So this is Tokyo, huh…"
The city stretched out beneath the gray morning sky — neon lights fading, trains roaring in the distance.
I dragged my suitcase into a taxi and gave the driver an address from a crumpled paper. Fifteen minutes later, I stood in front of a small apartment building. Nothing fancy.
"This place looks decent enough to live in," I muttered. Then I sighed. "Oh right… I still have to go to school. Tch. How annoying. But that's life."
I tossed my bag on the couch, counted what little cash I had left, and turned on the TV. I didn't even realize when I passed out.
Morning already?
I rubbed my eyes, got dressed in the new uniform, and just as I grabbed my bag—
Knock knock.
"Azazel! Time to head out. You can eat on the way," a woman's voice called.
I opened the door. My handler — early 30s, sharp eyes, faint smile.
"You look alive today," she said.
"How old are you again?"
"Sixteen," I replied. "Why are you asking? You already have my file."
She chuckled. "Just being friendly. You'll be seeing a lot of me, kid."
I rolled my eyes but followed her down the hall.
Name: Azazel.
Age: Sixteen.
Origin: Born in Egypt, raised in the U.S.
They say my date of birth is "unknown." I say it's "none of their business."
A few months ago, I was deported after a sting operation. Apparently, sixteen-year-olds aren't supposed to be information brokers.
Lucky me.
"Good luck, kid," the handler said as we stopped in front of the school gates.
"Good luck, my ass," I muttered under my breath.
The moment I stepped inside, every pair of eyes turned toward me. Great. Just what I needed.
A teacher spotted me and smiled nervously. "Ah, you must be the transfer student. Follow me."
I waited outside the classroom as the teacher went in first.
"Class, we have a new student joining us today," she said brightly. "Please be kind."
The door slid open.
"Come in and introduce yourself."
I stepped inside. Dozens of curious faces stared back.
"Yo. Name's Azazel. Sixteen. My hobbies are reading, cooking, and video games. You know, basic stuff."
Silence. Then whispers.
The teacher smiled awkwardly. "Thank you, Azazel. Please, take a seat."
I sat by the window — classic anime spot — and stared outside.
The bell rang. Lunch break.
A group of students surrounded my desk instantly.
"Hey, where are you from?"
"Is Azazel your real name?"
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
I sighed. Figures. People are always curious about the things they don't understand.
Lunchtime found me on the school roof, the chain-link fence a cage offering a view of a Tokyo I didn't yet know. The bell to end lunch was a distant siren call, pulling me back to the classroom.
"Hey, Azazel-kun," a female classmate—I think her name was Aiko—asked as I slid back into my seat. "What club are you going to join?"
I leaned back, the picture of casual contemplation. "I was thinking the basketball club," I said, a lazy smirk playing on my lips. "But that's too easy. I think I'll go with the Kendo Club. A bit of discipline might be interesting."
[A Surprisingly Cliché Choice!]
To my surprise, she didn't just nod. Instead, she produced a formal application form from her notebook and slid it onto my desk.
I raised an eyebrow. "Isn't joining a club something you do in April?" Our school year had already started; this was unusual.
She gave a small, formal smile. "The homeroom teacher told me to give this to you. Specifically. He said, 'Even if it's not April, give it to him.'"
So, they're already trying to corral the new, potentially troublesome transfer student, I mused. Fine. I scrawled my signature on the paperwork, the ink a binding contract to a normality I had no intention of embracing.
After school, I found myself in the Kendo club room. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and determination, the rhythmic thwack of shinai against armor a monotonous drumbeat. I did nothing but watch. Guess I'm just going to observe today, I thought. I wasn't supposed to be here, but everyone was too focused on their practice to pay me any mind.
A glance at my phone. 6:13 PM. "The school timeline is different here," I muttered. It was time for my real after-school activity.
Stepping out into the neon-drenched evening, I pulled out my phone. The search was simple: "How to find the Yakuza." The internet, in its terrifying honesty, didn't even flinch. It immediately pointed me toward entertainment districts like Kabukicho in Shinjuku and Roppongi.