The cramped apartment lit up with the first golden rays of sunrise, filtering through the single, narrow window of Tetsuo Arata's home. Another day in Kita City.
Tetsuo climbed down from his bed platform into the even smaller living space below, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He moved to the bathroom, taking off his glasses before splashing cold water onto his face. Mundane features. The same tired reflection as always. But still, he gave himself a small smile.
He walked to his tiny refrigerator, the hum of its overworked motor filling the silence. Inside, barely anything—just a few condiments and a single tuna mayo onigiri. He grabbed it along with a canned coffee, cracking it open with one hand.
"Oh… the last one. Guess I'll grab more today."
With practiced ease, he wolfed down the rice ball, not really tasting it. Then he stretched, rolling his shoulders and breathing deep. Another day. Another routine.
Another beautiful morning in Tokyo. Tetsuo stepped out into the bustling noise of the district. Filled with the people going about their day just as he was. the work of those trying to earn a living in a city that didn't care one way or another about his meager existence.
A salaryman brushed past him, barely noticing the impact. No apology. No glance back.Another man snapped at him for standing too long at the crosswalk.
And as always, the world pushed forward.
Salarymen squawked into their phones, voices sharp with deadlines.Teenagers sprinted past, backpacks bouncing, toast hanging from their mouths.A thousand people moved around him, brushing by without a second thought.
This was his home.
A grain of sand on a beach.A cog in the vast, grinding machine of Tokyo.Just another small part of the great metropolitan current—flowing endlessly, never stopping. And he was okay with this.
Tetsuo arrived at his workplace. The station was already alive—constant movement, constant noise.
He dipped his mop into the bucket and began cleaning the platform floor. A thankless job, but it was his.
As soon as he mopped a section, people walked over it again, their shoes leaving fresh streaks of dirt. Trash fell from pockets, hit the ground, and stayed there—forgotten, unnoticed.
This was job security.
He saw hundreds of faces, thousands of steps. An endless sea of people, moving toward their destinations. All of them wrapped in their own worlds.
"I wonder if any of them are happy," he often thought.
"Attention passengers: Be sure of your transfer before boarding. Some routes do not return."
Tetsuo heard this same message over the intercom every day. Sometimes, he even mimicked the robotic voice under his breath as he worked.
"If only the dirt didn't come back," he mused, wringing out his mop. "No... never mind. Please, bring on more dirt. It's no fun just polishing the already polished objects."
A quiet chuckle caught his attention.
He glanced over and saw an old man sitting on a bench, waiting for his train. Unlike the thousands of others who passed through this station every day, this man was watching him.
"You work hard, kid," the old man said. "Most wouldn't bother."
Tetsuo blinked, caught off guard. People didn't talk to him, especially not about his work. He gave the old man a lopsided smile. "Gotta do something with my time."
The old man nodded, as if he understood something deeper.
"The world doesn't see people like us," he said. "Doesn't mean we ain't here."
The train arrived. The old man stood, adjusting his bag, and stepped onto the train without another word.
Tetsuo watched the doors close, his own reflection briefly appearing in the glass before the train sped off into the distance.
He stood there for a moment before shaking his head and getting back to work.
"Hmm... well, I can now say that my job isn't thankless," Tetsuo said to himself, pushing his mop across the platform. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he dipped the mop back into the bucket, the water swirling with the grime of a thousand hurried footsteps.
The day moved fast. It always did. The hustle and bustle of the train station never let up—not in the morning rush, not in the lull of midday, not even when the neon lights outside flickered to life in the evening.
No matter how many times the floors were dirtied, no matter how much trash tumbled carelessly to the ground, Tetsuo was always there to set things right again. One swipe of the mop, one discarded wrapper tossed into the bin. A cycle as steady and predictable as the tides.
It was meditative.
Simple.
And fulfilling in a way that only a few—including him—could understand.
There was something about restoring order, about seeing the chaos settle, if only for a moment. The world moved too fast, people ran from one place to another, eyes glued to their phones or locked on the next destination, never sparing a thought for where they were now.
He wished—just once—that the people around him could slow down.
Stop.
Breathe.
See what he saw.
A world in motion, not just a blur of destinations and obligations. A world that, for all its mess, was beautiful in its chaotic splendor.
But the station never stopped. The people never slowed down.
And so, Tetsuo just kept mopping.
Tetsuo adjusted his bag strap as he walked. His shift was done. His body ached, but that was normal.
The city was still alive around him—neon signs flickering, the hum of distant traffic, a few late-night workers making their way home.
Then—footsteps. Fast.
A figure sprinted past him, almost knocking into his shoulder. Tetsuo barely had time to register them before he saw the second man, close behind.
Something flashed under the streetlights.
A knife.
Tetsuo barely processed it before the blade sank into the first man's side.
A sharp, choked gasp. The victim staggered, clutching his ribs.
The attacker didn't even hesitate. He pulled the knife free, turned, and disappeared into the alley.
Tetsuo stood frozen.
It had happened so fast.
The victim stumbled forward, legs giving out.
Tetsuo caught him before he hit the pavement.
Blood. Warm and sticky, spreading through the man's clothes. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.
Tetsuo ripped off his jacket, pressing it against the wound.
"Hey, stay with me. You're okay."
The man gripped his arm weakly.
"I… I don't…" His voice trembled. "I don't wanna die."
"You won't."
Tetsuo said it without thinking.
Blue lights flashed at the edge of the street. An ambulance. Someone must have called it.
Paramedics rushed in, pushing Tetsuo aside. Within seconds, they had the man secured, loaded onto a stretcher, moving fast.
Tetsuo stood there, hands coated in blood, watching as the ambulance doors shut. The sirens faded into the distance.
He looked down at his bloodstained jacket.
He exhaled. Rubbed a hand over his face.
"That could've been me."
He shook the thought away.
Not tonight.
He picked up his bag, dusted himself off, and kept walking.
Tetsuo arrived at his apartment and went straight to the shower.
The hot water ran over his skin, but it did nothing to wash away the thoughts clinging to him.
That could have been me.
His dreams, his aspirations—all of it could have ended in an instant.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, lingering even after he stepped out, dried off, and slipped into his usual nightly routine.
RPG on his old laptop.
Then a short drawing session in his sketchbook.
But the pen felt wrong in his fingers. His mind kept drifting back to the alley, to the man who had almost died in his arms.
Tetsuo stared at the page, waiting for inspiration to strike.
Nothing.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
No matter how hard he tried, nothing came to him.
He sighed, shutting the sketchbook.
"So much for that."
Just then, his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He hesitated before answering. "Hello?"
A polite but unfamiliar voice responded.
"Hello! May I speak with Arata-san?"
Tetsuo adjusted the phone to his other ear.
"I'm Arata-san."
The voice on the other end was calm, professional—but there was something else underneath it.
Excitement.
"Yes, I am calling from Hoshikawa Publishing. We have been looking over your work, and we are very impressed. We would like you to come in for an interview. When would you be available?"
The words hit like a shock to the system.
For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
Years of dreaming. Years of rejection. And now, suddenly, here it was.
And tonight of all nights.
Maybe all the strange things he had seen today were a sign.
Maybe his fortune was finally changing.
"Yes! I can be there in twenty minutes!" Tetsuo said, voice shaking with excitement.
"Great! We will be ready to talk over your portfolio. See you soon!"
The call ended.
Tetsuo stood there, frozen.
Then, all at once, he moved.
He grabbed his portfolio, flipping through his sketches to make sure they were his best work.
He checked himself in the mirror—making sure he looked presentable, making sure he was real.
He threw on his best clothes, adjusted his bag strap, and took a deep breath.
This was it.
For the first time in forever—he ran.
Tetsuo ran out into the night.
His feet pounded against the pavement, his bag bouncing against his shoulder.
He bumped past a few bystanders, barely registering their startled looks.
The crosswalk light was red. He didn't care.
He wouldn't be late.
A horn blared.
He wasn't ready for what came next.
A pair of headlights surged toward him.
Blinding. Fast. Too close.
And then—
Darkness.
No sound. No pain.
Just the slow, creeping realization.
"What just happened?"
"I'm gonna be late."
"What is this? Wait... was I just hit?"
Memory snapped back into place.
The light. The street. The car.
"Wait... was that light red?"
A sinking, horrible realization.
"No... how could I have been so unbelievably foolish?"
"What have I done?!"
And then—nothing.