Chapter 2
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Max sat in the chair, head tilted back. Sleeping. The corner of his mouth curved upward—just slightly. A peaceful expression.
The chair tipped.
Max jerked awake, gasping.
His shoulder slammed against something hard. The armrest. Narrow space. His knees pressed against the seat in front of him.
Airplane cabin. The hum of engines. Recycled air.
He blinked, heart hammering. His neck ached from the angle he'd been sleeping at. Drool had dried at the corner of his mouth.
The seatbelt sign dinged on above him.
*"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Osaka Kansai International Airport."*
Max straightened in his seat. Rubbed his face. His hands were shaking slightly—adrenaline from the sudden wake-up, probably. He looked out the window. Gray clouds, then patches of land below. Green and brown squares. Buildings.
Japan.
He'd actually done it.
The plane descended through the clouds. His ears popped. He swallowed, trying to clear them. The woman next to him was already awake, putting away her tablet, checking her phone was in airplane mode for the third time.
The landing was smooth. The cabin filled with the sounds of people unbuckling, pulling bags from overhead compartments before the seatbelt sign had even turned off.
Max waited. Let the rush happen around him. Eventually the aisle cleared enough and he stood, grabbed his backpack from under the seat in front. Everything he owned was in that bag, or in the checked luggage he hoped would actually arrive.
The walk through the terminal felt long. Signs in Japanese and English guided him toward immigration. The line moved slowly. When his turn came, the officer looked at his passport, looked at him, stamped it without a word.
Baggage claim was in the lower level. Max found his carousel and waited with everyone else, watching the conveyor belt rotate. Bags appeared. People grabbed them and left.
His didn't come.
The carousel slowed. Stopped. A few scattered suitcases still circled, unclaimed.
Not his.
Max found the baggage services counter. A woman in a crisp uniform smiled at him professionally.
"Good afternoon. How can I help you?"
"My luggage didn't arrive," Max said. His voice came out rougher than he expected. Airplane air always dried out his throat.
"May I see your baggage claim ticket?"
He handed it over. She typed into her computer, frowning slightly at the screen.
"I see. Your bag was not loaded onto your flight in Seoul. It should arrive on the next flight from Seoul, approximately four hours from now."
"Four hours."
"Yes. We can deliver it to your address in Osaka, or you can return to collect it. No charge for delivery."
Max gave her the address of his rental room—the one he'd found online three weeks ago, the landlord who'd agreed to rent to him despite having never met him. She typed it in.
"We will deliver by this evening. Very sorry for the inconvenience."
"It's fine."
It wasn't fine, but what else was he supposed to say?
She handed him a reference number on a slip of paper. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
Outside the airport, the air hit him differently. Humid. Warmer than he'd expected for October. He stood for a moment, adjusting.
A bus terminal stretched to his left. Train station entrance to his right. He pulled out his phone, checked the address again. The rental room was in Nishinari ward. Cheaper area. The kind of place that didn't ask too many questions.
He took the train. The Nankai Line toward Namba. The cars were clean, quiet. People minded their own business. Max found a seat and watched the city pass outside—buildings pressed close together, narrow streets, vending machines on every corner.
At Namba he transferred. Found his way to the JR loop line, then a local train heading west. The neighborhoods changed. Got older. Less polished.
He got off at Imamiya Station.
The streets here were different from the tourist areas. Narrower. Shops with faded signs. A few shuttered buildings. An old man smoking outside a convenience store.
Max pulled out the printed directions he'd folded into his pocket. The address was written in Japanese characters he couldn't read, but the landlord had drawn a small map.
He walked. Turned left at the pachinko parlor. Continued past a small shrine squeezed between two buildings.
A woman was sweeping outside her shop. Max stopped.
"Excuse me," he said in careful, practiced Japanese. "Do you know this address?"
He showed her the paper.
She squinted at it, then pointed down the street. Said something rapid in Japanese. Too fast. He caught maybe two words.
"That way?" He pointed.
She nodded. "Hai, hai." Gestured more. Two blocks, maybe. Turn right.
"Thank you."
He followed her directions. The street curved slightly. Residential buildings, mostly. Small apartments stacked three or four stories high. Laundry hanging from balconies. Bicycles chained outside doors.
He checked the numbers. They didn't run in any order that made sense to him. 3-12, then 3-27, then 3-8.
He backtracked. Tried the next street.
There.
3-15.
A narrow building, squeezed between two others. Concrete exterior, stained from years of rain. A metal staircase on the outside leading up to the second and third floors.
This was it.
Max stood on the sidewalk, looking up at it. His room was on the second floor, third door. The landlord had said he'd leave the key in the mailbox.
The building looked tired. Worn down. The kind of place people ended up when they had nowhere else to go.
Perfect.
Max walked toward the entrance.
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