The night air smelled like rain and old machinery. Tower lights flickered in distant towers like a pulse, faint but steady. He walked the same path he always did—no purpose, just routine. The city at midnight had its own heartbeat, one that didn't belong to the living alone. Long ago, that might have bothered him. Something inside had grown silent since then.
Near the shuttered izakaya, there was a shape crouched beside a trash bin. The figure had hair like tangled seaweed and limbs folded wrong, joints bending in ways that didn't belong to people. It stared up, head tilted, waiting to see if he flinched.
He didn't slow down. Just kept walking.
The thing gave a whispered hiss of disappointment before fading into the dark.
A little further along, by the closed pachinko parlor, a line of tanuki statues came to life. They turned their stone heads and followed him with their eyes. One smiled too wide, stone mouth stretching into a sneer. Another lifted its paw in a mock greeting, eyes gleaming like black beads.
He walked past them. They froze again, statues once more.
He had grown used to them. The subtle shifts in the air, the way shadows formed faces. Most nights they didn't harm him. Perhaps they once tried, years ago. Maybe he used to react back then. Scream, run, pray. Not anymore.
A red paper lantern floated down the street on no string, bobbing gently in the air. Beneath it walked a girl with no feet, her kimono sleeves brushing the ground though there was no wind. An Onryō—a vengeful spirit. Her face was pale, her eyes black voids.
She drifted closer, inches from his shoulder, waiting for fear. Waiting for acknowledgment.
He kept his gaze ahead, barely turning as he passed through her like mist. His shoulders didn't even tense.
A groan echoed from the corner where an alley forked between two apartment buildings. Something large shifted behind the dumpsters—skin like cracked soil, limbs too long, the smell of rot heavy in the air. It dragged something wet across the pavement with a thud-thud-thud.
Its yellow eyes shone briefly in curiosity. Then, seeing his lack of response, it snarled with something like disgust and pulled whatever it had back into the shadows.
Neon signs buzzed above him as he crossed into a busier street. A fox-faced man in a business suit leaned against a wall, smoking. His nine tails shimmered faintly in the fluorescent glow. The kitsune flicked ash in the air and gave a sly grin, waiting for some sign of surprise.
None came.
The kitsune's smile faded.
Far ahead, a blind woman with no mouth played a shamisen in the street. The sound was soft but unnerving, like the strings were made of something stretched and alive. The music followed him down the lane, dissonant and slow. He paused only to light another cigarette. The ash mix curled upward like incense smoke before dissolving.
He turned into a narrower alley lined with old bamboo shrines. One shrine door creaked open. A pair of red eyes stared from within, like a child hiding in the dark. A whisper trickled out: "Mamotte…" Protect me. He didn't stop. The begging grew faint as he walked on.
The night creatures didn't know what to do with him anymore. Some followed. Some mocked. Some tried to scare him with sudden movements, screams, illusions. But there was nothing left in him to provoke.
At the riverbank, moonlight shivered across the water. The reflection showed his back—and beside him, a horned shape with a gaping maw stretching from ear to ear. It stayed with him for nearly ten minutes across the bridge, waiting. He exhaled smoke and watched it drift into the thing's silhouette. Eventually, the yokai let out a low growl and melted into the flow of the river like ink dispersing in water.
He reached an abandoned phone booth and sat on the cracked steps beside it. The night remained full of distant yokai chatter, whisper-voices and shifting forms. He closed his eyes for a moment—not to sleep, not to rest, just to pause.
Somewhere down the street, something cried like a baby—not a real baby, but close enough to fool a normal passerby. He didn't move.
Maybe once upon a time he had been afraid. Maybe once it had meant something to see spirits, monsters, things from childhood stories walking these streets. Now, they were background noise, no different from trains or vending machines or street signs.
In time, the yokai stopped trying to scare him. Some nights they simply followed at a distance like silent companions. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just… there.
He stood again and continued walking until dawn began to bleed slowly into the city's edge, dissolving the supernatural shapes. The things of the night retreated into shutters, drains, shadows, returning to wherever they slept.
As the sky lightened, he stepped into a convenience store for canned coffee. The clerk gave a polite nod, unaware of the trail of spirits that had followed him minutes earlier.
He sipped the coffee on the way out and watched the first commuters rush by.
Tomorrow night would be the same. Things would creep, moan, hiss, whisper.
And he would keep walking, hands in pockets, eyes half-lidded, unmoved by both the living and the dead.