Her gray eyes shifted to meet mine fully this time—calm, unreadable, as if she were weighing something far more significant than a simple question.
"Physical appearance is highly subjective, my name is Tsukiyo." The moment felt sterile, the mere conversation itself felt like a transaction rather than an exchange.
But weirdly enough... it only made me more captivated by her.
She didn't offer any follow-ups, just walked away like nothing ever happened.
But I wasn't gonna let this slide, so I simply just followed her down the aisle.
And it wasn't like she wasn't aware of my presence, in fact I was only one pace behind her. I think she knows, often glances to signify that she's aware, but despite that. She said nothing.
"Hey."
The word slipped out before my brain could restrain it. Every alarm in my head blared in protest, but my mouth had already committed.
I stepped forward—and nearly tripped over nothing.
Smooth. Absolutely smooth.
"I—" I cleared my throat. "You're really cute. Could I… maybe get your number?"
The air between us tightened. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain she could hear it.
She studied me in silence, her gray eyes sharpening—not with curiosity, but with calculation. Her expression revealed nothing, yet it felt as though something behind it was moving pieces across an invisible board.
Assessing.
Weighing.
Determining the value of this exchange.
"What do you need my number for?" she asked at last.
Her tone was even, unhurried. Not defensive. Not flustered. Simply analytical.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
"It's nothing complicated," I said, forcing a small shrug. "I just thought you were cute. That's all."
Her gaze didn't soften.
"Appearance is subjective," she replied evenly. "Is it truly worth the effort?"
The question wasn't mocking. It was genuine—coldly, logically genuine.
"If you obtain my number," she continued, tilting her head just slightly, "what happens after that?"
There it was again—that sense of being evaluated. Not rejected. Not accepted.
Assessed.
"But… it's fine. Here—"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out an old burner phone, the casing slightly scuffed, the screen faintly scratched. She held it out to me as casually as someone handing over spare change.
"Here's my number."
Her expression hadn't changed. No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just the same calm, unbothered composure—as if this, too, were simply another concluded exchange.
I blinked, then quickly typed my number into her contacts, fingers trembling just enough to betray my excitement.
"There," I said, handing it back. "Now we can keep in contact."
She glanced down at the device in her hand.
"Your phone is kind of old," I added, unable to stop myself. "We should buy you a new one next time."
She didn't question it. Didn't tease me. Didn't even smile.
"Okay," she said softly. "Next time."
And just like that, she turned.
The station swallowed her whole—absorbed into the rush of commuters, into the blur of footsteps and announcements and sliding train doors. One moment she was there, monochrome hair catching the fluorescent lights—
The next, she was gone.
Normally, you'd feel a sting when someone walks away so easily. Like you were just another forgettable moment in their day.
But not me.
Inside, my chest felt like it might burst.
She said next time.
I just waved her off with a longing smile as she's invisible in the crowd. Her silhouette felt so distant but my heart still adores for her with a soft chiming melody.
"Next time."
The rest of the day dissolved into noise.
Conversations drifted in and out of my awareness. All the murmuring and chattering beneath the crowd just felt closer, but that illusion is turned off the moment you draw closer. Everything feels fake, repetitive, but she's not like that.
My thoughts kept looping, straying down different paths only to circle back to the same image.
white hair.
Gray, unreadable eyes.
Next time.
No matter where my mind wandered, it always returned to her.
By the time I got home, the sky had long since darkened.
I changed mechanically, movements automatic, as if my body were running on memory while my thoughts were elsewhere.
I collapsed onto my bed.
"I can't sleep," I muttered into the dim quiet of my room.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, gripping the blanket tightly in my fists. My heart wouldn't settle. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her again—standing under the station lights, calm and composed, as if she had stepped out of some other world and briefly into mine.
And somehow, that brief encounter was enough to steal the entire night from me.
I outstretched my hand to cover my face from the ceiling light, a torrent of emotions swept upon me like a breeze. The fog felt heavy, and I could feel myself drowning. But weirdly yet...
"My spec. I feel it."
Not a thought.
A realization.
But what did it do? What exactly did it activate?
It's a question that's left unanswered.
A storm of sensations latched onto my daze.
At first it was suffocating—pressure behind my ribs, heat beneath my skin—but then it twisted, rising into something almost triumphant. As if whatever was pulling at me wanted me to endure it.
Push through.
My eyes locked onto a light that wasn't there.
An imagined glow beyond the ceiling. Beyond the room. Something distant, unreachable—
—but I kept chasing it.
My dreams.
They flickered behind my eyelids like fragile film.
"—Mom… am I really worth… forgiving?"
The words slipped out before I could swallow them.
The ceiling light above me flickered, buzzing faintly. On my desk, a small candle stood perched in silence, its flame trembling as if it, too, were uncertain.
And then—
The image returned.
Metal screaming.
Headlights burning white.
A truck tearing through a pedestrian crossing.
The sound of impact.
That someone—
was my uncle.
In his dying breaths he said "Ken... you will find the pathfinder for you and the pathfinder are forever partners." And then... silence.
The story doesn't go beyond that— or so I like to think.
It's better to believe that you're not the one at fault.
It's not because it's the right thing.
It just makes breathing feel less heavy. Consider it a coping mechanism.
"It's already 10 PM. I'm exhausted." I swallowed myself inside my army of pillows and drifted into sleep.
The next morning, my ears were assaulted by the shrill cry of my alarm.
I groaned and rolled onto my back, staring blankly at the ceiling as the sound drilled into my skull. After a few seconds, I silenced it and let out a slow breath.
Thursday.
A small, private relief loosened the tension in my chest.
Do I have classes today?
No.
Do I have a part-time job?
…Yes.
I wasn't feeling lazy, though. I didn't hate work.
If anything, the walk there felt unusually vivid. The morning air was crisp against my skin, every passing car sharper, every footstep clearer. My thoughts weren't fogged like last night.
I felt steady.
Focused.
Almost like I was anticipating something.
Her.
The thought surfaced quietly, uninvited. I pushed it aside before it could settle. Work first. Everything else later.
I work part-time as a software engineer at a tech company—not exactly the typical university side job. On top of that, I freelance in cybersecurity management for overseas clients, I am unsurprisingly a financially responsible and stable guy. My résumé is… quite diverse.
Within the company, I also handle data analysis projects when they need me, which means I juggle more roles than I probably should. The upside? The bonus pay is generous.
The downside?
It leaves very little room for distractions, but that's not a problem for me because I am quite efficient.
And yet, despite the workload, my mind kept threatening to wander back to white hair and unreadable gray eyes.
By lunch break, I'd shaken off the last of the workload lag.
Numbers, code, security logs—they all quieted as soon as I closed my laptop. I reached into my bag and pulled out the container I'd packed that morning.
I'm a very good cook. Not in a bragging way—just a fact I've proven to myself over the years. Precision transfers well from programming to the kitchen.
The moment I lifted the lid, steam curled into the air, carrying a rich, savory aroma that spread far faster than I intended.
Heads turned.
One by one.
My coworkers glanced over with unmistakable interest—some impressed, some openly envious, a few practically sniffing the air like cartoon characters drawn toward a pie on a windowsill.
I closed the lid immediately.
This was exactly why I had a system.
Tactically speaking, visibility invites interaction. Interaction invites conversation. Conversation invites delays.
And I prefer peace.
So, as usual, I relocated—slipping into a quieter corner of the building where foot traffic was low and curiosity even lower. I made sure no one was within conversational radius before opening my container again.
Then, finally, I ate in silence.
No questions.
No "Can I try some?"
No lingering stares.
Just me, my food, and a rare moment of control in an otherwise unpredictable week.
People call me perfect.
Some consider me flawless.
Most envy me.
But no one really so "me".
They only see the one who can do everything.
Not the one who can't do anything, not the one who can't fix himself. Everything... everything starts to lose its meaning... and I can't tell where the feeling comes from.
I'm perfect, I'm so perfect.
That's what everyone always tells me. That's what I always tell myself... but why does it feel so fake?
Secretly I know... that I'm flawed beyond that statement.
A white envelope slid across the table and came to rest on top of my lunch box, just as I was about to take the last bite.
I looked up instinctively.
No one stood close enough to claim it.
The paper was plain. Unmarked. Too clean.
I turned it over in my hands.
One word was written on it.
"Zero."
Nothing else.
"Hi I'm Rio." The voice rang into my ear as my head made a sharp turn to the voice.
A figure stepped into view.
He was around five-ten, lean but not frail. Curly hair framed a pale face marked by pronounced eye bags, the kind earned from sleepless nights rather than genetics. Thick spectacles rested on his nose, the lenses catching the light just enough to obscure his eyes. A silver pocket watch hung from his chest pocket, its chain glinting faintly when he moved.
And then there was the makeup.
A clown's paint, meticulously applied. Not exaggerated. Not cartoonish. Controlled. Intentional.
It didn't make him look ridiculous.
It made him unsettling.
He smiled—cold, deliberate, as if he had rehearsed the exact curvature of his lips.
"Kento Sakayanagi—"
He stepped fully into the light.
"I know everything about you."
His voice didn't waver. Neither did his smile.
And somehow, that certainty frightened me more than the makeup ever could.
FYI: This chapter has been MASSIVELY improved my AI. AI has been used in this chapter, the story still stems from my but it has been MASSIVELY polished and improved by AI in terms of vocabulary/ writing and proofreading. But for the most part the story is still made by me, and it follows my storyline that I still had to plan out.
Reminder: I am doing this entirely for fun and please do not harass me for AI usage for I am simply just writing down stories I like.