Tokyo's nights never slept. They just changed colors — from the deep black of sorrow to the neon haze of distraction.
Riki Yamade sat slouched behind the counter of Bar Gomi, a half-forgotten dive tucked in a narrow alleyway where the city's laughter came to die. The flickering sign outside still read "CASINO BAR," though the roulette tables had been sold years ago. What remained were the broken machines, the stale smell of cheap whiskey, and Riki's quiet breathing — rhythmic, almost mechanical, as if it were the only thing he could control anymore.
He'd found this place months after everything fell apart — after Hokurine, after the streets, after the poison. It was dark, quiet, and filled with people who didn't ask questions. He fit right in.
But tonight wasn't quiet.
Because he showed up again.
"Yo, Yamade!" The voice was too bright for this kind of darkness. "You hiding from the world or just allergic to sunlight?" Riki sighed, not even looking up. "Didn't I tell you to piss off yesterday?"
"You did," Akio Hukitaske replied cheerfully, dragging a stool across the floor until it screeched like a dying crow. "But I didn't promise to listen."
The teenager had a grin too wide for his face, like he'd been born with the wrong expression for the wrong world. His school uniform was untucked, his tie missing, and his backpack looked like it had been chewed on by an animal.
"Bar's closed," Riki muttered. "Try again in hell."
Akio leaned forward. "Funny, I thought this was hell."
Riki looked up then, eyes narrow — sharp, amber and tired all at once. He didn't respond. Just flicked his lighter open and shut, the tiny flame dancing in the reflection of a cracked bottle.
"Why are you here?" Riki asked finally. "To hang out. And you know Riki smoking's bad for ya." Akio replied "I'm not hanging." Riki groaned. "Then I'll sit." Akio said. "I'm not sitting either." Riki groaned back. "Then I'll stand. I'm flexible." Akio replied back. Riki groaned, rubbing his temples. "You're gonna drive me insane."
Akio smiled wider. "Already been there. Rent's terrible. I also got this humor type of thing from my best friend... Hikata. And when you kept annoying me. Funny right. I'm just not this type of person, so that means I'm bad at it, but that's fine. Alright."
That earned a reluctant exhale — not quite a laugh, but not silence either. But a sigh.
It was something.
The night before, Riki had dreamed again.
He saw the fire. The screams. His sister's voice — calling his name, soft at first, then sharper, twisted by the years that turned her into someone else. He saw the alleyways, the blood, the bodies that had once been friends. When he woke, the sheets were damp, and he'd almost punched the wall again.
Almost.
Instead, he'd stared at the empty glass on his bedside and whispered, "Don't get close. please Akio." It had become his mantra. His armor. His curse. And now this idiot — this bright, loud, smiling idiot — was trying to tear it off him one grin at a time.
At school, Akio followed him everywhere.
Riki would sit under the cherry trees behind the gym, pretending to nap. Akio would appear, holding two cans of coffee, one already half-empty.
"Hey, delinquent," Akio said one morning, plopping beside him. "You always sit here? You got, like, a personal relationship with this tree?"
"Yeah. We dated once," Riki replied without opening his eyes. "Didn't work out."
Akio snorted. "Bet you dumped them." "They dumped me," Riki corrected dryly. "Said I was too emotionally unavailable."
Akio laughed so hard he spilled his coffee, and for a second, Riki's lips twitched again. He caught himself and looked away.
"Stop laughing." Riki groaned. "Can't help it. You're funny, Riki." Akio snorted back.
"I'm not your pal." Riki spat back.
"Not yet," Akio teased.
Riki threw the empty can at him. At lunch, Akio would bring food — sometimes store-bought, sometimes suspiciously homemade. "You made this?" Riki asked one day, poking at a half-burned rice ball. "Yup. Tried to add love, but I think it evaporated."
"It exploded," Riki corrected.
Akio grinned. "You ate it though."
Riki blinked. "I didn't."
"Your eyes say otherwise." Akio teased back.
"Shut up." Riki yelled back at him.
By the third week, Akio had somehow learned about Riki's bar.
He'd show up at closing, order cola instead of whiskey, and talk — about nothing, about everything. About how he wanted to be a pharmacist someday, how he thought medicine could fix what people couldn't, how he believed that pain didn't have to be permanent.
Riki always listened in silence, polishing glasses that were already clean.
One night, Akio said quietly, "You ever think people like us can change?"
Riki didn't answer. He stared at the flame of his lighter again. "Change's a word people use when they're scared of reality. And wait you never told me you were like me."
Akio looked at him for a long time. "Maybe. Or maybe it's what happens when someone stops running. And yeah I am, of course not a street like you. I mean with despair. K."
"Running gets you alive." Riki whispered back. "Living keeps you human." Akio replied back. Riki said nothing.
Later that night, Riki walked home through the rain. His boots splashed through puddles reflecting neon pinks and greens. His thoughts replayed Akio's words, looping like static he couldn't turn off.
"Living keeps you human."
He hated how it sounded right. He hated that it felt right.
He stopped under a streetlight, eyes closed, breathing uneven. He wanted to yell — to scream, to hit something, to drown out the quiet kindness that Akio carried like a weapon.
Instead, he whispered, "Don't get close." But for the first time, it didn't sound like a warning. It sounded like a plea. The next day, Akio cornered him in the hallway.
"Yo, Riki! You coming to class for once?" Riki frowned. "Why would I?"
"Because I'm failing chemistry and I need someone worse than me to sit beside for some chaos." Akio snorted back.
"That's not how grades work." Riki mumbled back.
"Morally it is." Akio teased.
"Piss off." Riki yelled back.
Akio grinned, stepping backward as Riki walked away. "You say that like it's my name. Akio."
"Maybe it should be." Akio replied "Then you'd be calling me all the time." Riki spoke back. Riki stopped mid-step. He turned, glaring. "Why the hell do you care?" The hallway quieted for a second. Akio looked at him, not smiling now — not mocking. Just honest.
"Because you look like someone who forgot what it feels like to be cared about."
Riki froze. The words hit harder than fists.
"Don't—" he began, voice shaking. "Don't talk like you know me."
"I don't," Akio said softly. "But I want to. Because at first. You want to know me, remember."
That was the last straw.
That night, Riki sat alone at the bar again, the neon sign buzzing faintly overhead. He poured himself a glass but didn't drink. The reflection in the liquid showed a kid he barely recognized — tired eyes, bruised knuckles, a heart stitched together by anger.
He remembered Akio's face. That dumb grin. Those words. I want to.
And something inside him — something old, fragile, and buried deep — started to ache. He slammed his fist on the counter. The glass shattered. "Damn it…" Blood dripped down his palm, thin and red against the wood. He didn't move. He just stared, stomach tight.
That's when the door creaked open. "You really should stop breaking things," said a familiar voice. Riki didn't turn around. "What the hell do you want, Hukitaske?"
"To make sure you don't bleed out," Akio said lightly, stepping in with a small first-aid kit. "Wouldn't look good on your Yelp reviews. Honestly, I knew you might get ya self hurt again."
"Didn't ask." Riki yelled back. "Didn't need to." Akio teased back. Riki's shoulders stiffened. "Why are you doing this?" Akio shrugged, sitting across from him. "Because you'd do the same."
"I wouldn't."
"Yeah, you would," Akio said simply, opening the kit. "You just forgot how."
Riki didn't reply. He let Akio patch the wound in silence. His hands trembled — not from pain, but from the unbearable quiet between them. The kind that felt heavier than noise.
Finally, Riki muttered, "You really don't get it, do you?"
Akio tilted his head. "Get what?" Riki's voice broke. "People close to me die. They get hurt. I hurt them. That's how it goes." Akio didn't flinch. "So what? You think pushing everyone away will stop that?"
Riki's fists clenched. "It's better than watching it happen again." "No," Akio said, voice firm now — steady. "It's just slower." Riki glared, but Akio kept talking. "You think being alone protects you? It doesn't. It just kills you from the inside. Bit by bit. And you're too stubborn to notice."
"Shut up," Riki hissed. "No," Akio said. "Not until you listen." Riki stood, eyes burning. "You don't know anything about me!" "I know enough," Akio said quietly. "You're scared." That was it. That was the line.
Riki grabbed Akio by the collar, shoving him against the counter. "Say that again. toughy."
Akio looked right into his eyes. "You're scared, Riki."
Riki's grip trembled — not out of rage, but from something he couldn't name. The kind of shaking that came when someone said exactly what you were trying not to hear.
He released him and stepped back, stomach heaving. "Piss off," Riki whispered. "Just… piss the hell off." Akio didn't move. Didn't argue. Just watched as Riki stormed toward the door, shoulders hunched, voice breaking as he grabbed his raincoat.
The door slammed. The bottles rattled. Silence returned.
And then — slowly — Akio smiled.
A small, knowing smirk. Not of mockery, but understanding.
Because for the first time, he'd seen it — beneath the anger, beneath the armor. The fear. The hope. The desperate, impossible longing to believe in something again.
He whispered to the empty room, "Yeah. I see you, Riki."
Then, softer — almost fondly: "And I'm not going anywhere."
That night, as Riki walked the alleys under the moonlight, he didn't realize that his heart felt different. Heavy, yes — but also strangely warm. Like a weight he couldn't hate.
Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the first crack in a wall that had stood too long.
Whatever it was, it stayed with him. And miles away, back at the bar, Akio sat alone, chugging a cola in one go and smiling at nothing — because he knew.
He could see through Riki. And that was exactly why he wouldn't give up.
TO BE CONTINUED...