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Tokyo at night has a rhythm of its own.
The hum of traffic, the flicker of neon signs, the endless chatter of bars and nightclubs spilling into the streets—it all feels alive, hungry, and restless. A city that never sleeps, always pulsing with the quiet desperation of people looking for something, anything, to make them forget themselves.
For me, that night, the answer had been a woman.
We met at a coworker's afterparty, some rooftop gathering where the drinks flowed too easily and everyone laughed a little louder than they should. She wasn't even the one I'd expected to talk to. She was leaning against the railing, cigarette glowing in the dark, her gaze fixed on the Tokyo skyline like it was holding secrets only she could read.
A stranger. But her eyes found mine in a way that said we wouldn't stay strangers for long.
Maybe it was the loneliness in me. Maybe it was the vodka. Maybe it was just Tokyo's way of offering me another night of forgetting.
One thing led to another, and hours later we stumbled into her apartment.
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Now her body straddled mine in the dim glow of her bedroom lamp, skin slick with sweat, the sheets twisted beneath us like chains we couldn't escape. Her hair clung to her face as she rocked against me, every roll of her hips pulling a low gasp from my throat.
My hands gripped her ass, guiding her rhythm, feeling every desperate grind as if it would brand me. She leaned forward, lips finding mine in a fevered kiss, our tongues tangling, her moans spilling into my mouth like confessions she couldn't hold back.
"Ahh… don't stop," she whispered, breathless against my lips.
"I wasn't planning to," I muttered, pulling her down harder, letting myself drown in her heat, her scent, the raw ache of wanting.
Each thrust made her shudder, nails dragging across my chest as though to mark me as hers, if only for this moment. Her eyes half-lidded, shining with need, she moved faster, chasing release like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
I kissed along her neck, down to her collarbone, tasting salt and perfume, her voice breaking into ragged moans that echoed in the small room.
"Yes… right there… don't let me go," she pleaded, and I held her tighter, as if I could fuse her body to mine.
The city outside was still alive, neon light leaking through the blinds and painting her back in streaks of pink and violet. But here, nothing existed but her, the rhythm of her body, the fire in my chest, and the selfish relief of losing myself in her.
And yet, even in the haze of pleasure, a thought flickered in the back of my mind—
Is this all I am?
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When it was over, she collapsed against me, her breath warm on my chest. I stared at the ceiling, heart still pounding, trying to tell myself this was enough. That this was living.
But even as her arm draped across me, even as sweat cooled on my skin, I knew it wasn't.
I had chased pleasure, but I hadn't found meaning.
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That was when it happened.
At first, I thought it was just the neon glare shifting outside the window, some flicker of a passing sign. But no—the light was wrong. It was too bright, too alive. A glow, pale and golden, pulsed at the edge of the room, spreading like liquid sunlight across the walls.
The woman stirred beside me, half-asleep, murmuring something I couldn't catch. She didn't notice it. She couldn't. The light was for me.
It wrapped around my hands, my chest, my skin, seeping into me like fire and ice at once. My body trembled, but not from exhaustion. This was something else.
"Wh—what the hell?" I whispered.
The glow grew stronger, swallowing the room, devouring the neon, the bed, the warmth of her skin against mine. Her voice faded like an echo in water as my vision turned to pure white.
I reached for her, for the sheets, for anything to anchor me—
But it was too late.
The city was gone. The bed was gone. Tokyo, my life, my meaningless nights of fleeting heat—all of it was torn away.
And I was falling into the unknown.
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