Read before: Since this story's protagonist is an American exchange student in Japan, sometimes he'll speak English. When you see the format [like this], that means he's blurting things out in English.
Japan, Shibuya, Tokyo.
The boy's hurried footsteps pounded the asphalt as he sprinted down the street like his life depended on it. Early spring still carried a faint chill in the wind—cold moisture brushing the skin, that fresh, earthy scent that comes with everything waking back up—mixed with the evergreen street trees and the lazy Sunday vibe of people dressed up and coaxed outside by their day off. With all those ingredients, it should've been the kind of warm, harmonious scene that makes you want to slow down and breathe it in.
Too bad the boy didn't have a second to spare.
He looked eighteen or nineteen at most, but the babyishness had already faded from his face. His hair was a natural dark brown—no dye, no perm, nothing fancy—left the way it grew. Under thick eyebrows, his eyes were strikingly sharp, a deep clear blue like midnight glass: calm and refined, the kind that made you look twice.
Right now, though, urgency was stamped all over him. His brows and eyes were practically on fire as he kept muttering under his breath:
[I'm gonna be late… I'm gonna be late… damn it…]
Keeping pace beside him was a pretty girl with long chestnut hair, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Her ponytail bounced high with each step, and there was a tiny beauty mark at the corner of her eye. Everyone knows language is a precise thing—and the word "pretty" is doing a lot of work here. Her bangs cast a soft shadow across her forehead, and her big, lively eyes were bright and clean like a small animal's—wide, alert, full of life. That little beauty mark near her eye gave her an unexpectedly delicate look; people always say girls with that kind of mark are more sensitive and thoughtful, though who knows which "expert" decided that. Her nose line was gentle, her lips naturally pink. No matter how you looked at her, she was undeniably pretty—so full of youth it was almost dazzling.
She was a bit shorter than him, wearing a black-and-yellow tracksuit that was perfect for the season. She jogged right behind him, listening to him vent, and said with an awkward expression, "I told you—when you speak English, I can't understand you…"
On the streets of Japan, hearing English burst out of a teenager sprinting past didn't exactly fit the scenery. That out-of-place language cut through the air like a sharp gust, as if it could peel back the layered clouds on the horizon.
"Yoshizawa, I'm just complaining," the boy shot back between breaths. "I'm gonna be late!"
Still running full tilt, he fumbled a worn leather wallet out of his jacket pocket. It jingled; the keychain clipped to it flashed in the sunlight as it swung. He quickly picked out the right key and clenched it in his hand.
It was kind of funny. People usually assume guys have better stamina than girls. The "proof" is always stuff like how boys run farther in fitness tests. The people who wave the banner of "equality" when it benefits them somehow never volunteer to run an extra lap themselves—so clearly even they agree the difference exists.
And yet here he was, drenched in sweat and wheezing, while the girl behind him looked like she was out for a casual stroll. She followed him without rushing, light on her feet, almost relaxed—like this was nothing.
"Ohhh, I get it!" she said brightly. "English is really deep!"
She even had the energy to study it. She tried writing his earlier line out in katakana, then looked up and asked, "Does it sound similar?"
"Yeah, yeah, totally…" he panted, too tired to roast her mangled katakana-English imitation. He tossed out a couple of lazy acknowledgments and kept charging through Shibuya.
Seeing how blatantly he was brushing her off, the girl clicked her tongue, annoyed, and stopped talking—just silently keeping up.
Their destination was a restaurant with a sign printed in huge letters:
[AMERICAN DINER — LAND OF THE FREE BLAST!! SUPREME GRILL]
From a name like that—something Americans would blink at and Japanese customers would squint at—you could tell immediately what kind of place it was: an "American" restaurant aimed at people who weren't actually American.
It was the same vibe as those "authentic" themed spots that locals avoid on instinct. Except here, it was worse, because places like this somehow still did great business. Truly one of the great mysteries of the twenty-first century.
He darted into the back alley like he'd done it a thousand times, pulled out his phone, and at the same time jammed the key he'd been gripping into the lock. Click—twist—the door popped open. He slipped into the back kitchen.
His eyes flicked to the phone screen: 8:28.
Only then did he finally suck in a full breath and press his finger to the time clock.
Beep!
The screen displayed clearly:
"Asher Skye — Clock-in successful."
He finally let out the breath he'd been holding. The restaurant opened at ten, but staff had to be in by eight-thirty to prep. This time, he'd made it.
Right on cue, his phone buzzed twice.
He lit the screen and saw a text message:
"The world is about to fall into chaos. If you seek the power to change it, please click the link below."
[Go to hell.]
Spam. And Asher didn't even have to think before firing back every ounce of frustration he'd been bottling up lately—compressing it into a profanity-laced missile and launching it straight at whatever scumbag was mass-texting strangers from who-knew-where.
He pocketed the phone, opened his locker, and stared at the mirror mounted inside. It was meant for checking your uniform and appearance, and right now it clearly reflected three figures.
"Yo! Yankee, you're late again today!"
To Asher's left and right, two Japanese guys hooked arms over his shoulders like they owned him. One had bleached blond hair and an earring; the other sported a little mustache. The heavy stink of tobacco rolled off them, making Asher frown.
"I'm not late today," he said flatly.
"Don't talk back. If we say you're late, you're late, Yankee!" the blond guy snapped, laughing loud and exaggerated as he bounced his shoulders up and down—like a smug duck strutting around a pond. "Next time show up an hour early! An hour! Learn what time means!"
"Hit him, Ash!" the girl—Yoshizawa—laughed, completely delighted by the chaos. She balled up her small hands into fists and threw a couple of punches into the air. "Use your American MMA!"
Asher curled his lip.
[If you weren't the manager's kid, I would've dropped you a long time ago.]
"Nakano," the mustached one chimed in like a loyal henchman, "what'd he say? He's running his mouth in some foreign language again!"
Asher didn't even look up. "I said: I understand."
The blond guy clearly wanted to keep going, but from inside the restaurant came an irritated shout:
"What are you all doing back there?"
The blond guy froze. That voice belonged to the owner—his father. He clicked his tongue, then drove a vicious punch into Asher's back.
It looked, at a glance, like some friendly "rah-rah" shove between teens.
It wasn't.
It hit hard enough to make Asher stumble.
The door to the back swung open.
A broad, thick-built middle-aged man in a chef's uniform stood there with a scowl. "You three slackers—why are you still in the break area? Move! Go clean!"
"Oh, Dad—Dad, I'm training the newbie!" the blond guy blurted instantly, shrinking the moment his father raised his voice. He immediately threw Asher under the bus, then shouted even louder like he was trying to earn points. "I'm telling him not to be late next time! You hear that? Don't be late next time!"
The owner glared at Asher. "You lazy bum. Late every day. I'm docking your performance pay—2,000 yen this month. Get to work!"
Asher's eyes flashed—he could barely keep the anger from boiling over. Luckily, Yoshizawa kept talking him down in a steady stream, saying things like they didn't know quality when they saw it, they were small-time trash, it wasn't worth stooping to their level, and so on.
But something about the whole scene was strange.
From the beginning—whether it was Yoshizawa egging Asher on to hit them, or the owner coming out and calling people out—everyone consistently, conveniently ignored the girl.
It wasn't because she had no presence. It wasn't because she had some special power.
It was because…
Yoshizawa was very clearly on Asher's side. Her little fists flew, swish swish, aimed right at the three guys' heads. They say even a cornered rabbit will bite—so what about a primate?
Her punches landed perfectly on the bridges of their noses…
And then passed straight through.
Like she'd just tried to punch a hologram.
No one had been "ignoring" Yoshizawa. They hadn't even seen her. And the same went both ways—she couldn't touch them physically either. From Asher's perspective, it looked like a cheap 3D game cutscene where the model clipping was so bad the characters phased right through each other.
That kind of invisible, intangible existence…
It made one word come to mind.
Ghost.
Yes. This girl—Kasumi Yoshizawa—was, in fact…
A ghost.
Note: Don't take the cultural stereotypes here seriously; they're generally meant ironically. Unfortunately, it's sometimes difficult to recognize the irony while reading.