The city of Tokyo shimmered beneath the setting sun.
Orange light stretched across glass towers, catching on every window like liquid fire. The sound of traffic below faded into a distant hum — a melody too far to reach him.
He stood on the rooftop alone, hands resting on the cold steel railing.
A black coat fluttered around him, brushing against his knees. The nameplate near the door read SENVIDIA STUDIOS, the company he built from nothing.
Nineteen years old when he arrived in Japan.
Twenty-five now — the youngest mangaka to win the Global Art Excellence Award.
And yet, he felt nothing.
A cigarette burned quietly between his fingers, untouched. The wind kept trying to steal its smoke.
He looked down at the city — the lights flickering to life one by one — and whispered to himself:
"I made it, right?
…Then why does it still feel empty?"
For a moment, a smile crossed his lips. A tired one.
He thought of his parents — overprotective, always afraid he'd fail.
He thought of his first love — the girl who once sent him her favorite song online, then blocked him without a word.
He thought of the thousands of fans who called him "genius,"
but not a single person who truly knew him.
The sky deepened to red. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through unread messages — none that mattered.
Until one notification blinked on the screen.
"Call from: Manajit (India)"
His best friend.
He hadn't spoken to him properly in months.
He sighed, answering with a lazy tone.
"Yo, Manajit… you sound serious. What's up?"
There was silence on the other end. Then a shaking breath.
"Bro… I don't know how to say this. You remember… her, right? The one you used to love?"
His heart froze. The world around him went quiet.
"She's gone," Manajit said.
"Someone… someone killed her last night."
For a second, he didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The sky kept burning red, but it looked colder now.
Tears filled his eyes — but his face stayed blank, empty, expressionless.
A drop slid down his cheek as he whispered,
"…I see."
He ended the call. The cigarette finally fell from his hand, landing on the rooftop floor.
Its ember died slowly, like the last light in his heart.
That night, he walked back into his apartment — white walls, dim lights, and silence.
On the wall was a massive 7-foot painting of her face — the girl he once loved. Her smile still soft, her eyes still alive on canvas.
He stood there, looking at her for a long time, until the room blurred behind tears.
Then a gentle voice spoke behind him.
"You're crying again."
It was Aki, his girlfriend — a Japanese artist who lived with him.
She came close, wrapping her arms around him, but he didn't move.
He only whispered,
"She's gone, Aki. The girl I once drew for years… she's gone."
Aki's arms tightened. "I know," she murmured. "But you're still here. Don't disappear into your memories again."
He closed his eyes. The tears finally stopped.
But deep inside, something broke.
Something that wouldn't heal.
And as the night sky swallowed Tokyo,
a red streak of light flashed briefly across his right eye —
too faint to notice.
A silent omen.
Of the time that would soon shatter.
End of Chapter 1: The Sky That Never Smiled Back