Obi stirred as the soft glow of dawn peeled over the horizon, painting the sky in sleepy shades of orange and blue. A chill clung to the morning air. He blinked blearily, realizing he was lying on a wooden bench, just outside a closed convenience store. Concrete beneath, empty streets around, the city barely waking up.
He sat up slowly. His body... didn't hurt.
That should've been the first red flag.
Gingerly, he pulled up the edge of his shirt. His wounds—ones he remembered vividly being torn open—were now neatly stitched, wrapped in fresh, clean bandages. No pain. Just a weird numbness, like his body was still running on auto-pilot.
"What the hell...?" he whispered.
Had it been a dream? The fight? The blood? A hallucination brought on by fear?
But then... why was he outside?
His eyes darted to the skyline. The sun was just peeking over the rooftops.
"Shit—!" he scrambled up, legs stumbling underneath him. "I'm late!"
He sprinted across the early morning street, feet pounding on the pavement as he raced back to Mr. Kumon's bookstore. His chest ached—not from injury, but panic. If Mr. Kumon found out he'd vanished, it'd be a whole thing.
He fumbled with the lock on the back door, slipping inside like a ghost. The store was quiet. Too quiet. He could hear the soft, comforting creak of the ceiling fan above, the faint ticking of the wall clock. Everyone was still asleep.
He exhaled, pressing a hand to his chest. "Thank God," he muttered.
But just as he tiptoed past the hallway, a sharp hiss pierced the air.
A shadow moved.
"Mittens," Obi groaned. "Not now."
The bookstore's infamous house-cat stood at the end of the hallway, back arched, tail flicking, eyes narrowed like twin judgey little moons. The fur along her spine stood up as if Obi had personally offended her ancestors.
She let out another hiss, dramatic and unrelenting.
Obi froze, then slowly—very slowly—knelt on the floor like he was in a holy temple, hands pressed together in mock prayer.
"Look, I know you hate me, and I swear it's mutual," he whispered urgently. "You're literally the most passive-aggressive cat I've ever met, and I'm pretty sure you're racist."
Mittens growled low in her throat, tail swishing.
"But please," Obi begged, head almost touching the floor. "Let me go back to my room. Mr. Kumon cannot know I was out. I'll do anything. I'll even refill your stupid treat bowl with those liver things you like. Just—please."
The cat squinted at him.
Obi swore he could hear her thoughts loud and clear.
> I don't see color. I see vibes.
Her ears twitched at the word "anything." She let out a little sniff, then strutted off like a runway model, her tail high in the air, attitude trailing behind her like perfume.
Obi didn't wait to question it.
"Respect," he muttered, and darted to his room.
Once inside, he collapsed onto the floor, ripping off his blood-stained hoodie and tattered shirt. He kicked off his shoes, leaving a trail of exhaustion in his wake. He climbed into bed like a man crawling into a grave.
The mattress felt like heaven.
He let his head hit the pillow with a groan. His limbs were lead. His stitched-up torso throbbed with a dull ache, and the coppery taste of dried blood lingered in his mouth.
He exhaled.
"Just... thirty more minutes," he mumbled.
The sun spilled lazily through the blinds, brushing over his bandaged skin.
But Obi was already gone—fast asleep, breath soft and steady, like none of it had ever happened.
---
The soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of morning radio slipped under Obi's door, nudging him from sleep. Warm light spilled through the curtains, brushing his face like a mother's hand.
He stirred with a groggy sigh, eyes crusty from the nap he didn't even remember taking. Every inch of his body felt like it had been stitched from rubber and smoke. No pain exactly—just... dullness. Like his nerves were underwater.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing to glance down at his bandaged torso. Everything was still in place. No blood, no new bruises. For now, at least.
His stomach growled like it was angry at him.
He dragged himself out of the room in loose pajama pants and a wrinkled shirt. The smell of breakfast lingered in the air—eggs, toast, something slightly burnt—but it was faint, like catching the echo of a song at the end of a hallway. He'd slept through the good part.
Mr. Kumon was already in the front hallway, slipping on his bookstore apron and adjusting his glasses when he noticed Obi shuffling in.
"Morning," he said with a hint of surprise. "You're not usually the late type. Everything alright?"
Obi blinked at him, rubbing the sleep from one eye like a child. "Yeah, I just... couldn't get out of bed this morning. Felt like my mattress had hands and refused to let me go."
He gave a weak chuckle. "Sorry about that. I'll hop into my shift after I change."
Mr. Kumon studied him for a second longer, concern flickering behind his tired eyes. Then he smiled.
"No rush, kid. I'm glad you actually got some sleep for once. Breakfast is on the table. Eat up before the eggs go rubbery."
Obi offered him a lazy salute and shuffled into the kitchen.
The plate waiting for him was already a little cold, but it didn't matter. The moment he took a bite of scrambled egg, it was like flipping a switch—his body remembered just how starved it was. He devoured it quietly, chewing with slow appreciation like someone who hadn't eaten in days.
Halfway through the meal, he noticed something—his finger. A thin cut ran along the side of it, red and scabbed. He poked it lightly. There was a sting, yes, but it felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
He stared at his hand for a moment, thumb brushing across the stitches on his arm. They didn't burn. They didn't itch. Just... numb.
Weird.
He pushed the thought aside and kept eating. The last bite of toast disappeared down his throat just as the sun rose higher, bleeding into the room in sleepy gold.
For now, things were quiet.
Too quiet.
But Obi didn't want to think about that just yet.
---
The rest of the morning drifted by with an odd kind of stillness.
Obi sat behind the counter at the bookstore, thumbing through a paperback with a half-torn cover. Customers came and went—an old man looking for gardening books, a teenage girl asking about manga, a tired office worker buying a poetry collection—and through it all, Obi moved like he was watching life happen from underwater.
He wasn't sure why, but everything felt… muffled. Not in a bad way. Just distant. Detached.
Even his body felt lighter, like he wasn't really wearing his skin. And yet… he was calm. Too calm, maybe. But it was a welcome change.
Mr. Kumon glanced over at him from time to time, smiling faintly whenever Obi helped a customer with just the right recommendation or remembered to give exact change.
"You're doing good today," he said during a lull in foot traffic. "Better than usual, actually."
Obi shrugged modestly. "Maybe I finally leveled up."
Mr. Kumon chuckled, handing him a bottled drink. "Well, keep it up. And don't hesitate to take a break if you need one."
That warmth—small, but real—made Obi's chest ache a little. He mumbled a quiet thanks and sipped the drink slowly.
The peace didn't last long.
The phone on the counter buzzed with a shrill ring, making Obi flinch. Mr. Kumon, who was organizing a shelf nearby, called out, "Mind grabbing that?"
Obi picked up the receiver and answered with a casual, "Kumon's Bookstore, how can I help—?"
"Obi."
The voice on the other end was sharp. Familiar.
"Kaito?"
"Yeah. Look, we need to talk. It's important. Can you meet me at Momo's Diner?"
Obi straightened in his chair. "You okay? You sound… off."
"I'm fine. Just—please. Meet me. Soon."
Before Obi could respond, the line went dead.
He set the receiver down slowly, brows furrowed in mild confusion.
"Was that Kaito?" Mr. Kumon asked, watching him from the shelf.
Obi nodded. "Yeah. He wants to meet. Says it's important."
Mr. Kumon looked at him for a beat, then nodded toward the door. "Go on. I'll hold down the fort."
"You sure?"
"Kid, if someone calls you like that, it's either an emergency or a confession. Either way, you better show up."
Obi smirked despite himself. "Noted."
He grabbed his hoodie, slipped it over his head, and stepped out into the street. The wind kissed his face, cool and fresh, but something in his chest fluttered. A strange feeling. Like the beginning of something.
The streets of Shibuya buzzed as usual. But Obi couldn't shake the sensation that something was shifting. Again.
Still, he kept walking.
Toward Momo's Diner.
Toward answers.
Toward whatever came next.
---
The bell over the door chimed as Obi stepped into Momo's Diner. The scent of fried food and syrup hit him like a warm, greasy hug. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The place was half-empty, just a few students cramming for exams and a sleepy waitress refilling coffee.
Kaito sat by the window, already halfway through a plate of fries, lazily dipping them into chocolate milkshake like it was the most normal thing in the world. He didn't even look up when Obi walked in—just kept chewing and scrolling through his phone.
Obi made a beeline for the booth and plopped down across from him. "You seriously still dip fries in that? That's a crime."
Kaito smirked, finally looking up. "You look better than the last time I saw you. Y'know… when you were crying, muttering to yourself, and looking like a kicked puppy."
Obi gave a weak laugh, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, well… I don't know what happened. I just feel… numb now. Like my emotions got turned down to zero."
Kaito raised an eyebrow. "That's not concerning at all."
"I mean it," Obi said, leaning back in the booth. "Everything's quieter now. Inside. Not exactly peaceful, but… muted. You ever feel like that?"
Kaito popped another fry into his mouth. "Look, I'm not a psychiatrist, and the brain's weird. So good luck with your emotional mute button."
Obi cracked a smile. "Thanks. That's the professional diagnosis I needed."
"Anytime." Kaito sipped from his milkshake, then looked more serious. "But hey—reason I asked you here. Don't laugh, alright?"
Obi narrowed his eyes. "Why would I laugh?"
Kaito leaned forward, his voice dropping. "It's about demons."
That one word made Obi stiffen. The slight slump in his shoulders vanished. He straightened, fingers curling slightly on the tabletop. "...Go on."
"I saw one," Kaito said quietly. "With my own eyes."
Obi's heart skipped. "Wait—what? When?"
"Last night. I was walking home, cutting through the plaza near Shin-Tokyo Mall. I looked up and… there was something standing on the roof. Tall. Thin. Almost human, but… not." He shivered. "It had four eyes. Glowing orange. Like traffic lights in the fog. And its body—there were too many arms, man. Like… way too many."
Obi swallowed hard. "Did it… see you?"
Kaito nodded. "It saw everyone. Smiled like it was amused by the chaos it could cause. Then—poof. Gone. Vanished without a trace. I tried reporting it, but the cops just told me I must've been drunk or seeing shadows."
Obi looked down, lips pressed tight. "That sounds… terrifying."
Kaito studied him for a moment. "So. Be honest. Has anything weird been happening to you? You've been off lately."
Obi let out a nervous laugh, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. "I… I can't tell you everything. But I'll say this—I met the author of that creepy book you gave me. Consume."
Kaito's eyes widened. "No way. Hibira? The guy in the hospital?"
"Yeah," Obi muttered. "He's not just eccentric. He's broken. Like, deeply. Talking to him felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and leaning too far over."
"What'd he say?" Kaito asked, voice low.
Obi's mind flicked to the memory—Fear the man with blood-red eyes. The tone. The madness in Hibira's stare. The way the room had felt too small, too cold.
But Obi couldn't bring himself to say it.
He forced another chuckle instead. "Eh… it's nothing. He was just ranting about corrupted souls and monsters and all that. Total madness."
"You sure?" Kaito asked gently.
Obi looked away. "Some things… I think I'm not ready to say out loud."
Kaito was quiet for a beat, then patted his shoulder. "No pressure, man. You'll talk when you're ready. For now—let's go blow some cash at the arcade. My treat. Just like old times."
Obi blinked. "You're serious?"
"I'm always serious about air hockey and DDR." Kaito grinned. "C'mon. You need to laugh. Even if your soul's currently set to grayscale."
Obi hesitated. A flicker of that dreadful night flashed in his head. Blood. Screaming. Fire. He shouldn't go. It felt like inviting fate.
But if he hadn't gone last time… would he even be alive?
He stood up slowly. "Alright. Let's go."
Kaito pumped a fist in victory. "That's what I'm talking about!"
They walked out of the diner, the doorbell chiming behind them. As they disappeared into the city glow, Obi couldn't help but glance back once—just once.
Something in his gut told him tonight wouldn't be ordinary.
---
The arcade was alive with flickering lights and laughter—colors flashing off polished floors, games beeping and buzzing in rapid succession. Obi was grinning ear to ear, a rare and honest smile stretching his cheeks as he ducked a neon-colored projectile on the screen.
"Gotcha again!" he shouted, slapping the arcade button as his pixelated fighter KO'd Kaito's.
"Ughhh, cheat codes! You're using cheat codes!" Kaito groaned, dramatically slumping onto the joystick.
"I'm just naturally gifted," Obi teased, snatching the last piece of popcorn chicken from their snack tray.
Kaito narrowed his eyes. "You're dead to me."
"Already was," Obi shot back with a grin.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, the weight that had been coiled in Obi's chest was gone. No nightmares, no blood, no darkness clawing at the back of his thoughts. Just lights. Laughter. His best friend yelling about how unfair racing games were.
They darted from game to game like kids who didn't know what tired felt like—DDR, air hockey, claw machines that cheated them out of plushies they didn't need. Obi even laughed so hard once, tears welled in his eyes. It almost felt like life again.
Then the clock hit 8:00 PM.
Just a tiny chime from the arcade's wall-mounted clock—but to Obi, it was deafening. He froze mid-step, eyes flicking up. A pulse of cold washed through him. The joy slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Deja vu.
Obi turned to Kaito. "Hey… I think I should go. Now."
Kaito blinked. "Huh?"
"I just—" Obi rubbed the back of his neck, eyes scanning the corners of the arcade like something might leap from the shadows. "I don't know, man. It's just this feeling. Like something's coming. I've felt this before."
Kaito gently grabbed his arm before he could bolt. "Obi. Hey. Look at me."
Obi paused.
"You're okay," Kaito said softly, but firmly. "Nothing's going to happen. You'll go back to that dusty bookstore and Mr. Kumon will be there waiting for you."
Obi opened his mouth, heart racing. "But—"
"No buts," Kaito cut in, his grip still light but grounding. "I don't know jack about trauma, but I know my best friend. You've been through hell. And I've been trying to help. All I want is for you to feel something good again. Even just once."
Obi swallowed, his eyes stinging. He hated how kind Kaito was being. It made his chest ache.
"I miss you, dude," Kaito continued. "The real you. The guy who'd force me out of my house just to hit the arcade at midnight. So now I'm forcing you to stay for just a little longer, even if you're scared."
Obi looked at him for a moment, eyes glassy.
"Kaito…" he said, voice cracking slightly. "Thank you. For everything. But… I don't think things will ever go back to the way they were."
A silence passed between them.
"But you're right," Obi added with a small, tired smile. "Nothing's going to happen tonight. I'm fine."
He stepped back and gave a short, almost childish wave. "Tell the DDR machine I'll beat its score next time."
Kaito smiled, giving a salute with a french fry. "You better."
And with that, Obi turned and ran out of the arcade, the doors sliding closed behind him as the music and lights faded into the background. He didn't look back. But if he had… he would've seen Kaito watching him go with a soft smile and worried eyes.
---
Obi sprinted through the empty streets, his breath coming in sharp bursts. Streetlights flickered above like lazy fireflies, casting long shadows across the pavement. His shoes pounded against the sidewalk, echoing with urgency—but his mind was even louder. Please let it be okay. Please… just this once.
He skidded to a stop in front of the bookstore, chest heaving.
No fire.
No smoke.
No sulfur in the air.
Just the soft glow of the shop's windows and the low hum of fluorescent light. The bell above the door jingled faintly as it opened, and there—standing by the counter with a cloth in one hand and keys in the other—was Mr. Kumon.
He was perfectly fine. Just like always.
Obi's throat tightened. His legs trembled beneath him. Without a word, he stumbled forward, then suddenly threw his arms around Mr. Kumon, burying his face in the older man's shoulder.
Tears spilled down his cheeks. Not from pain—but from sheer relief.
"I-It didn't happen…" he whispered, voice shaking. "Nothing happened. No blood. No screaming. No demons. Everything's fine."
He clutched tighter, his sobs muffled against Mr. Kumon's shirt. "I'm so happy. I'm so—thank you. Thank you for everything…"
Mr. Kumon froze, stunned for a moment. Then, gently, he set down his keys and wrapped his arms around Obi in return, patting his back with steady hands.
"There, there… it's alright, Obi," he said, voice calm and warm like an old quilt. "You're welcome. I'm glad you're safe. Honestly, I've been happy to host you—it's never dull with you around."
Obi gave a small, tearful laugh.
"How about this," Mr. Kumon continued with a smile. "You help me finish closing up, and we'll have dinner. Tomorrow, we'll head back to the hospital and get those stitches looked at. Sound good?"
Obi sniffled and nodded. "Yeah. That… that sounds really good."
They tidied up in quiet partnership—stacking books, flipping signs, shutting off the main lights. It only took a few minutes, but every second felt peaceful. Comforting. Normal.
Soon, Obi was seated at the small kitchen table, elbows on the wood as he watched Mr. Kumon move around the stove. The smell of food filled the apartment—something rich and warm, layered with spices and melted cheese.
When Mr. Kumon finally placed two dishes on the table, Obi blinked at one of them.
"Wait… what's this?" Obi asked, pointing to the bubbling, golden-brown dish.
"That," Mr. Kumon said, puffing up slightly with pride, "is my family's famous beef casserole."
Obi raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Famous? This is the first I'm hearing about it. I thought you were just the 'quiet neighborhood librarian with too many mugs.'"
"Oh, shut up," Mr. Kumon scoffed—but his tone was playful, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Obi chuckled and took a bite. His eyes widened. "Whoa. This is… insanely good."
"Told you it was famous."
They ate together under warm lights and quiet laughter, the sounds of the city muffled by the bookstore's sturdy walls. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't dramatic. But it was safe—and that was enough.
After dinner, Obi stretched with a groggy sigh and pushed his plate aside. "Thanks, Mr. Kumon. For everything. Again."
"Anytime, kid. Now go get some rest. You've had a long day."
Obi nodded, said his goodnight, and shuffled off to his room. His legs felt like lead, and his head buzzed with exhaustion. The second he collapsed onto his mattress, it was like the world stopped spinning.
He fumbled for his painkillers on the nightstand, dry-swallowed one, and didn't even bother changing his clothes.
Finally, he thought as the ceiling blurred above him. I can just sleep…
Within seconds, he was out cold, breathing soft and slow—wrapped in the silence of a peaceful night.
---
The silence of Obi's room was perfect. The mattress cradled his body like a long-lost lover, and his head sank deep into the pillow. His stitched-up skin stung faintly beneath the bandages, but even that couldn't stop the warm embrace of exhaustion.
Just as sleep began to pull him under, he heard it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Obi groaned, rolling onto his side and pulling the blanket over his head.
"Go away," he mumbled. "I finally want to sleep like a normal person for once."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Louder. Sharper.
He flung the blanket off with a dramatic sigh, eyes barely open. "What does the world have against a good night's sleep?!"
Dragging himself upright like a zombie, Obi trudged to the window. He squinted out into the night and blinked.
There, perched like a smug little sentry, was a crow tapping the glass with its beak. A small note was tied to its leg.
Obi opened the window with a sigh, and the crow flapped inside like it owned the place, landing on his desk with a ruffle of feathers.
He unfastened the note and unfolded it.
---
Dear black kid,
I have something to tell you. Call it a favor, but don't say I never gave you nothing.
Come to the abandoned building where we fought the Screamer.
Any ignorance will have consequences.
Sincerely,
Aki
---
Obi stared at the paper for a second, blinked, then casually crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. "Absolutely not."
The crow cawed indignantly.
"Don't give me that look," Obi said, already climbing back into bed. "That boy is clearly racist. Who writes 'Dear black kid' in a summons? Like I don't have a name. Rude."
The crow took offense. It hopped onto the bed and started pecking at his cheek like an angry grandmother.
Obi groaned again, flinching. "Hey! I get it! And in his defense," he grumbled, shoving the crow away gently, "I never actually told him my name... but still!"
He rolled over again.
The crow began tugging his hoodie collar, dragging him inch by inch like a squawking tow truck.
"Oh my God—FINE!" Obi sat up, throwing his arms in the air. "I'm going. I just had an emotional breakdown but no, sure, let's go meet the glazer with posion knives and an attitude problem."
The crow cawed triumphantly, as if satisfied it had won the war.
Obi sighed, threw on his hoodie, and grabbed his boots. "I swear if this is some cryptic nonsense again, I'm feeding you to the next demon."
The bird squawked once—offended, clearly—then took off out the open window.
Obi followed shortly after, hopping out the window and leaping across the quiet rooftops of the city. The wind whipped past him, cold and sharp, but his body moved automatically.
No rest for the weird, he thought dryly as the crow led him into the night.