City X, 20xx
The city's summer nightlife was suddenly interrupted. In one of the city's large public parking garages, surrounded by neon lights and high-rise buildings, a loud crash and a violent shaking erupted, accompanied by the blaring of car alarms.
On level X of the parking garage, the neon lights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows between the concrete columns, revealing a scene of devastation. Cars were displaced several centimeters, some even overturned, while alarms blared. The strangest thing about the scene was the men scattered throughout the area, all bearing various wounds and bruises as they writhed in pain, though not all were so fortunate. One man was embedded in one of the concrete pillars, his entire body covered in lacerations and a large hematoma on his torso.
Standing in front of the pillar was a young man with an athletic build, wearing a rather tattered black school uniform. The young man had several wounds on his body, such as cuts and bruises. A trickle of blood ran from his head, staining his hair, a mix of blond and light brown.
Despite his injuries, the boy seemed happy, genuinely happy enough to say the following:
"Well, well, it seems you lack a bit of stamina. I just hope your girlfriend doesn't think the same."
Unfortunately, the man embedded in the concrete didn't seem to respond. The young man was slightly alarmed when he noticed the man wasn't breathing, but his alarm didn't last long.
Now without the mocking tone in his voice, replaced by a hint of nervousness and guilt, the boy said:
"Well... I think... they're calling me at home, see you later."
Without wasting any more time, the young man ran off, dodging the bruised bodies. In less than a minute, he was downstairs, then out onto the street, greeted by the city's neon lights as he disappeared into the crowd. Behind him, car alarms and police sirens blared, punctuated by the voices of passersby.
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Far from the chaos he had left behind, the young man was texting on his cell phone in the back of a bus. The chaos of the city was replaced by the hypnotic sound of the diesel engine and the soft clatter of the nearly empty bus.
Looking out the window, the young man pressed his forehead against the cold glass, watching the buildings, cars, and streets pass by, accompanied by the music from the bus radio—a relaxing electronic rhythm with a deep, melodic bassline.
As he stared out the window, his reflection shone back at him. His worn clothes made him look like a delinquent. He wore a regular school uniform; his shirt was ripped at the shoulder, and the left knee of his pants was worn and stained with dirt. He had a shallow but noticeable cut on his cheek, and the knuckle of his right hand was badly scraped.
The few people on the bus gave him furtive, disapproving glances and then quickly looked away.
Time passed quickly until he reached his stop. The city lights had long since vanished, replaced by deep darkness and the sounds of insects from the wooded outskirts, illuminated only by a spotlight.
Not far away, at the end of a gravel road, he could see a house, imposing in the dim moonlight. It wasn't an ostentatious mansion, but a large, traditional Japanese structure in the irimoya style, with its steeply pitched gabled roof and deep eaves. Time and the elements had softened the exterior wood, giving it a stately appearance.
The young man stood in front of the large wooden gate.
"I think it's best to jump over the wall," he thought.
Although it wasn't the first time he'd been so late, he'd never returned looking so disheveled.
Taking a short step, the young man ran toward the wall and, as if it were nothing, leaped over three meters high in a single bound—an incredible feat for someone so young.
Once on solid ground, he walked until he disappeared into the darkness of the garden.
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Inside the house, the silence was so thick it could be felt. As the young man repeated to himself, "I am a shadow, I am wind," the air in the house smelled of old cedar wood and a faint aroma of curry that lingered from dinner. His objective: the kitchen.
The kitchen, modern yet integrated into the traditional style, was dark. In silence, he opened the refrigerator and very carefully took out a couple of wrapped onigiri and a carton of milk. It was then that he heard it: the metallic click.
A blinding beam of white light struck him squarely in the face, forcing him to close his eyes and writhing in pain.
"I'm blind."
"A voice boomed:
"Yukito Cano."
The young man replied in a panicked voice:
"Good morning, Dad."