mr. Gargoci get arrested on TV and have his connections to the Italian Mafia revealed. (I'll be honest with you, I didn't actually expect him to be a Mafia member, I just thought he was some minor crook.)

Of course, my involvement with his arrest was kept secret for safety purposes and so the police could save face. Can't blame them, if word got out a prepubescent boy managed to take down a dangerous cartel member that's evaded the authorities for years, they would be made into a laughing stock. Unfortunately for them, they still became the butt of everyone's jokes. Why? 

After that Gargoci case, I went on to solve other cases.

The theft of a ten million dollar diamond, the murder of several important and influential people, the whereabouts of several major crime organisations. The case that truly skyrocketed me to national, no, worldwide fame was solving the murder of a famous singer. (I'm not much of a music person, I long forgot her name.)

The moment I solved the dead singer case. My career and fame as a teenage sleuth skyrocketed. Many celebrities, influential figures and wealthy individuals invited me to all sorts of events, every single case I solved was guaranteed to go on TV. 

Whenever I'm spotted in public, everyone would rush over to get an autograph. 

Every time I woke up in the morning, I can expect there to be a pile of gifts and fan letters waiting for me at the front door.

All the girls wanted me, I've even managed to snag a few dates with some of the hottest and richest girls in the world. Although it always ended in a break-up due to either their toxic personality or distance issues.

Even if I can't have a girlfriend, I'm rich! Each case I solve earns me several tens of thousands of dollars! I'm already a literal millionaire at this point. Even if the millions I have are only in the single digits.

My point is, life was going great for me. Until I stupidly accepted an invitation to go back to my ancestor's land of origins.

Now, we get to the part of how I'm dying in the streets of Tokyo, Japan.

Crap, I think I only have less than a minute left before I go see God, Yama, Hades or whoever it is that's going to judge me.

I wish I was dead already, I might sound like I'm fine but being shot by actual lead bullets is no joke.

Oh, my vision is going dark, I guess I wasted my one minute.

Can't believe I'm going to die at the young age of seventeen in these filthy Japanese backstreets.

If I had known I was going to die in Japan, I would have bought an actual Japanese manga, ate at a conveyor sushi restaurant, visited a hot spring and sent one final e-mail to my uncle. Thanking him for all the time he spent taking care of me.

I gave one last good look at the neon buildings surrounding me, took a breath and closed my eyes.