Ren slouched against the counter of a ramen stall, the kind that used to pack in salarymen but now served whoever had something to trade. The neon sign above buzzed, casting a pink glow over Osaka's crowded night market. Japan hadn't gone to hell—not completely. The cities still hummed with life, people clinging to normalcy despite the demons slipping through the cracks. But Ren wasn't here for the vibes. He was here for the food, or whatever passed for it these days.
His stomach growled, loud enough to make the stall's cook—a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek—glance up. "You got anything to trade, kid?" the cook asked, stirring a pot of broth that smelled more like dishwater than miso.
Ren patted his jacket, pulling out a cracked phone battery. Useless to him, but maybe not to someone with a working charger. "This do?" he said, voice rough from disuse. Two days without a real meal did that to you.
The cook snorted but slid a bowl of grayish noodles his way. "Better than nothing. Eat fast. Market's closing soon."
Ren didn't argue. He grabbed the chopsticks, ignoring the splinters digging into his fingers, and shoveled noodles into his mouth. They tasted like cardboard, but hunger didn't care. At twenty-two, he'd learned to take what he could get. Kicked out of his family's apartment three years ago for mouthing off one too many times, he'd been scraping by ever since. No home, no friends, just him and the streets. Trust was a sucker's game in a world where demons wore human faces.
Around him, the market pulsed—vendors hawking batteries, scavenged clothes, and rumors of angelic-bearers, those holier-than-thou types with glowing powers who thought they were saving the world. Ren didn't buy it. He'd seen one once, a guy with a golden aura blasting a demon in Kyoto. Looked more like a showoff than a hero. Probably just in it for the glory.
He slurped the last of the broth, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His side ached, an old scar from a run-in with a drunk scavenger who didn't like sharing. The pain was a reminder: keep your head down, stay sharp, stay alive. He didn't need glowing powers to do that. Just his wits and a knack for disappearing.
The market was thinning out, people hurrying to beat curfew before the night patrols—human and otherwise—started sniffing around. Ren stood, tugging his hoodie over his messy black hair. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, a habit from years of dodging trouble. A woman haggled over a pile of wires. A kid darted through, clutching a stolen apple. Normal. Too normal. His gut twitched, that old itch that said something was off.
He shrugged it off. Paranoia was just part of the package. He tossed the empty bowl back to the cook and headed toward the alley that led to his latest crash spot—a busted-up storage unit nobody bothered to check. The city's neon lights flickered, painting the pavement in reds and blues. Osaka was alive, sure, but it was a jagged kind of alive, like a heart that kept beating despite the scars.
Ren's boots scuffed the asphalt as he walked, hands shoved in his pockets. He passed a group of teens laughing too loud, probably high on cheap synth-drugs. He envied them, just for a second—their ability to act like the world wasn't a minefield. He'd lost that a long time ago, back when his dad told him he was a burden and shut the door in his face. The memory stung, but Ren pushed it down. No point dwelling. The past didn't feed you.
Halfway down the alley, a sharp pain hit his chest, like someone had punched him from the inside. He stumbled, catching himself against a graffiti-covered wall. His breath hitched, and for a split second, he swore he saw light—golden, warm—flicker under his skin. He yanked up his sleeve, staring at his arm. Nothing. Just his usual pale skin, crisscrossed with scars. But his hand felt… wrong. Heavy. Like it wasn't entirely his.
Then came the cold. A chill slithered up his spine, curling around his ribs like ice. His fingers twitched, and shadows—black, oily—danced across his knuckles before fading. Ren's heart pounded. He wasn't stupid. He'd heard the stories: angelic-bearers, chosen by some cosmic lottery, got powers that glowed like the sun. But this? This felt like something else. Something darker.
He shook his head, cursing under his breath. "Get it together, Ren," he muttered. Probably just exhaustion. Or the noodles messing with him. He wasn't one of them. He was nobody. And that's how he liked it.
But the itch in his gut wouldn't quit. He straightened, eyes narrowing as he scanned the alley. That's when he saw it—a guy leaning against a dumpster, dressed in a clean white shirt, too clean for this part of town. His face was ordinary, forgettable, but his eyes… they were too still, too black, like staring into a void. A low hum vibrated from him, barely audible, but it made Ren's teeth ache, his scars burn.
Demon.
Ren's breath caught. He didn't move, didn't blink. The guy hadn't spotted him yet, but those disguised bastards were fast. One wrong step, and he'd be gutted before he could scream. His hand twitched, the weird heat and cold flaring again, unasked for. Light flickered in his palm, faint but real, only to be swallowed by those same black shadows. His stomach lurched. Whatever this was, it wasn't normal. And it wasn't going away.
The demon's head tilted, sniffing the air. Its lips curled into a smile that didn't reach its eyes. Ren's pulse roared in his ears. He didn't wait to see what came next. He turned and slipped into the crowd spilling out from the market, blending into the chaos of bodies and noise. His chest burned, his hands shook, but he kept moving. Alone, like always. Whatever was happening to him—light, shadows, demons, or worse—he'd figure it out. Or he'd die trying.
But one thing was sure: Osaka wasn't as safe as it looked. And neither was he.