The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the dim apartment, competing with the scratch of pencil on paper.
Haruki Arai sat hunched over his cluttered desk, surrounded by scattered manga pages, ink-stained tissues, and the soft glow of his desk lamp. The rest of the room lay in silence, like it was holding its breath.
His breathing was slow, labored. A hand occasionally drifted to his chest, where the scar from his third heart surgery throbbed like a brand. But he pushed on. One more page. One more panel. One more expression of a character that no one had ever met, and probably never would.
His fingers ached. His spine burned. And still—he drew.
The knock came hard. Familiar. Annoyed.
He ignored it.
Then came the voice:
"Haruki! Open the damn door!"
A pause.
"I know you're in there. You haven't responded in three days. You're not a damn ghost yet, are you?"
Haruki sighed and shuffled to the door. He opened it without a word.
Makoto Nagano stood there, dressed in business casual, with eyes like fire and a grip on Haruki's shoulder the moment he stepped inside.
"You look like crap."
Haruki shrugged. "I've looked worse."
Makoto tossed a glance at the room. "You call this living? Jesus, man. You haven't eaten. You haven't left. Your heart can't keep this up."
"I'm working."
"On what? Another draft no one will read?" Makoto snapped, regret flashing instantly on his face. "Damn it, that came out wrong—"
"No," Haruki interrupted, bitter smile forming. "You meant it. So just say it, Makoto. Say I'm wasting my life."
Makoto's fists tightened. "You need a real job. Something stable. With health insurance. You're killing yourself chasing some dream that—"
"That you don't believe in," Haruki finished for him.
Silence.
Makoto looked down. "I just… I don't want to see you die, man. You've had three surgeries. You're not built to live like this. If you keep doing this to yourself—"
"Then maybe I'll finally be at peace," Haruki said quietly.
Makoto's eyes widened, hurt and anger and helplessness fighting in his face. "You're all I've got left, Haruki. But if you keep pushing everyone away... I can't stay and watch you fall apart."
He left without another word.
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
---
Haruki sat back at his desk. His pencil trembled, but his lips whispered:
"He doesn't believe in it... But they will."
He picked up a fresh page and began to draw. The new idea—his jewel, his magnum opus—flowed from his fingers like blood.
He poured himself into it. Day after day. Night after night. No rest. No food. No medication. Just art and desperation.
After a week, he stood outside a publisher's office.
They handed the manuscript back with blank smiles and generic apologies. Not what we're looking for at the moment. Lacks market appeal.
Rejection after rejection. Email after email.
Back in his apartment, Haruki stared at the final reply.
No family.
No love.
No money.
Not even a healthy body.
And now... not even a friend who believes in him.
He chuckled. Dry and bitter.
"Why would he? I'm a failure."
His gaze drifted to the window.
The night was quiet. The city lights twinkled like they belonged to a different world. One that had already moved on without him.
Haruki stood. Walked to the balcony.
The wind welcomed him like an old friend.
He climbed the railing.
For the first time in a long while… he felt calm.
"Maybe… they'll finally see my story," he whispered.
And then—
He let go.
1:04 A.M.
The red lights of the ambulance tore through Tokyo's empty night streets like a blade through cloth.
Inside, chaos.
"Male, 26! Suspected suicide attempt from six stories—massive thoracic trauma, shallow pulse, previous cardiac surgery history—"
"Jesus. Heart patient?"
"Three surgeries. Pacemaker visible. We need ER prep now."
The paramedic pressed harder on Haruki's chest, his shirt soaked in blood, ribs jutting at odd angles beneath a shredded hoodie. His face was pale. Ghost-white. His breath came in rattled gasps, a wet whistle escaping between cracked lips.
He wasn't conscious. He wasn't awake.
But somehow… he wasn't dead.
---
1:13 A.M. – Kosei General Hospital Emergency Wing
Two surgeons stood over the trembling, battered body, eyes darting between scans and vitals.
"Multiple spinal fractures. Broken femur. Crushed ribs. Right lung collapse. Internal bleeding in the lower abdomen. And his heart—God—his heart..."
"Pacemaker's barely functioning. His last surgery stitched his pericardium to the wall of his chest. If he hit flat on his back like the report says, the force would've... Jesus."
"How is he still alive?"
The older surgeon shook his head, voice grim.
"He's not. Not really. He's running on momentum."
He pointed at the monitor.
"His chances? Less than five percent. We'll operate… but this is a prayer. And I'm not sure anyone's listening."
---
Meanwhile – Haruki's Apartment
A pair of detectives shuffled through the tiny one-room flat. One picked up a page from the floor.
A sketch. A girl with sharp blue eyes and a crystal glowing in her hand.
Another page.
A swirling city in flames.
A guild fighting against a beast.
"It's all manga," one officer muttered. "No note. No personal ID. Just... drawings."
He held up a page near the window.
The wind caught it, sending it spiraling into the city lights beyond.