Takeshi

Five years old. You remember that evening with crystal clarity. The smell of fried tofu and the silky whisper of your mother tucking you into bed. The creak of tatami. You fell asleep, lulled by her voice.

A rustle. You woke up. In the dark, by the front door—her silhouette. Already in a coat. With a suitcase.

— Just go to sleep, sweetheart, — her voice was strange, strained. — I’ll be back soon.

She never came back. You waited for her a week, thinking she’d gotten lost in the labyrinth of the Tokyo subway. But no. She had run away. To her lover. While you were sleeping.

Father. His business—a small kimono workshop—burned to the ground. Literally. A short circuit, night, ashes. He was left with a mountain of debt and a five-year-old son, who looked painfully like the woman who betrayed him.

All his anger, all his rage—found its outlet in you. Beatings. Humiliation. He blamed you for everything. For the burned-down business, the runaway wife, his broken life.

You became his atemari—his scapegoat.

University. The only salvation. You were smart, talented, hardworking. Straight A’s. Professors praised you, saw potential in you. You made plans. Dreamed of escaping from him. Of finding a tiny room in Shibuya or Shinjuku. Starting over.

The return. One day you came home from lectures, full of those hopes. The house was empty. Your father’s things were gone. He had run away. Left you alone with his debts.

Debt collectors. They came the next day. Two men in suits far too expensive for such a humble neighborhood. Where’s your father? — they asked politely, but their eyes were stone.

You stayed silent. They didn’t believe you. The first blow was swift, precise. To the solar plexus. Then—a rain of punches. They ransacked the whole apartment, turned over every drawer. Left, promising to return.

A month later, the landlord came. An old man with a weary face. — Sorry, kid. I can’t anymore. The debts, the noise… I’m sorry. You were thrown out. With two bags and a diploma almost in your pocket.

A new life. You found a room. A tiny, six-tatami cubbyhole on the outskirts of Osaka, with thin walls that let in the winter cold. But it was a roof over your head.

Part-time jobs. Sixteen of them. You became a master of survival.

You were everything: A promoter in a suffocating talism-man suit under the blazing sun. A courier, racing through the city on a battered bicycle. A kitchen worker in a cheap ramen bar, eyes stinging from oil fumes. A box packer on a night shift. A voice on the line in a call center. A leaflet distributor at a subway station. An ad salesman who had doors slammed in his face. A sheep-shearer’s hand at a stinking farm outside town. A packer on a conveyor line. A laborer’s helper at a construction site, hauling loads. A window washer of skyscrapers, dangling high above the ground. An assistant in a photo studio. A gardener trimming hedges in wealthy districts. A janitor in a business center at night. A bicycle repairman. And sometimes—a babysitter for the neighbor’s child, the one who noticed you starving.

You slept four hours a night. Ate once a day—a lunch from the cheapest supermarket. Learned to stay on your feet while sick. Studied at night, by the glow of the streetlamp outside.

The collectors didn’t stop. They weren’t looking for your father anymore. They toyed with you. It became a sport. To track you down. To scare you. To squeeze out money that didn’t exist.

Disgusting. Vile. Painful.

That day. It began like any other. Classes at university, then a shift at a small café. You were wiping tables, serving orders. Outside, a black Toyota Crown with tinted windows pulled up. The owner, glancing nervously at the car, sent you to “check it out.”

You stepped outside, ready to politely ask if they were waiting for someone. But out of the corner of your eye you spotted two familiar figures in expensive suits. They rounded the corner and brightened at the sight of you.

You bolted. They chased.

Through the crowd at the Kuramairichi market, behind trash bins, into a discarded broken wardrobe left on the street. You ran like a hunted animal.

Back at the café, you found the aftermath. Chairs overturned, the window shattered. The owner, pale, just shook his head. — Go. I can’t anymore. You nodded. You weren’t upset. You had no strength left for emotions. You found a new job. At the other end of the city.

But now you had a new feeling. The feeling of being watched. Someone was following you. Always. Everywhere. While handing out flyers, during night cleaning, in the university cafeteria.

One man. Tall, charismatic. With long blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail. In a dark, loose kimono over modern pants. On his wrist—a beaded bracelet. In his ears—gauges. His gaze was piercing, mocking.

It was Takeshi.

Takeshi. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. An heir to an empire. His name flashing in society pages for scandals with famous actresses. His father, weary of the scandals, begged him to “lay low.”

But Takeshi thought you were a paparazzi journalist tailing him. You, with your habit of hiding and running fast, seemed to him the perfect hunter for a scoop.

You, beaten down by life, saw in every stranger a threat. And in his rich appearance—the mark of a collector, of a new, more cunning kind.

That evening. You were walking home. It was quiet. The streetlights cast long shadows on narrow lanes. The air smelled of rain and roasted chestnuts.

And then—him. Takeshi. Stepped out from behind a luxurious jeep.

Your heart pounded wildly. Collector! Instinct struck before thought. You spun and took off running.

He, certain he’d finally caught his paparazzi, chased you. He marveled at your speed, your agility. He didn’t know that you were running from death every day. That your lightness came from constant hunger.

He only managed to catch up in a dark alley near an abandoned shrine. He tackled you to the ground, pinning you with his body. Your back pressed into the rain-soaked asphalt. It smelled of wet earth and his expensive cologne.

— Got you, at last... — his voice was breathless, but rang with iron certainty. He straddled you, his fingers digging into your wrist. — You really have a knack for making people suffer for nothing, don’t you?

You froze, struggling to breathe, feeling the cold stones through the thin fabric of your jacket.

— We’ve finally met. So... don’t disappoint me.