The town of Misato was forty minutes from Tokyo if the traffic cooperated and an hour if it did not.
It was the kind of place that did not appear in tourist guides or in conversations about the interesting suburbs of the capital — it simply existed, with its narrow streets and its two-storey houses and its family businesses that closed before eight in the evening. The kind of place where people knew each other well enough to say hello, but not well enough to ask questions.
On a Tuesday at five in the afternoon, three fourteen-year-old boys walked along one of those narrow streets with their bags over their shoulders and the specific energy of people who have just left school and have not yet decided what to do with the rest of the day.
"The maths exam was a trap," said Toma Inoue, with the conviction of someone who has reached a conclusion after a great deal of analysis. "There was no way to prepare for that."
"You didn't prepare," said Masa Shirai.
"Exactly. There was no way."
Sota Miyazaki walked in the middle, listening to the conversation with half the attention it deserved and the other half nowhere in particular. He was like that sometimes — not because he was sad or worried but because his mind sometimes went somewhere without telling him.
"Sota," said Toma. "How did you do?"
"Fine," said Sota, who did not remember exactly how he had done, but fine was an answer that worked in most contexts.
"Fine," repeated Masa, in the tone of someone who does not believe it but decides not to press.
The street turned left and the sun began to drop behind the low buildings of Misato with that specific light of five in the afternoon in autumn — orange, long, that made the shadows arrive sooner than they should.
Sota stopped.
The other two walked on two steps before noticing.
On the pavement opposite, between two buildings — a narrow alley that from where they stood appeared completely dark, even though the sun had not yet finished going down — something was going inside.
He did not know what it was. He only knew that he had seen it and that from the moment he had seen it something in his chest was making a noise that was not exactly a noise but a sensation that had no name and yet his body treated as an emergency signal.
"What's wrong?" said Toma, turning round.
Sota smiled.
"Nothing," he said. "I forgot something. You two go ahead."
Masa looked at him with that expression of his that was not distrust but attention.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, go on. I'll see you tomorrow."
The two exchanged a glance. Then they kept walking. When they were far enough away, Toma said something to Masa in a low voice that Sota did not hear but was probably the version of do you think he's alright that Toma used when he did not want to be overheard asking.
Sota was already crossing the street.
The alley smelled of damp and something harder to name.
Not rubbish exactly — something closer to the smell of a place that receives no ventilation and where something has not moved for a long time. Sota went in slowly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness that was denser than it should have been for that hour of the afternoon.
Then he saw it.
The figure was humanoid in general form — two arms, two legs, a head — but the details did not correspond to any person Sota had seen in his life. The skin was a light green that was not the green of anything living but of something that imitates the colour without understanding why it exists. The eyes were completely white, without pupil, without iris — only a pale surface that reflected the little light of the alley in a way Sota did not want to analyse too closely. The hair was yellow — not blonde, yellow, the yellow of something that should not be that colour — and it was wearing human clothes, a shirt and trousers, with the specific awkwardness of something that does not entirely understand what clothes are for, but wears them anyway.
It had a woman pinned against the wall.
The woman was crying. Not screaming — crying, with the kind of silent weeping of someone who has understood that screaming is not going to change anything, but has not yet accepted what comes next. When she saw Sota at the entrance to the alley her eyes changed — not to relief exactly, but to the specific desperation of someone who sees a last option and knows it probably will not work either.
"Help," she said, quietly. "Please."
The green figure turned.
It looked at Sota with those white eyes that had no expression of their own, but somehow communicated something that resembled curiosity.
"Can you actually see me?" it said.
The voice sounded slightly off — like someone who has learned the language intellectually but has not had enough practice with the rhythm of how it sounds when it is truly spoken.
Sota did not respond.
Not because he did not want to — but because the air would not come out. His lungs were doing their job, but the result was not reaching anywhere useful. His legs were not responding properly either. He was standing at the entrance to the alley with his bag still over his shoulder and his mind processing the information his eyes were sending it at a speed the rest of his nervous system could not keep up with.
The green figure smiled.
And then the threads appeared.
Fine — so fine that Sota almost did not see them until they were already moving, extending from the figure's fingers with the speed of something that has done this before and knows exactly how it works. They found the woman's throat before she could do anything about it.
Sota closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the woman was no longer standing.
The figure turned towards him with the same calm with which it had done everything else — without hurry, without urgency, with the unhurried pace of something that has no reason to rush.
Sota stepped back. His legs responded this time, though not in a useful way.
The figure came closer.
And then the phone rang.
The figure stopped. It took the phone from the shirt pocket with the specific clumsiness of someone who has observed how it is done but still does not entirely understand why the fingers have to move in that particular way for it to work. It looked at it for a moment with something that might have been frustration if it had had more expression available.
"These things are so complicated," it murmured, to itself.
It answered.
Sota did not hear what was said on the other end — only the figure's voice responding with that slightly off cadence.
"Fine," it said. "I just went out for a bit of exercise. To have some fun." A pause. "I'm coming back now."
It hung up.
It put the phone away.
It looked at Sota with those unblinking white eyes.
"It seems I don't have time for you," it said.
It stepped one pace closer. It raised a hand and with the back of its fingers stroked Sota's cheek — slowly, with the deliberate delicacy of something that knows exactly what that gesture is going to do to someone who is already at their limit.
Sota did not move. Not because he did not want to but because there was no longer any signal travelling from his brain to his legs that had anything useful to say.
The figure withdrew its hand.
"Next time you won't be so lucky," it said, and went off towards the far end of the alley with the same unhurried pace with which it had arrived.
Sota was left alone in the alley with the woman on the ground and the silence of Misato at five in the afternoon and something in his throat that could not quite decide whether it was going to become a scream or simply the murmuring of someone who still cannot believe what they have just seen.
"Help," he said at last, very quietly. "Someone."
The tears came on their own.
Amane Yūta appeared around the corner at nine fifty-eight the following morning with his bag over his shoulder and a yawn he tried to cover with his hand without much success.
Kagami Ryo was leaning against the car with the cigarette between his fingers and the expression of someone who has been in the same spot for a while and does not mind, but is not going to deny it either.
"Good morning," said Yūta.
Kagami looked at the cigarette. Then he stubbed it out.
"What's the mission?" said Yūta, reaching the car.
"They've identified someone who could be a hunter," said Kagami. "We need to keep watch over him."
Yūta processed that as he loaded his bag into the back seat.
"Is that how they found me?" he said, more to himself than to Kagami.
"Probably," said Kagami.
Yūta smiled.
"Sorry," he said. "I was thinking aloud."
"Get in," said Kagami, and opened the driver's door.
The journey to Misato took forty minutes in the morning traffic — long enough for Yūta to watch the landscape change from the motorway towards something quieter and less dense, and for Kagami to drive in his usual silence without either of them feeling the need to fill it.
Halfway there, Yūta turned towards him.
"What's the boy like?"
Kagami took a photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket and passed it over without taking his eyes off the road.
It was Sota Miyazaki — round face, black hair, the expression of someone photographed without being warned or without caring that they had been warned. Fourteen years old. He looked completely ordinary in every sense that word could mean.
"Fourteen years old," said Kagami.
"He's very young," said Yūta.
"You're sixteen."
"Yes, but it's different."
Kagami did not respond in a way that suggested it was not all that different.
"It seems he already encountered a remnant," said Kagami. "So it won't be just observation as we had planned."
Yūta looked at him.
"You told me before it was just surveillance."
"That's what Kato told me," said Kagami. "At the last moment I was informed that we need to speak with him directly. Apparently he hasn't been going to school because of what he says he saw — the hunter who had been observing him passed that on to Kato."
"I see, but... how do we approach him? We can't tell him we're hunters."
Kagami reached into the inside pocket of his jacket again and took out something rectangular — a badge, the kind that people with official authority carry, with a logo that Yūta did not recognise but which had the look of something governmental.
"This badge is from a Tokyo authorities organisation," said Kagami. "People cannot know about the remnants. For cases like this we use generic identification. Enough for people to open the door."
Yūta looked at the badge.
"That's incredible," he said. "I want one."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you would be irresponsible with it and get yourself into trouble."
Yūta opened his mouth to object. He closed it. He did something with his expression that was between a pout and the resignation of someone who knows the argument against them is probably correct, even if they do not want to admit it.
"That's not true," he said, without conviction.
"We're here," said Kagami.
The Miyazaki house was two storeys, at the end of a street in Misato that had that specific quiet of places where nothing has happened for a long time — or where something has happened, but nobody knows it yet.
Kagami rang the doorbell.
A few seconds passed. Then footsteps on the interior stairs, the sound of a lock, and the door opened.
Yuriko Miyazaki was around forty, with the expression of someone who has not slept properly for days and has learned to function anyway because there is no other option. Her hair was pulled back with more haste than usual and she had a cup of tea in her hand that had probably been cold for a while. She looked at Kagami first — the height, the jacket, the calm he had — and then at Yūta, who was considerably younger than she had expected for someone coming to speak with her son.
"Good morning," she said, with the caution of someone who opens the door to strangers because there is a reason to do so, but not because it feels entirely comfortable.
Kagami produced the badge.
"Good morning," he said. "We're from the Tokyo Psychosocial Follow-up Office. We understand your son had an incident a few days ago and we'd like to speak with him if possible."
Yuriko looked at the badge. Then she looked at both of them again. Then she stepped aside.
"Please come in," she said.
The inside of the house smelled of recent food and something harder to name — the specific tension of a place where someone is unwell and the others are waiting for them to get better without knowing exactly what getting better means in this case. There was a school photo of Sota on the hallway shelf — smiling, with Toma and Masa on either side, with the energy of someone for whom that day had been a good day.
"Please sit down," said Yuriko, gesturing towards the living room sofa.
The three of them sat. Yuriko set her cup of tea on the table and sat facing them with her hands folded in her lap — the posture of someone who has told this story enough times to know how it begins and how it ends, but is still not completely used to telling it.
"My son," she said, "has not been himself for a few days now." She said it in the specific tone of someone who has learned to say it clinically because it is the only way to say it without their voice breaking. "Apparently he saw a dead woman in an alley near the school. It affected him badly." She paused. "Except that he says it was a strange creature that killed her. Something that was not human. The therapists say that because he is young his brain played a trick on him — that he probably saw something terrible and his mind processed it in a way that did not correspond to reality. To protect him, they think."
"How long has he been like this?" said Kagami.
"Since that night," said Yuriko. "He doesn't talk much. He doesn't go out. When he does go out he comes back looking over his shoulder as though he expects to see something." She looked at her own hands. "He's not the same boy he was before."
"I understand," said Kagami. "Would it be possible to speak with him directly? Sometimes with someone outside the family circle it's easier."
Yuriko looked at both of them — at Kagami, then at Yūta, who had listened to everything without saying anything but had in his expression something that was not exactly pity but recognition.
"Yes," she said at last. "One moment."
She stood and went up the stairs.
Kagami waited until her footsteps could no longer be heard. Then he turned to Yūta in a low voice.
"From the description this is the work of a remnant," he said. "So we need to be careful about what we tell the boy. We cannot confirm or deny too much until we know what we're dealing with."
Yūta nodded without saying anything.
From upstairs came the sound of a door opening, a low voice, another low voice answering.
Yuriko came back down the stairs.
"You can go up," she said. "He's in his room."
The three of them went up. The corridor of the second floor had the same silence as below but more concentrated — more personal, the kind of silence that belongs to a specific space of a specific person.
Yuriko opened the door at the end of the corridor.
Sota Miyazaki was sitting on the bed with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up. His eyes were open — not looking at anything specific but looking at the space in front of him with the expression of someone who has seen something that should not exist and is still trying to find somewhere to put it.
He did not look at them when they came in.
Kagami turned to Yuriko.
"Could you leave us alone for a moment?"
Yuriko looked at her son. Then at Kagami. Then at Yūta.
"I'll be downstairs," she said. "Let me know if you need anything."
She closed the door.
The room fell silent except for the sounds of Misato outside — a car passing, a bird, the background noise of a place where nothing has happened for a long time.
Sota Miyazaki kept looking at the space in front of him.