A young man sat on the train, leaning against the window, eyes glazed as he stared at the passing buildings.
The sky outside was already dark—a reflection of how he felt inside.
It had been an exhausting, hopeless day—another one spent walking around the city, knocking on company doors, asking for anything. Anything at all. A job. A chance. A reason to stay hopeful.
But as always, nothing came. No callbacks. No interviews. Not even a proper rejection letter.
He had just graduated last week, his certificate still crisp in his folder—proof that he had studied, trained, and worked hard.
But now, that certificate felt like a cruel joke. It was supposed to mean something. It was supposed to open doors.
Instead, all it did was remind him how useless it felt. Every company he applied to rejected him. Not for a clear reason—none of them bothered to explain.
Some just said, "We'll keep your résumé on file." Others simply said, "We'll call you." No one ever did.
He sighed deeply, watching his own reflection blur in the train window.
Then suddenly—a jolt. A voice blared from the overhead speakers.
"Attention passengers: Due to an increasing number of murder cases inside Tokyo, the city has declared a state of emergency. Please avoid staying out late, and remain cautious at all times."
The young man blinked.
He'd heard about the killings before—scattered stories on social media, half-watched news reports while eating instant noodles.
At first, it sounded like urban myths. Random violence. Isolated incidents.
But now? A state of emergency? That was serious.
He closed his eyes.
A memory surfaced—faint, distant. A man had been found dead inside his own apartment. Someone from his building.
He didn't know him personally, but the image stayed: the police tape, the body bag, the flashing lights.
His chest tightened.
He didn't understand. Why were people doing this? Why kill? What was happening to the world?
But then another voice, quieter, colder, rose in his head.
"Why should I care?"
He shook his head.
That was the truth, wasn't it? He couldn't afford to care. He didn't even have the luxury to panic like everyone else.
He didn't have a job. He didn't have savings. He didn't even have a real reason to get out of bed in the morning—except the desperate hope that maybe, maybe today would be different.
"I just need a job…" he whispered to himself. "That's all I care about now."
Less than an hour passed. The train began to slow down, wheels screeching softly as it approached the station.
A sign flashed by the window: SHIBUYA.
He stood up, eyes dull, body heavy. But his heart pounded harder now.
Takeshi walked with quiet resolve, his spine straight, eyes forward, and hands buried in his jacket pockets.
His steps were even—calm, practiced, almost too still.
The path ahead was narrow, but he didn't look up or around. He didn't need to. He'd walked it enough times to know when trouble was near.
And right on cue—
"Hey—Takeshi!"
A voice called out, cutting through the faint hum of the street. He stopped mid-step.
From the side, a guy stepped forward to block his path. He had a slim body and wore a loose, unzipped black hoodie, the white of his uniform shirt wrinkled underneath.
His brown-framed glasses tilted slightly on his nose, and beneath the hood, his dyed hair curled outward in patches of faded color.
He smiled—not the kind that welcomed, but the kind you wore when you wanted to look harmless while setting something up.
"Graduated already, huh?" the guy said, flashing a grin. "Congrats."
Takeshi didn't answer. He didn't even blink.
The boy extended a hand for a handshake, mock-formal. Takeshi simply looked at it. He didn't move.
The boy chuckled softly, turning halfway to the group behind him. "Of course he did," he muttered.
Behind him stood four more boys, all dressed in similar fashion—lazy uniforms, half-worn confidence, leaning against bikes and fences like they owned the street.
"Bro, Takeshi's willing to gang up just to make a living! Hahaha, wack, bro. So wack!"
The others laughed, loud and messy, like the scene was a performance they'd practiced before.
One of them slapped the shoulder of another, and someone even whistled.
The hoodie boy turned back to Takeshi, still grinning. "Right, Takeshi? We're friends!"
Takeshi's posture didn't shift.
Then—"What?"
The boy's voice hardened slightly. The grin faded. His eyebrows twitched, and the others stopped laughing.
Without warning, a bigger boy stepped forward from the group.
He was taller, broader, with sleeves rolled to the elbows and fists half-clenched. His uniform shirt hung loose over a belt that looked almost too tight on his wide frame.
His face was flat—not angry, just blank.
Then, in one swift motion, the boy reached forward and grabbed Takeshi by the collar.
His grip was rough, yanking him forward. Takeshi's shirt bunched beneath the fist as their faces came close—close enough to feel each other's breath.
"Do you mean that?" the boy asked, his voice low but heavy.
Before it could escalate further, their leader stepped forward.
"Let go of him," he said calmly. "What's wrong with you? That's not how you treat a friend."
The tension in the air shifted. The boy hesitated, then slowly released his grip.
The leader moved closer, casually fixing the wrinkles on Takeshi's collar—like he cared. Like it meant something.
But his smile was calculated.
"Takeshi," he said smoothly, "whether you like it or not, you'll have to give your salary to us. You have to contribute to our society… right, Takeshi?"
He smiled at him—wide and hollow.
Then the smile faded.
Without warning, he kneed Takeshi hard in the stomach.
The impact landed deep.
Takeshi's body folded forward. He dropped to the ground with a groan, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as the pain surged through him.
"Are you okay, Takeshi?" the leader asked, crouching down slightly, voice calm—mocking. "Yeah… of course you are."
They turned and walked away, their footsteps fading.
But then the leader called out over his shoulder: "Hey, Takeshi... we're waiting for you tomorrow. Hehe!"
Their laughter echoed behind them.
Takeshi lay there for a moment, struggling for breath. His chest rose and fell, sharp and uneven.
He slowly pushed himself off the ground.
"Ahhh…" he winced, voice cracked and weak. "Those bastards… still interfering with my life."
He just smiled—strangely, quietly—while wiping the blood from his mouth.
Takeshi returned to his apartment in silence. He stepped inside, tossed his keys onto the small counter, and dropped onto the worn-out couch with a long, aching breath. His body slouched into the cushions, but his thoughts wouldn't settle. The pain in his stomach still throbbed from the blow, but more than that—it was the humiliation that lingered. Their laughter rang in his head, over and over again like a bad song he couldn't turn off.
He stared blankly at the ceiling, one hand resting over his ribs. Slowly, he reached for the remote and turned on the TV. The screen flared to life. A movie was already playing.
"Bang! Bang!" came the sudden burst of gunfire.
His head jerked slightly. The sound struck something deeper than surprise. His ears rang. The air felt thinner. Takeshi quickly brought his hands to his ears, squeezing them shut. The gunshots from the movie seemed to echo from somewhere else. Somewhere real.
"Takeshi!"
A man's voice—hoarse, frantic—echoed in his mind.
A body lay in front of him. Blood pooled on the floor. The man's arm reached toward him, trembling.
"Run…" he gasped. "Just run…"
And then came laughter—cold, twisted.
"Run, Takeshi! Hahaha!"
Takeshi flinched in the present, the memory crashing hard. His breath came in uneven waves. But he didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just sat there, face pale, hands gripping the sides of his head—trapped in the silence after the flash.