The world never waited for anyone.
That was something Akiro had learned early, though he didn't know when exactly it had settled into his bones. Maybe it was when his father stopped coming home on time. Maybe it was when the city kept rebuilding itself no matter how many people it crushed in the process. Or maybe it was simply the way morning always arrived whether he was ready or not.
The train platform was crowded as usual.
People stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes glued to their phones or lost in thought, bodies angled forward as if willing the train to arrive faster. The electronic sign above flickered, announcing a delay that no one reacted to. Delays happened. That was normal. Everything else still moved on schedule.
Akiro stood near the edge, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching the tracks below. Dust and grime coated the rails, untouched for years. He'd always wondered how many things fell down there and were never found again.
Around him, life unfolded in small, forgettable ways.
A student complained quietly into his phone. A middle aged man adjusted his tie, jaw tight with impatience. A woman rocked a crying child, murmuring words meant to soothe rather than solve anything. None of them noticed Akiro, and he didn't expect them to.
He was good at not being noticed.
The city they lived in had a name, but no one ever used it. It was just the city. Big enough that entire neighborhoods could disappear without making the news. Old enough that no one remembered what it was supposed to look like. New enough that construction never stopped.
Above the streets, billboards advertised miracle treatments and energy drinks and organizations promising enlightenment for the right price. Below them, people worked, struggled, lived, and died in rhythms that rarely changed.
Akiro stepped back as the train roared in, hot wind blasting his face. The doors slid open, and the crowd surged forward. He was carried along, squeezed into the car with practiced ease, gripping a pole as the train lurched into motion.
Someone bumped his shoulder.
"Sorry," the man muttered, already turning away.
Akiro nodded out of habit.
He spent most days like this. School in the morning, part time work in the evening, sleep in between. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that would ever matter on a scale larger than his own small routines. He didn't dream about becoming rich or powerful. He just wanted things to stay predictable.
Predictable meant safe.
When the train stopped near the industrial district, Akiro got off. The air here was heavier, tinged with metal and oil. Warehouses loomed on either side of the street, their windows dark and silent. A few workers gathered near entrances, smoking and talking in low voices.
Akiro walked toward the corner convenience store where he worked nights. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside, the familiar smell of instant food and cleaning chemicals washing over him.
"You're early," said Kana from behind the counter. She was a few years older than him, sharp tongued but fair. "Again."
"I had time," Akiro replied.
She snorted. "People with time scare me. Clock in."
He did, moving behind the counter and restocking shelves while the evening crowd trickled in. Truck drivers, factory workers, people who looked like they'd been tired for decades. He watched them with quiet interest, noticing patterns most people didn't. Who paid in cash. Who avoided eye contact. Who hesitated at the door before stepping inside.
The world made sense when you paid attention.
Sometime after midnight, the store emptied out. Rain began to fall outside, light at first, then steady. Kana yawned and stretched.
"I'm heading out," she said, grabbing her jacket. "Try not to die before my shift tomorrow."
"I'll do my best," Akiro said.
She laughed and left, the bell jingling once more before the door closed behind her.
The store fell quiet.
Akiro stood alone, listening to the hum of the refrigerators and the rhythm of the rain against the glass. He liked moments like this. When time slowed just enough to breathe.
He didn't hear the door open.
By the time he looked up, the knife was already in the man's hand.
Everything after that felt wrong in a way he couldn't explain.
The man was young, nervous, eyes darting around the store as if expecting something to stop him. His hand shook as he pointed the blade toward Akiro.
"Money," he said. "Now."
Akiro's heart raced. His hands rose slowly, palms open. He'd been trained what to do. Comply. Don't escalate. Let things end.
He stepped back toward the register.
The man lunged.
The pain came sharp and sudden, white hot against his side. Akiro gasped, stumbling as the knife slid into him far too easily. He hit the floor hard, the world spinning.
The man swore under his breath and ran.
Akiro lay there, staring up at the ceiling lights as rain thundered outside. His breath came shallow and fast. Blood spread beneath him, dark and warm.
This was it, he thought distantly.
He waited for panic. For his vision to fade. For the world to do what it always did.
But the seconds stretched.
His heart still beat.
The pain stayed contained, like it was being held back by something unseen. His body hadn't realized yet what had happened to it.
Akiro sucked in a shaky breath.
"…Why am I still here?" he whispered.
Outside, the rain continued to fall. The city didn't change its pace for him. Cars passed. Lights flickered. Somewhere, a train horn echoed between buildings.
Akiro lay on the floor, breathing slowly, counting each rise and fall of his chest just to prove he still could. The pain stayed where it was, sharp but contained, like it was waiting for permission to spread.
He laughed quietly, the sound thin and confused.
"This doesn't make sense," he whispered to the empty store.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. Time felt unreliable in a way it hadn't before. Eventually, the pain began to move again, creeping outward, reminding him that whatever strange pause he'd been given wasn't permanent.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Akiro closed his eyes, exhausted, not knowing whether he was lucky, cursed, or simply misunderstood by a world that hadn't finished dealing with him yet.
When he was finally carried out of the store on a stretcher, rain soaking through the blankets and into his clothes, no one noticed anything unusual.
Neither did he.
Not yet.