Tokyo was always loud, always moving. The city never stopped. It never cared.
Umbrellas swayed in the sea of people moving through the rain-soaked streets. The neon glow of convenience stores and billboards flickered against the wet pavement. Conversations blurred into background noise.
But for Ethan Kisaragi, none of it mattered.
He walked with his head down, his hoodie pulled up to hide his face. The plastic bag in his hand swayed, filled with the same cheap meal he always bought—instant curry and onigiri. Not because he liked it, but because it was cheap and easy to eat alone.
Laughter rang out from a nearby alley.
"Damn, that guy's built like a sumo wrestler!"
"Fatass probably eats enough for three people."
"Hey, maybe if you run, you can burn some of that off!"
Ethan clenched the bag tighter, but he didn't look up.
Don't react. If you react, they'll only enjoy it more.
As he passed a small ramen stall, the scent of soy broth made his stomach twist. He wanted to stop, to sit down like everyone else and enjoy a meal without feeling like a monster invading someone else's space.
But he remembered the last time.
The middle-aged woman had flinched when his fingers brushed hers while taking his change.
"Oi, don't touch me. Just take your food and go."
She wiped her hands on her apron as if he had contaminated her. The other customers had laughed.
That day, he had eaten in an alley, alone.
His childhood was no better.
At the dinner table—"Ethan, don't eat so much. You're already big enough."
At school—"Why are you breathing so loud? Go sit somewhere else."
At home—"Play outside? People will stare. Just stay inside, okay?"
He wasn't a person. He was a problem. A burden they tolerated.
As he walked, rain started falling harder. Great. He hadn't brought an umbrella.
With a sigh, he trudged forward, his sneakers soaking through.
"Maybe I should just disappear."
Then—a honk. Loud. Urgent.
His head snapped up.
A little girl—maybe five or six—was in the middle of the street, frozen.
Her tiny body shook as she clutched a stuffed rabbit. Her eyes were wide, terrified.
A truck was coming.
The driver was honking wildly, screaming for her to move.
But she didn't.
She was paralyzed.
Ethan's breath hitched. Move. Move!
But his legs wouldn't.
His heart pounded against his ribs.
He knew what he should do.
But the thought of stepping forward, of throwing himself into danger—his body refused.
What if he failed?
What if he tripped?
What if people just laughed at his stupid, pathetic attempt?
He hesitated.
And then he saw her eyes.
She was going to die.
MOVE!
His plastic bag slipped from his fingers. It hit the ground with a soft splash.
Then—he ran.
His feet slammed against the pavement, every step feeling like lead. The rain blurred his vision.
The truck was too close.
He reached her—grabbed her small body—and threw her as hard as he could toward the sidewalk.
For a moment, he thought—I did it.
Then—impact.
Pain. Blinding, bone-shattering pain.
His body hit the pavement with a sickening crack.
The world spun. The sky, the lights, the street—all upside down.
He tasted iron. Blood filled his mouth.
The screams around him faded. The rain felt warmer now.
He could barely see anymore, his vision dimming.
"Dying like this… kinda suits me, doesn't it?"
He let out a weak, breathless laugh.
"I never even finished my book."
How pathetic. His one story—his only escape—left unfinished.
He closed his eyes.
Then—a voice.
Deep. Unfamiliar. But it didn't call him Ethan.
"Altair."
His breath hitched.
"What…?"
The voice came again, closer.
"Wake up, Altair."
The city vanished.
And the last thing he felt—was the world pulling him away.