Chapter 1: The Last Rain
Rain fell on Tokyo like it had somewhere else to be but couldn't be bothered to hurry. It slicked the streets of Kabukicho into black mirrors that reflected neon signs nobody looked at twice. He sat on a fire escape three stories up, knees drawn to his chest, watching the city breathe its wet, tired breath below.
Seventeen years old and already tired of everything.
His crew called him different names depending on who was talking: Kenji. Kid. Hey you. He never corrected them because names felt like things you earned, and he hadn't earned much of anything lately. Dropped out of school after his mother stopped coming home one Tuesday in April. The counselor had asked if he wanted to talk about it. He'd just shoved his hands in his pockets and said: nah, it's fine. Talking never filled the fridge or made the silence in that apartment feel less like a presence.
The gang found him because he was useful. Quiet. Didn't ask questions. Ran packages through back alleys, stood watch while deals went down, took the heat when things went sideways. They paid him in crumpled bills and convenience store sandwiches. Sometimes, a hot meal if he didn't mess up. He messed up enough that hot meals were rare.
In his jacket pocket, a cracked phone with three manga apps he'd reread until the battery died. My Hero Academia; Jujutsu Kaisen; Chainsaw Man. Worlds where broken kids got second chances. Where power meant something. He'd scroll through panels between cigarette breaks, fingers smudged with grease and rain, pretending for ten minutes that alleyways weren't his whole life. That he wasn't just waiting for the next thing to break.
His phone buzzed against his thigh. A text from Sato. *Usual spot in 20min, don't be late.*
He stood up slowly, joints stiff from the damp cold that had seeped into his bones hours ago. The rain had soaked through his jacket, but he barely felt it anymore. You got used to most things if you had to.
The usual spot was a narrow alley behind a ramen shop that closed at nine. Perfect for business nobody wanted witnessed. He got there early and leaned against the brick wall, watching his breath fog in the air. The rain had softened to a drizzle, but the ground stayed slick beneath his worn sneakers.
Two kids showed up first. Younger than him, faces tight with the kind of nervous energy that got people killed. One kept adjusting his jacket like he was reminding himself that the knife was still there. Amateurs.
Sato arrived ten minutes later, smelling like stale cigarettes and cheaper whiskey. He didn't say anything, just pressed a small wrapped bundle into his hands. Their fingers brushed; Sato's were warm, His were cold.
Then the shouting started.
The kids wanted what Sato was selling. Sato said it wasn't theirs to take. Voices climbed sharp and fast. The kid with the knife pulled it free, steel catching the dim light from a broken streetlamp.
Sato stumbled back. The kid lunged.
He didn't think, didn't calculate, he just moved.
Stepped between them like it was the only thing left to do.
The knife went in quiet under his ribs. A cold surprise first, then heat spreading out like someone had lit a match inside him. He looked down, confused. Dark red blooming across his shirt. His hands came up slow, touched the wetness. Blood looked different in the rain. Thinner. Pinker.
The kid's eyes went wide. He dropped the knife and ran, footsteps slapping wet pavement until they faded. Sato cursed once, sharp and ugly, then grabbed the package and vanished the other way.
Just like that, he was alone.
He slid down the brick wall until he sat in a puddle that soaked through his jeans. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered much right then. His breath came shallow, each one a little further away than the last. Funny how pain got quiet near the end.
He thought about his mother humming while she made miso soup on Sunday mornings. The way steam would fog up the kitchen window. He thought about the last panel he'd read that morning: Gojo Satoru standing with his hands in his pockets, smiling like the whole world couldn't touch him. He wondered what that felt like. To stand somewhere safe.
His vision started to swim. The neon signs above the alley melted into streaks of pink and blue. Pretty, in a way he hadn't expected.
No sirens, no running footsteps: Just rain and the slow fade of his own heartbeat.
He wasn't scared. Just tired. So tired of being small.
His head tipped back against the wet bricks. The rain washed the blood from his fingers until they looked clean again. Like none of it had happened.
A single cherry blossom petal, torn loose by the wind, landed on his knee. Out of season. Out of place. It rested there for a moment, delicate and pink against the dark stain on his jeans, before the rain soaked it through and it lost its color.
Then the world went soft at the edges.
Then it went quiet.
***********(A/N)***************
Well this is the first chap, please be lenient with me.