My eyes open, still sore from watching videos all night.

  But something’s off. My vision stutters, like I’m lagging behind reality.

  The words on my computer screen flash in my mind—“You were not meant to see this.” My fingers had hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. Rationally, I told myself it was a prank. A virus. But a deeper instinct—the one that kept me standing in last night’s fight—whispers something else.

  I throw on a hoodie and step outside. The air is thick with the remnants of rain, the asphalt still damp beneath my sneakers. The city doesn’t care about my unease. It drags everyone forward like a corpse caught in the tide.

  I walk without direction, trying to shake the weight of that message. Streetlights flicker, their glow weak under the overcast sky. People pass by, lost in their own worlds, oblivious to the shift in mine.

  That’s when I see him.

  A man at the edge of the crowd, a break in the rhythm of pedestrians. Dark hair, slightly unkempt. A long coat that sways with the breeze. He isn’t looking at me directly, but I feel it—his awareness, subtle and deliberate, like invisible chains settling around my shoulders.

  I keep walking, forcing myself not to react, but tension coils in my muscles. When I glance back, he’s still there. Same posture. Same unreadable gaze.

  I turn a corner and step into a convenience store, the artificial hum of fluorescent lights settling over me. I grab a can of coffee—an excuse to linger, to watch the glass door’s reflection.

  Seconds pass. A minute. Maybe more.

  Then, he enters.

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  His movements are precise, each step measured but unhurried. He stops a few feet away, pretending to browse the shelves. But he isn’t here for snacks.

  The moment stretches, thick with unspoken words. Then, finally, he speaks.

  “You saw it, didn’t you?”

  My grip tightens around the can, condensation cool against my skin. Play dumb.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The man exhales sharply, almost amused. “You’re not a good liar.”

  I risk a glance at him, trying to gauge his intent. Mid-twenties, maybe. Sharp eyes—the kind that miss nothing. There’s something about him, an edge beneath the casual act.

  “Nagai Kou, your not ready.”

  I don’t respond.

  He chuckles, leaning against the shelf. “You don’t trust me. That’s smart. But you should listen.”

  I set the can down, turning to face him fully. “And why is that?”

  His expression shifts, amusement fading. “Because the message you got? It wasn’t meant for you.” His voice lowers, just enough to send a chill down my spine. “And the people it was meant for… don’t like mistakes.”

  Something cold settles in my stomach. “Who are they?”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t want that answer.”

  I meet his gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. He’s not warning me to scare me.

  He’s warning me because it’s already too late.

  “I don’t know your life,” he says, his voice even. “But it’s about to change. How it changes—that depends on your choices.”

  He turns to leave but pauses just before the door.

  “I’ll see you again… if you survive long enough for me to.”

  With that, he steps out.

  I wait a few seconds before following, scanning the street for any trace of him. Nothing. No sign he was ever here.

  I force myself not to dwell on his words. I don’t need this. My life is predictable, a cycle of mundane repetition. I don’t want any part of that message—or the “people” he mentioned.

  Shoving my hands into my pockets, I turn and head home, hoping there won’t be any more chance encounters. Hoping I can return to the dull comfort of expected disappointment.