The scratching sound of a pen filled the room.
Kaizen leaned over his desk, eyes half-lidded, fingers moving on their own as ink spread across the manga page. Lines formed effortlessly—too effortlessly. Buildings, shadows, a figure standing under rain.
He paused.
"…Did I already draw this?"
Kaizen flipped back a page.
The same panel stared back at him.
Not similar.
Identical.
The same crooked streetlight.
The same angle of rain.
The same posture of the figure—head slightly tilted, as if waiting.
A chill ran down his spine.
He let out a small laugh and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
"Okay. That's enough for tonight."
I'm just tired.
That excuse had become familiar lately.
Tokyo's morning light filtered in through the window, soft and indifferent. The city outside was alive—trains running, people walking, life moving forward without hesitation.
Kaizen stared at the calendar on the wall.
September.
For some reason, the word itself made his chest feel tight.
He shook his head and stood up, grabbing his phone. Notifications flooded the screen the moment it unlocked.
Mentions.
Replies.
Comments.
He sighed before opening them.
Big mistake.
"Overrated."
"This guy fell off."
"Why is Japan hyping someone like him?"
"Indian fans deserve better than this trash."
More kept coming.
Some criticized the art.
Some attacked him personally.
Some were just… cruel.
Kaizen scrolled in silence.
No anger. No sadness.
Just exhaustion.
He locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed.
"…Guess they really hate me today."
He said it lightly, almost joking—but the words lingered in the air longer than they should have.
Later, at a small café tucked between narrow streets, Kaizen sat by the window with his sketchbook open. Steam rose from his coffee, untouched.
The page was blank.
Yet his hand hovered as if waiting for permission.
Draw something.
His fingers twitched.
An image surfaced in his mind—too vivid.
Rain.
A scream.
Blood mixing with water.
Kaizen's breath caught.
He snapped the sketchbook shut.
"Nope. Not today."
The bell above the café door chimed.
Kaizen looked up.
And froze.
She stood there, brushing rain from her hair, eyes scanning the room for an empty seat.
Black coat. Simple scarf. Calm presence.
Why does my heart feel like this?
The question came uninvited.
She met his gaze.
For a brief second, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
Then she smiled politely and looked away.
Kaizen swallowed.
Do I know her?
Impossible.
Still… something deep inside him stirred—warm, aching, familiar.
She chose a table across the café. As she sat, she glanced up again, this time longer.
Their eyes met once more.
Her smile softened.
And for reasons Kaizen couldn't explain, he felt… relieved.
Minutes passed in silence.
Kaizen tried focusing on his coffee. Failed.
Stop staring.
Yet every time he looked up, she was already looking away—as if caught doing the same thing.
Finally, she stood, walking toward the counter.
As she passed his table, her sleeve brushed his arm.
A shock ran through him.
Not pain.
Recognition.
His left hand twitched.
Kaizen glanced down.
The faint mark on his skin pulsed once—so subtle he almost missed it.
She stopped.
"…Sorry," she said softly.
Her voice.
His chest tightened.
"No— I mean— it's fine," he replied, a little too quickly.
She hesitated, then smiled. "You're an artist, right?"
He blinked. "How did you—"
She gestured at the sketchbook. "Instinct."
Kaizen chuckled. "Guess I got exposed."
"I'm Lyra," she said after a pause.
The name landed gently… and heavily.
Lyra.
His mind echoed it back like a memory trying to wake up.
"I'm Kaizen."
Something unreadable crossed her eyes.
"…Nice to meet you," she said.
For reasons neither of them understood—
It didn't feel like a first meeting.
That evening, Kaizen stood on his balcony, Tokyo stretching endlessly beneath him. The city lights flickered like stars trapped on the ground.
His phone buzzed again.
More comments.
More noise.
He ignored them.
Instead, his gaze fell to his left hand.
The mark was still there.
Quiet.
Watching.
Kaizen clenched his fist.
"Guess I'm really losing it," he muttered.
Too much work.
Too much pressure.
Too much hate.
That had to be it.
Stress can make people see things, he reminded himself.
Dreams feel real.
Memories blur.
The brain fills gaps with stories.
He exhaled slowly.
"Yeah… that's all this is."
Yet, as he turned back inside, one thought refused to leave him:
If all of this is just stress…
Then why does it feel like I'm forgetting something important?
Somewhere in the city, Lyra paused mid-step and pressed a hand to her chest.
She didn't know why.
Only that something—or someone—
Had just brushed past her fate.
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