***
The three of them stayed huddled under the sprawling awning of a massive banyan tree, its gnarled roots twisting into the earth like ancient guardians. Akhu tried desperately to maintain his calm, cool facade—the one he'd perfected back home through endless hours of binge-watching isekai anime and life experience—but his chest tightened, heart thumping wildly against his ribs. *This is insane,* he thought, a thrill racing through him. *I feel like I got truck-kun'd into another world, chatting with real Japanese girls in a freaking survival game.* Sure, the murder and forced brutality of it all left him strangely panicked; death here wouldn't be painless, but damn, it'd be *cool*—a smirk tugged at the corner of his outwardly collected lips, betraying the storm inside.
Meanwhile, the self-appointed leaders from various groups shouted over each other, barking orders, tallying headcounts, and arguing strategies amid the chaos of stranded players. The air buzzed with urgency, but Akhu tuned it out, lost in his own head.
That's when an Asian man in his mid-twenties approached, his steps purposeful yet unthreatening. He had that "nice guy" look—slightly above-average features, warm eyes, and a gentle smile that screamed reliability. "Konnichiwa," he said in flawless Japanese, bowing slightly. "I'm Takeshi Kyodō. I overheard you speaking Japanese... it was such a relief in this madness. We've formed a group of Japanese people already—strong, organized. Please, join us. Safety in numbers, right?"
(Keep in mind I'm not an expert in translation and the sub,obj,verbs are different in japanese so don't bite me)
Trailing just behind him was an elderly man in a weathered yukata, his face etched with lines of hard-earned wisdom. He nodded gruffly, his smile broad and genuine, like a grandfather welcoming lost kin. "Kenta Sakamori," he introduced himself in a gravelly voice, eyes twinkling. "Takeshi's right. No need to face this alone when we can stay together with our own people."
Akhu studied them. Takeshi's gaze toward the trio felt protective, almost wary when it flicked to outsiders—like a shepherd guarding his flock from wolves. *Not a bad guy,* Akhu mused, his anime-fan heart stirring despite himself. *Kenta seems solid too, all quiet strength.* Deep down, excitement bubbled up unbidden. As someone who'd devoured Japan through YouTube shorts and pixelated screens, envying their neon streets and cherry blossoms, this felt like a dream. But he shoved it down, refusing to play the wide-eyed country bumpkin.
Akira and Kaede lit up instantly, their faces flushing with relief and camaraderie. "Really? That sounds perfect!" Akira exclaimed, clutching Kaede's arm. "We've been so scared out here alone thinking it was just us three."
Kaede nodded eagerly, her voice soft but hopeful. "Hai, arigatou-Gozaimasu! A group of our own people... yes, please!"
They both turned to Akhu, eyes wide with expectation. He shook his head, turning away without a word at first, his back to them.
"Wait—Akhu-san?" Akira called, her tone laced with confusion and hurt. "You're not coming?"
"Why not?" Kaede added, stepping forward. "This could save us all we don't have to be alone!"
He kept walking, voice steady but edged with finality. "It's better if you two join them. I'm not Japanese."
The words hung in the air like a slap. Takeshi stiffened, his protective smile faltering into polite uncertainty. "Eh? But your Japanese is perfect... from where, exactly?"
Kenta's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, murmuring, "Iie, that doesn't matter here—"
The girls cut in, distraught. "What do you mean, 'not Japanese'?" Akira pressed, voice cracking with emotion. "It doesn't matter... You're one of us! We stuck together this far!"
"Yeah, come on," Kaede pleaded, her excitement crumbling into worry. "Don't be like that. We're a team!"
Akhu didn't look back, shoulders tense as he strode further away. *How do I explain?* he thought bitterly. *I'm just the Northeast-Indian guy who speaks the language from too many anime subs and his own practice over years as an obsession. They'll whisper later anyway.* Their calls faded behind him—"Akhu! Matte! How is that even a reason?"—but he didn't indulge. The envy twisted in his gut, sharp and unwelcome: they belonged here, in this slice of "Japan" amid apocalypse. He didn't.
He reached the beachside, midday sun blazing high, turning the ocean into a glittering expanse of turquoise. Waves crashed rhythmically, carrying the salty tang of freedom he'd never tasted back home. It was breathtaking—raw, alive, worlds away from his screen-filtered dreams. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out his phone. No signal, of course, but he was a hoarder of offline treasures. Tapping play, the violin cover of "Bink's Sake" swelled—haunting strings weaving with the sea's endless song.
Akhu sank onto a weathered rock, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a plume of smoke that danced toward the horizon. He closed his eyes, humming along, letting the melody drown the ache. *Cool way to go, if it comes to that,* he thought, smirking again through the smoke. But beneath the thrill, a quiet loneliness crept in—like the tide, inevitable and cold.
***