Chapter 2 - Back to School, Back to Dreams
The gates of Nakamura High rose before him like the entrance to another world. The metal was still damp from the morning rain, glinting in the sunlight. A line of students filed in, chatting, yawning, adjusting uniforms. It was all so ordinary—but to Akio Hukitaske, it was a miracle.
For thirty-two years, he'd lived inside deadlines, coffee stains, and error messages. The rhythms of school—bells, laughter, chalk squeaks—had belonged to another lifetime. Yet now, somehow, he was here again. Backpack on his shoulders. Uniform crisp and too clean. His reflection in the school's glass door looked absurdly young.
He had registered late that morning, still dazed from waking up in a fourteen-year-old body. When he'd handed in his transfer papers, the office lady had smiled politely, asking about his "family circumstances." He didn't have answers. Only questions. But no one pressed.
Now, walking through the gates, he felt the air itself shift—lighter, sharper. The breeze carried a mix of cherry blossoms and dust. He caught faint laughter from the soccer field, and the smell of steamed buns from the nearby canteen.
A memory bubbled up—him and his old classmates sitting under those same trees, sharing cheap bread rolls and dreams of the future. He'd forgotten what that felt like: possibility.
He stepped into the main hall, changed into the stiff white indoor shoes, and followed the signs to Class 1-B. Every creak of the floorboards echoed with déjà vu.
When he entered, thirty heads turned. For a second, the room froze.
A teacher in a beige jacket looked up from attendance. "Ah, you must be the new transfer student. Hukitaske Akio, correct?"
"Yes," Akio said, his voice steadier than he felt.
The teacher smiled faintly. "Welcome to Nakamura High. Please, introduce yourself."
He stepped forward, palms sweating, heart racing. How ridiculous, he thought. I've faced screaming bosses, toxic clients, layoffs… and this still terrifies me.
He bowed. "My name is Hukitaske Akio. I just moved here. I… like science."
A few students whispered. Someone in the back muttered, "He looks kinda serious."
The teacher gestured. "You can sit in the back row, next to Yakasuke."
The desk screeched as it was dragged back into place. And then came the sigh.
"Great," said a voice thick with mock despair. "I get to sit next to the quiet mysterious loner. Life complete."
Akio glanced sideways.
The kid had an explosion of brown hair that looked like it had lost a war with gravity, slightly cracked glasses, and a grin far too big for his face. He plopped down into his chair with theatrical exhaustion, then slammed a lunchbox on his desk as if he'd just won a trophy.
"Name's Hikata Yakasuke! Second son of a former rich father ramen shop owner, and future game show host-slash-scientist-slash-ninja detective!"
Akio blinked. "…That's… ambitious."
The child gasped dramatically, clutching his stomach. "He speaks! I thought you were some kind of government-issued prototype! You even look like one—serious eyes, perfect posture, hair that screams, 'I've read too many manuals.'"
Akio's lips twitched. A laugh escaped before he could stop it—a small one, but real. His first genuine laugh in years.
"Ha! Success!" Hikata declared, pointing at him triumphantly. "That's one human emotion unlocked. Only, like, six more to go before I win a prize!"
The teacher cleared his throat. "Yakasuke, perhaps focus on math instead of emotional experiments."
"Yes, sensei." Hikata saluted with exaggerated solemnity.
Classes began. Hours passed in a blur of chalk dust, echoing bells, and teenage chaos. For Akio, it was like watching a movie of his own life, except this time he knew the ending. The lectures were familiar—textbook chemistry, the kind of knowledge he used to absorb in minutes but now listened to with nostalgic awe.
When the teacher drew molecular structures on the board, Akio's fingers itched to add notes about advanced pharmacokinetics, but he stopped himself. No one would understand.
During breaks, students gossiped, swapped snacks, scrolled on their phones. Akio watched quietly. Every laugh, every ridiculous argument over which pop idol was best—it was life. The kind he'd forgotten existed beyond screens and paychecks.
And always, beside him, was Hikata—an unstoppable hurricane of noise.
He tripped over cones in gym class. He got detention for making the literature teacher laugh mid-lecture by shouting, "To be or not to be—please let me nap!" He spilled curry on his uniform and declared it "a modern art statement."
But somewhere between the absurdity, Akio saw something precious. Hikata wasn't just loud; he was alive. He carried no bitterness, no exhaustion, no scars of burnout. He approached everything—failure included—with ridiculous optimism.
At lunch, Hikata cracked open his bento box and gasped in mock betrayal. "NO EGGROLLS?! MOTHER, YOU'VE BETRAYED ME!"
Akio nearly choked on his rice. "You… you're dramatic."
"It's a lifestyle," Hikata said gravely. "Join me. Together, we can complain about meaningless things and find joy in the absurd."
"You make it sound philosophical."
"It is! Philosophy of chaos. My ancestors were clowns and revolutionaries."
Akio laughed again, shaking his head. "You're insane."
"Thank you!" Hikata grinned. "You're my favorite test subject now."
Something inside Akio softened. He hadn't realized how heavy loneliness had become until someone like Hikata came crashing through it like a storm.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, painting the classroom gold. Students were dozing, whispering, sketching. The teacher's voice droned softly. Akio looked around and felt something shift—a strange warmth, fragile but real.
He belonged here.
When the final bell rang, Hikata shot out of his seat like a rocket. "Freedom! Sweet merciful freedom!"
"School's not that bad," Akio said, packing his books neatly.
"Says the new guy. Give it a month and you'll be weeping into your textbooks."
"Pretty sure I've done worse."
Hikata tilted his head. "You talk like an old person sometimes. You sure you're fourteen?"
Akio froze, then smiled faintly. "Guess I've got an old soul."
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway—come on!" Hikata threw an arm around his shoulders like they'd known each other forever. "We're going for melon bread. Best shop in town. Non-negotiable."
Akio hesitated. "I should probably—"
"Don't even think about refusing friendship carbs."
So they went.
The shop was small and warm, tucked between an antique store and a florist. Steam fogged the windows. The air was thick with the smell of sugar and butter. Hikata ordered two melon breads, somehow convincing the owner to throw in a third "for friendship."
They sat on the curb outside, the city humming gently around them.
Akio tore off a piece of bread and chewed slowly. The sweetness hit like nostalgia. It had been years—decades—since he'd tasted something made with care, not from a vending machine or office break room.
Hikata was already halfway through his. "So, mystery person. What's your dream?"
"My dream?"
"Yeah. Everyone's got one. I'm gonna be a game show host-slash-scientist-slash-ninja detective. What about you?"
Akio stared at the street. Cars passed. A breeze scattered petals from the trees above.
He thought of his past life—his cubicle, his boss's screams, the endless fatigue. Then, further back, before it all, the memory of himself mixing chemicals in a plastic beaker, imagining cures for imaginary diseases.
"I wanted to be a pharmacist," he said quietly. "When I was a kid."
Hikata blinked. "A pharmacist? Like… medicine guy?"
"Yeah. I liked the idea of helping people. Making something that could save lives."
Hikata grinned. "That's actually cool. Way cooler than being a ninja detective, and I say that as the world's foremost ninja detective."
Akio smiled. "You think so?"
"Absolutely. Science is just magic that's been explained properly. If you can make medicine, that's like—alchemy. Real-life alchemy."
The words hit Akio harder than expected. Alchemy. Transformation. It echoed the stranger's experiment, that impossible syringe. Maybe this whole rebirth was a kind of alchemy—a chemical rewrite of fate.
He took another bite of bread, softer this time.
"Maybe," he murmured. "Maybe I can still do it."
Hikata looked at him curiously. "You sound like a guy who's been through something heavy."
Akio met his gaze. For a moment, he thought about telling him everything—the syringe, the alley, the pain. But who would believe it?
Instead, he said, "Yeah. But maybe that's why I've got to make something lighter."
Hikata nodded solemnly, then ruined the moment by smearing crumbs across his cheek like war paint. "Then it's settled! You'll become the legendary Pharmacist of Justice! I'll be your assistant-slash-sidekick-slash-hype-being."
Akio laughed until his stomach hurt. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously loyal, thank you very much."
As the sky deepened into evening, they walked home under flickering streetlights. The city's glow shimmered in puddles from the afternoon rain. Akio felt… peaceful. A word he hadn't earned in years.
For the first time since waking up, he wasn't haunted by the memory of his death. Or his failures. Just the sound of sneakers on pavement and the echo of Hikata's chatter about ramen recipes and comic books.
When they reached the crossroads, Hikata waved dramatically. "Tomorrow, same time, same melon bread! Oh—and you should totally dye your hair turquoise. You've got pharmacist vibes. Trust me. Turquoise is the color of destiny."
Akio raised an eyebrow. "Destiny, huh?"
"Yup. You get my friendship, I get the new hair. Fair trade!"
Akio smiled. "Yeah… I think I'm okay with that."
They split paths. Hikata's laughter faded down the street.
Akio stood there for a while, the wind tugging at his uniform. The lights of the city blurred softly in his vision.
He thought about everything—the exhaustion of his old life, the miracle of this second one, and the strange kid who'd somehow made the world feel bright again.
Then, in the distance, a figure in a bow tie watched from the shadows. The same stranger from the alley.
He murmured into a small recorder, voice barely audible over the hum of traffic.
"Subject A-01 integrating successfully. Behavioral stability: promising. Emotional recovery accelerating faster than expected. Recommend continued observation."
A pause.
"Curious," he said softly. "The human heart adapts even faster than the body."
And then he vanished into the crowd.
As Akio walked home, he passed a pharmacy—the old kind, with wooden signs and glass jars of herbs in the window. He stopped for a moment, watching the pharmacist measure powders with slow precision, the same way he'd once dreamed of doing.
He pressed his hand to the cool glass.
This was his chance. His real restart.
He whispered to himself, almost reverently, "This time… I'll heal, too."
And as he walked away, the neon reflection of the pharmacy sign flickered behind him—its light catching briefly on his red hair, turning it, for an instant, turquoise.
[To be continued in Chapter 3: First Tests, Forgotten Dreams]