Rain slicked the streets of Neo-Kyoto, scattering neon reflections across the pavement like shards of colored glass. High-rises loomed, their silhouettes slicing through holographic billboards advertising augmented body mods and reality-shift games. From somewhere down the block, heavy bass throbbed from a club, blending with the hushed clamor of late-night pedestrians.

  Hiroki pulled his hood tighter, head bowed as he navigated the crowded walkway. He didn’t have a real destination—just drifting, as usual. Anything to avoid going home too soon. Not that it mattered: home was a cramped apartment so silent it made his ears ring.

  He kept his eyes low, catching glimpses of strangers’ feet, their umbrellas, the shifting glow of screens. He couldn’t shake that familiar tightness in his chest. The day’s humiliation replayed in his mind: the group assignment, Tayo and Abeni’s thin smiles, the way Tayo’s face twisted when he suggested a hypothetical family scenario. “Eww.” Just one little word, but it lodged itself under his skin like a thorn.

  It had happened that afternoon. He’d been placed in a group with Kelechi and Aiko—quiet classmates who neither mocked nor befriended him. Then Tayo and Abeni joined, two of the popular girls. For a while, it seemed normal—brainstorming family structures, talking about traditions. He’d even contributed an idea or two, feeling, for once, almost part of something.

  Then he tried to lighten the mood, mentioned a scenario as if he and Tayo were family. Nothing strange, just a casual example. She reacted like he’d suggested something grotesque. “Eww,” she said, and that was it. Hiroki felt the group’s mood curdle. Everyone pretended it didn’t happen. He spent the rest of the class listening silently, ignoring the low snickers from other desks, pretending his eyes weren’t burning with tears he refused to show.

  Now here he was, hours later, stomach knotted, trudging through neon rain because anywhere was better than the silence of his apartment. He kicked a stray soda can. It rattled into a gutter, and he veered off the main avenue, slipping into a narrow, dimly lit alley. The backstreets were quieter, just the hush of raindrops and distant hum of city life. He preferred it this way—less chance of running into people who knew him.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket: a reminder from his part-time job. He ignored it. It barely paid, but it was the only thing tethering him to some version of normalcy. If “normal” even applied to him.

  A sudden noise made him pause: muffled voices, the scuff of shoes on wet concrete. Peering around the corner, he saw three older boys cornering someone near a rusted fire escape. Their victim was about Hiroki’s age, maybe a year younger, hunched small as they teased him, holding his phone out of reach. One thug sneered, “How’d a runt like you afford this, huh?”

  Hiroki knew better than to get involved. He’d learned from experience: keep your head down, stay invisible. But the bitterness of the day festered inside him. Tayo’s disgusted face, the laughter, the polite smiles that never reached anyone’s eyes—it all pressed on his ribs, made his fingers curl into fists.

  “Hey,” he called, stepping out where the rain dripped from a broken gutter. His heart thumped, warning him this was stupid. But he was done walking away. “You done playing tough guys?”

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  The bullies turned. One raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh, look. Another hero.”

  Hiroki’s pulse hammered. He tried a shrug. “You’re blocking the alley,” he said, voice flat. “Maybe find a hobby that doesn’t involve shaking down kids.”

  “Cute,” one jeered, stepping closer. The others fanned out, their bravado still intact. “Move along if you don’t want trouble.”

  Hiroki knew he should. He knew how this ended. But a strange tension coiled inside him, sizzling just beneath the surface of his skin—anger, shame, anxiety, all tangled together. Before he could second-guess himself, one of them shoved him hard. Hiroki stumbled, splashing through a puddle. Something inside him snapped.

  It happened in less than a breath: a surge of energy flickered at his fingertips, a static charge that leapt from his body in a ripple. The bullies froze, eyes wide. They staggered back as if hit by a sudden gust of wind. Confusion twisted their features, panic hollowing their bravado. Without a word, they shoved past each other and ran, their footsteps echoing in retreat.

  Hiroki stared after them, heart racing. His hands shook, tiny arcs of energy dancing over his knuckles like static sparks. He’d never felt anything like that before. It was impossible. Yet it had happened.

  The kid they’d cornered snatched his phone from the ground, offered a stammered “Th-thanks,” and bolted off. Hiroki didn’t blame him. He was terrified, too—of himself, of this strange surge that had come from nowhere.

  Rain drummed softly against metal and concrete. Alone now, he struggled to steady his breathing. He tried to convince himself it was just adrenaline, a trick of the light. But something nagged at him: he could still feel it, that hum beneath his skin.

  That’s when he noticed the shadow stretching along the brick wall. It wasn’t just a silhouette cast by the streetlamp; it shifted, curling like smoke. Hiroki’s breath caught. The shape formed into something almost human, its edges flickering. Two faint red lights—eyes—focused on him. He would’ve laughed it off as some weird AR ad glitch if his chest wasn’t so tight.

  A voice, low and rasping, spoke not from the alley, but somehow inside his head. “Interesting.”

  Hiroki’s blood went cold. He pressed himself against the wall, searching for a projector or a hidden camera. Nothing. Just that impossible shadow with fiery eyes, watching him.

  His throat felt dry. “Who’s there?” he managed. The words sounded thin, swallowed by the rain.

  The shadow’s grin curved impossibly on a face that wasn’t there. “Let’s call me... Arkan.” The voice was too intimate, like a whisper sliding under his skull. “I’ve been waiting for a spark like that.”

  Hiroki tried to slow his racing thoughts. It had to be some augmented reality prank, or he was hallucinating from exhaustion. He shook his head. “I don’t know what game this is, but I’m not playing.” He pushed off the wall, intending to walk away. He just needed to get back into the crowd, somewhere normal.

  “You can run if you want,” Arkan said, voice trailing after him. “But you felt it, didn’t you? That anger you’ve bottled up for so long... it’s power, if you know how to use it.”

  Hiroki clenched his fists, refusing to look back. Every muscle screamed at him to keep walking, not to listen. He turned the corner, forcing himself into a brisk pace. Rain stung his cheeks. The murmur of distant voices and electronic jingles from storefronts grew louder as he neared the main street again.

  He blended into the crowd, shoulders hunched, trying to lose himself in the neon haze. The memory of that voice, that shadow, wouldn’t fade. He could still feel the strange static tingle on his skin, the echo of those red eyes haunting him.

  Ghosts, wraiths—whatever Arkan was—didn’t exist. He’d just had a rough day, a surge of adrenaline. And yet the thought wouldn’t settle. Something had shifted in him tonight.

  “You’ll be back,” that voice had said, and the words lingered like a stray current in his veins.

  Hiroki ducked his head, letting the crowd’s bustle swallow him. He just wanted to forget. But as he vanished into the neon tide, he knew he wouldn’t.