One day in Kyoto, a boy named Mikimo Akayashiki was at school, chatting with his friend Agari Rikoto among a crowd of other students. The two of them laughed, unaware of the nightmare about to unfold. Suddenly, the piercing sound of the alarm echoed through the school, blaring like a warning siren from hell.
Panic erupted instantly. Students screamed, desks were overturned, and chaos consumed the classroom. Mikimo's heart pounded in his chest. His breath quickened, and his legs refused to move. Fear had paralyzed him. Agari grabbed his shoulder, shaking him.
"Mikimo, we gotta go! We'll be fine if we just get out of here!" Agari's voice trembled, but he forced a reassuring smile.
Mikimo swallowed hard and forced his legs to move. Together, they rushed toward the hallway, sneaking past the overturned chairs and desperate students. Just as they stepped out…someone was waiting for them.
A gang member stood at the end of the hallway, shotgun in hand. Time slowed. Mikimo locked eyes with the man just as he raised the gun.
Boom.
The deafening blast filled the air. Mikimo's ears rang. His face was speckled with warm droplets. His body stiffened as he saw Agari fall backward, his forehead split open, blood pouring out onto the floor. His best friend—dead in an instant.
Mikimo's stomach twisted. His vision blurred. His hands trembled. But survival instinct kicked in, and before he could even process what happened, he turned and sprinted toward the staircase.
The gang member grinned and gave chase, leaving Agari's lifeless body behind.
Mikimo's lungs burned as he ran, his feet pounding against the floor. He didn't stop—not even when he felt like his legs would give out. He reached the front doors, slammed them open—though they weren't locked—and burst outside…only to be met with a sight that shattered his world completely.
Kyoto was in ruins.
Buildings crumbled, fires spread like a plague, and black smoke choked the sky. Planes spiraled out of control, crashing into streets. Cars exploded, the impact sending debris flying in all directions. Helicopters twisted violently, slamming into skyscrapers, sending glass shards raining down like knives.
Mikimo's body shook. His breathing became ragged. His mind screamed at him to wake up from this nightmare.
Then, a voice whispered in his head.
"Go home. Find your sister."
His parents were on a trip on the other side of Japan. His sister was the only family he had nearby. He had to get to her. He had to protect her.
Without wasting a second, he sprinted through the ruined city, dodging debris, weaving through the wreckage of what was once a peaceful home. People screamed around him. Blood stained the sidewalks. Corpses littered the streets.
By the time he reached his house, the front door was ajar.
Dread gripped his heart.
Slowly, he pushed the door open.
Inside, a Yakuza leader stood in the dimly lit room, his face shadowed under the flickering light. He had his older sister in his grasp, a gun pressed against her temple and a knife hovering just above her throat.
"If you come any closer, I'll slit her throat," the Yakuza leader sneered. "And if you even think about calling the police…I'll high-five her head with a bullet."
Mikimo froze. He felt cold. His body wanted to collapse, but he couldn't let it happen. His sister's terrified eyes pleaded for help, tears running down her cheeks.
Very slowly, he moved his hand behind him, fingers fumbling for his phone. He pressed the emergency number without taking his eyes off the Yakuza leader.
But the leader saw it. His smirk widened.
"Time to say goodbye."
Mikimo's world shattered again.
A single movement—too fast for Mikimo to react.
The blade sliced across his sister's throat, and almost immediately, a gunshot rang out. Blood spattered against the wall. She crumpled like a ragdoll.
Mikimo's mind went blank. His body moved on its own.
Rage—pure, uncontrollable rage—took over. He launched himself at the Yakuza leader, knocking him to the ground. His fingers found a knife on the floor, gripping it tightly. The man struggled, growling, but Mikimo pressed the blade against his throat.
"Talk," Mikimo hissed.
The leader grinned, defiant.
Wrong answer.
Mikimo's fingers dug into the man's eye sockets, forcing a scream out of him. The leader writhed, his body twisting under Mikimo's grip.
And then, with a single motion, Mikimo drove the knife into his throat.
The gurgling sound was the last thing the Yakuza leader ever made.
Mikimo sat there, breathless, the bloodied knife still in his grip. His body shook, his vision swam, but he didn't cry. He couldn't. The world had already taken everything from him.
And now…he had nothing left but revenge.