BANG, BANG, BANG!
Toma shot upright with a strangled gasp as if he'd been underwater. His hands flew to his chest, to his arms, and to his wrists. There were no glowing cords… no holes… he was intact.
"Holy shit…" he broke off, his breath shuddering and cold sweat soaking through his tank top. His heart was still racing, pounding against his ribs. After pressing his palms to his face, he let out a weak laugh and hard exhale.
"Just… a dream… yeah… that's right…"
BANG, BANG, BANG!!!
The sound was louder this time, rattling the thin door in its frame.
"Eh! You alive in there, big man, or what?" A deep voice barked from the other side. "Sun already up! You wanna sleep through your whole life?"
Toma groaned and flopped back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling of the gym office that barely qualified as a room. Protein tubs were stacked like furniture and a dumbbell acted as a doorstop, the room reeking of rubber mats and disinfectant.
"Mmm… five more minutes…" he mumbled.
"Don't play with me," the man warned. "You know I open this door, I don't open it gentle."
Toma sighed and pushed himself up off the bed. "Alright, alright… I'm up! Just give me a sec, Iosia."
Toma dressed quickly, pulling on yesterday's jeans and a threadbare hoodie with a logo so cracked it was on the verge of popping off, and sneakers whose soles had gone flat months ago.
The gym spat him into the morning and Minazuki Sect was already awake. Though, it never really slept. The harbor cranes loomed like bent-necked kaijus against a gloomy sky and fishing boats idled at their moorings, engines coughing and hulls scarred.
Toma took the same route he always did; down the narrow street where shuttered storefronts still wore faded banners from last year's festivals and past the noodle stand that only opened at night now.
"Too dangerous after curfew," the owner had said.
Posters peeled from walls warning about sightings of Witches, cursed manifestations, and "unverifiable hostile anomalies." Aokabe's government seal stamped at the bottom of each notice was meant to promise protection while silently punishing those out past curfew.
Why couldn't protection scrub docks?
He followed the road as it curved towards the harbor proper, the docks stretching out in a long, uneven mess of ropes, crates, and discarded tools. Of course, that was his stop. His hands still stunk from yesterday's shift.
He worked because it paid… barely.
The gym room wasn't free, after all. Food cost Gil and being broke meant he couldn't get sick, miss shifts, or make a complaint. Every ounce of coin mattered when you were a week away from sleeping somewhere less forgiving than a storage room with air conditioning.
He had tried other jobs before, but businesses were cutting hours and shutting down entirely once the sun dipped too low. The curfew had strangled the city well after dark and whatever prowled the streets made sure no one argued with the government for long.
Toma tightened his grip on the strap of his bag with a sigh. He hated the docks. Hated the smell, the cold, and the way the supervisors spoke to him like he was another expendable. But… he was. Still, he showed up anyway.
As he stepped onto the dock, waves lazily slapped against the pilings below and just for a moment, he envisioned those cursed red-and-black tiles stretching into eternity. He shook his head hard.
"Get it together, get it together…" he muttered to himself. He finally began to brush against the barnacled wood in a steady, numbing movement. Scrub, rinse, then scrub again.
Toma worked along the edge of the dock on his knees, his gloves soaked through, and his sleeves rolled up despite the chill from the boards. Saltwater sloshed against the planks and caught his boots every so often. The smell of brine, oil, and old fish guts never left him. Not his clothes, nor his skin.
He kept on brushing, counting strokes and thinking of anything but the tiles and masks and that voice calling for his execution. Then, a shadow fell across his work. Toma let out a sigh before even looking up.
Candy Cane.
Red and green hair caught the light, dyed unevenly and loud by design. The guy leaned over the railing above him with a grin, chewing noisily on something wrapped in paper.
"Yo," he called down. "Still playin' janitor for the sea?"
Toma didn't answer. He just looked back down and continued scrubbing. Then a crumbled paper ball bounced off his shoulder and splashed into the water. Then another; half a rice bun this time. It left a smear on the dock beside his knee.
"Careful, friend. If you clean too hard, you might wash yourself away in the process. Wouldn't want that, would we? Who else'd keep this place nice and shiny?" Candy Cane asked with an obnoxious laugh. His friends snickered as they passed behind him.
When they were gone, Toma let out an annoyed sigh. "Screw you," he muttered under his breath before wiping away the mess with more force than necessary.
I've gotta get out of here, he thought. Out of this Sect. This whole damned city. Somewhere better, cleaner… Saenegi, maybe. Or anywhere that wasn't rotting in slow motion.
Then, a gentle voice came from behind. "Such behavior… is unbecoming of youth."
Toma flinched and turned to see an elderly man standing a few steps away on the dock, hunched forward. His face was thin, lined deeply, his eyes sharp and darkened beneath the brim of a low-pulled fedora. Despite the bright morning sun and the humidity, he wore a long black trenchcoat buttoned up to his neck. The fabric was… pristine. Untouched by sweat.
It was… strange. As if he were dressed for a different weather entirely.
"Children these days…" the man continued with his hands folded behind his back. "They're so quick to mock what they do not understand. So careless with the weight of their own actions."
"Uh… yeah," Toma said, unsure. "Guess so."
The old man nodded and looked in the direction Candy Cane went. "Empathy… is but a muscle. When left unused, it atrophies. And then… one forgets it was ever there."
He then turned his gaze back to Toma, studying him in silence. Or judging him?
"You work diligently, young man. Even when treated poorly."
Toma gave an uncomfortable shrug. "Yeah, well… someone has to do it."
"Indeed… but do not mistake your endurance for insignificance," the man replied. Then, he tipped his head politely towards Toma. "Take care, young man."
And with that, he walked on with his coat swaying behind him. Toma watched with a faint chill crawling up his spine.
"The hell was that about…" he muttered.
Then, the radio from his supervisor's shack came to life through its half open doors.
"The G.M.A. confirmed the neutralization of multiple hostile A-Class Witches in the Kogane Sect earlier this morning. It is reported that there are no civilian casualties, citing 'swift response and exemplary coordination'. Residents are advised to remain indoors during enforcement periods and curfew remains in effect across all lower Sects until further notice–"
Toma's scrubbing slowed down. "The G.M.A., huh…?"
He didn't mean to picture it, but he did. Their clean uniforms, their agents who didn't spend the mornings on their knees scraping rot off planks. They were people who ran towards the things everyone else hid from.
He glanced down at his raw, red hands that smelled like salt no matter how hard he scrubbed them.
What's it even like…? He wondered to himself. Do they clock in, kill a couple demons, then clock out a hero?
The thought felt idiotic the moment it formed. Obviously it was dangerous work. People got hurt and people died. He had seen the footage of bodies carried out under sheets multiple times at this point.
The radio droned on about commendations and containment zones as Toma finished his station, wringing out the brush and dumping the murky water. He stood, stretching his aching back with a soft groan. By the time his supervisor waved him off, it was noon.
Toma slung his bag over his shoulder and went back the way he came, his muscles sore and his stomach growling. By the time he reached the gym, the sun had bleached the concrete pale and baked the air until it stung his skin.
Looking in, he could see that the lights were off. He stopped short and squinted at the front windows to see no silhouettes moving inside or music rattling the glass like it always did.
"Are you kidding me…?" he muttered.
The door was locked, the chain pulled through the handles and a handwritten sign taped unevenly to the glass read BE BACK LATER in thick, red ink.
"Of course. Of course…" he said, irritation bubbling up. He pulled his phone out and hit Iosia's name, jabbing the call button harder than necessary.
It rang twice before:
Eh, this is Iosia. If you're hearing this, I'm either busy or you're too slow. Leave it.
Toma pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.
"Yeah, hi, it's me. Your fucking resident. I'm outside again and your gym's locked. Again. Look, dude, you gotta give me a spare key or something. I can't keep waiting around like an idiot every time you decide to vanish!"
He lowered his voice, giving a glance around despite no one being nearby. "I've had a long day, okay? So please, call me back before I lose my damn mind."
He then hung up and stuffed the phone into his pocket.
"Unbelievable… I cannot believe this."
"Ah, pardon me, young man."
Toma blinked before turning around to see the elderly man from earlier standing a few steps behind him all of a sudden. He wore that same black trenchcoat and the same fedora that shaded his eyes. He looked free of sweat.
He wore a kind, almost apologetic smile.
"I hope I have not startled you, sir," the man said with a slight head bow. "I did not mean to intrude… nor to follow you so closely."
Toma sighed, his shoulders loosening a bit. "Oh, it's you. Uh, hey."
"I felt compelled to speak with you again. Curiosity can be a persistent thing, yes?" the man continued, clasping his hands in front of him.
"You… followed me all the way here?" Toma asked, unease prickling up his neck.
"Only after some distance, of course. No harm was intended, I assure you."
Toma looked to the locked door behind him and then back at the man. His smile remained.
"Right…"
The man studied Toma with that same, almost amused calm.
"You appear hungry," he said gently.
Toma opened his mouth to deny it, but his stomach betrayed him with a miserable growl.
The old man chuckled softly. "Ah, there it is."
"Sorry, sir. I didn't–"
"Please," the man said, lifting a hand. "There is no need for apology. Hunger can be honest."
He then glanced down the street before looking back at Toma. "There is a place nearby. Good meat. Simple, but filling."
Toma stared at him with disbelief.
"You're… asking if I want barbecue…?" he asked slowly.
"Yes."
"Like… you and me?"
"Yes."
This was… odd. People never did something like that without strings, expectations, or an angle he was missing. His stomach growled a little louder this time, twisting into a hollow pit. He could imagine the instant noodles. Their limp texture, the burn of sodium. But he remembered the way they never filled him more.
He hesitated before sighing as if defeated.
"Yeah… yeah, that'd be cool. Thank you, sir. Really."
Toma smiled before bowing instinctively, hands at his sides.
The old man chuckled again and bowed in return.
"The pleasure is all mine."
He then straightened and extended his hand. Toma took it without thinking. The man's grip was firm but not crushing. When they shook, Toma felt an odd sense of reassurance, as if grabbing onto a railing after nearly slipping.
"Come," the man said, releasing his hand. "A meal is best enjoyed before it becomes a memory."