4/9

Sunlight wakes him. His eyes snap open, and the dim remains of a headache fade from his skull. Did I doze off? He doesn't remember being tired. The trip to Tokyo hadn't been a long one. Akira reaches up to rub his eyes, and his fingers push against the lenses of his new glasses. He drops his hand. The glasses arrived before he'd left for Tokyo, but he still isn't used to them. It isn't as if he needs them.

The subway car rattles along, and the brief glimpse of day vanishes as they race back underground.

"A mental shutdown?" Two girls in school uniforms stand near the door, their arms wrapped around handrails, heads dipped together in conversation.

"Mmmhmmm," the second girl says. She turns the screen of her phone to face her friend. "Didn't you read about it online? The guy's brain just went 'splat' or something. He drove the bus right into a store."

"Geez," the first girl replies, staring at the screen, then recoiling a bit and shaking her head. "That's scary."

"That's not all. I heard the same thing happened to that subway engineer who crashed that train last week."

The first girl frowns, "But, can that really happen to someone? I mean, I know there's that aneurism thing that kills you instantly or something, but it doesn't make you act crazy, right?"

The second replies with a shrug and a giggle. "Who knows? Maybe there's some kind of gas in the subway tunnels that made him go nuts."

"Don't say that when we're on the subway!"

Akira's attention drifts away. They weren't talking about anything, not really. He keeps his eyes on the floor for the rest of the trip.

The train reaches a subsidiary station just south of Shibuya, and Akira steps off and mixes with the people on the platform. His shoulders slump forward, his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the ground. He walks. He occasionally checks the GPS on his phone. He says nothing. He looks at nothing. He tries to think nothing.

He walks.

The sheer amount of people in Tokyo bothers him. Akira is not from a small town - it's only an hour's ride north - but never has he seen a place so congested. Hundreds of pedestrians slide past him on the sidewalk. Their eyes look everywhere but at him. He is fine with this.

A moment is all he allows himself to marvel when he reaches Shibuya. Like the rest of the world, he has seen the famous crosswalk's shuffle from various angles via video and photographs, but never in person. The mass of people seems like an entity, a million limbed creature spiraling out and snaking its way through streets and alleys - a thing with a mind, a consciousness, of its own. I'm going to have to come through here every day. It is a daunting thought.

Akira's cellphone beeps. He is young and therefore trained to look at every notification as soon as one appears. Akira sees what he first mistakes to be a red error message. When he brings the phone closer to his face, he sees that a small red square, not unlike an app icon, has appeared on his phone. It grows until it takes up half the screen. The picture is of a menacing eye, with a black star centered in a crimson iris.

Akira has seen enough nonsense online that this should not bother him, but he is unsettled nonetheless. Spam. Probably. He presses his thumb to the icon, intending to drag it to his phone's trash.

Everything stops.

Everything.

Akira looks up and around. All the people, all the cars, even the clouds have frozen at a standstill. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound.

Except.

Across the intersection, mixed within the multitude of people, crackles a pillar of blue flame.

What the hell is that? Akira takes a step away, and the flames expand. As his panic rises, the fire engorges and twists itself into a humanoid form.

A rush of heat spreads over Akira's face, and two blue wings rip themselves from the figure's back, arch, and flourish.

"I AM THOU." The words pulse through Akira like a heartbeat, and warmth spreads through his chest. He lets out the breath he holds and settles. He regards the figure with calm eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch upward.

The flames break apart to reveal a clear image of Akira's own face. His doppelganger wears a maniac's grin. The eyes he stares into are bright gold and wild.

Akira blinks. The image is gone. Sound returns in a mad wave, and the people - frozen a moment ago - move as if they'd been uninterrupted.

"Hey kid, keep it moving!" Akira turns and finds a middle-aged salaryman scowling up at him. "We can't all just stand around doing nothing." The man regards Akira's adopted school uniform and shakes his head in disgust. "Damn punk, just skipping school."

Words fall into place within Akira's mind. It's Saturday afternoon, asshole. School's already out. The words rush to his mouth, but he keeps them back. "I apologize, sir. Excuse me."

The man clicks his tongue and moves around him.

Akira retreats to the shade of a nearby building and leans against the warm concrete. He buries the indignation and turns his mind back towards what he'd just witnessed. Was I hallucinating? Those girls on the train had mentioned a 'mental shutdown.' Had he just flirted with one? Had there been some gas on the subway? Ten minutes in Tokyo, and I've already lost my mind. Great. He checks his phone. The unnerving red icon remains. Akira shakes his head clear. Stress. That's all it was. Stress. God knows I've had a lot of it recently. He drags the alien icon to the trash successfully and returns the phone to his pocket.

Sane again, or so he hopes, Akira continues towards the station. His posture stooped, his eyes on the ground, he does his best to look as uninteresting and innocent as possible.

#

Yongen-jaya. The place feels forgotten. There are more shuttered storefronts than not. The people, few in number, walk with the comfortable familiarity of those who have been here for years. It is both intimate and strange. Akira supposes there could be some charm to this neighborhood beneath the grit that cakes everything.

He passes a hole-in-the-wall medical clinic, a shuttered movie theatre, and a convenience store in his search for Cafe LeBlanc. Unfortunately, his directions are not precise, and his GPS has difficulty tracking his location.

LeBlanc is a small storefront across from a bathhouse, its sign small and unobtrusive. Like the rest of Yongen-jaya, it feels like an afterthought, swallowed by the whole of Tokyo.

Nerves set in. Akira knows nothing about Sojiro Sakura, the man who will be caring for him. He is not a relative. He is not a friend. Akira does not know why this man has accepted him into his home, but he has stopped asking questions.

He opens the door to LeBlanc and steps inside. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim interior. A series of booths line the wall, with a parallel bar alongside. It smells of cook smoke, coffee, lacquer, and leather. It is the same inside as out, small, cramped, and quiet.

A man sits on a stool. He wears a pink shirt beneath an ivory apron. His hair, though receding, is a lustrous black, and he’s stylized his beard to a point. A newspaper is in his hands, but the man looks bored. At the sound of Akira's entrance, the man glances at him over the top of his glasses.

The two regard each other for a moment as Akira decides what to say. Surely, a moment like this warrants special-

The man sighs and says, "I take it you're Akira Kurusu?"

Akira opens his mouth to reply, but his words stumble out in a mishmash. Some first impression. He clears his throat and says, "Uh, yes, sir."

The man folds the paper and deposits it onto the counter with practiced hands. "I'm Sojiro Sakura. Come with me." He pushes himself off the stool and walks further into the store. Akira hesitates, then follows. Just past the tables is a bathroom, and just path the bathroom is a narrow stairwell. Sojiro plods upwards and out of sight. Akira takes the steps at a quicker pace.

Sojiro stands in the center of a cluttered, dusty attic. Bags, boxes, books, and tools lay scattered around the tops of tables, desks, shelves, and a couch. An uncovered bed sits shoved in the far corner, beneath the window. "This is where you'll be staying," Sojiro says. Akira doesn't know what to say. The place is large, but it's more of a storage area than anything. "Ground rules," Sojiro continues before Akira has a chance to speak. "First, if you make any trouble, I will kick you out." Akira blinks, surprised at the gruffness. "Second, I don't want to hear about your situation. I already got the gist of it."

Akira bristles at this and the matter-of-fact way in which Sojiro casually tosses it out. Got the gist of-

A slight grin plays itself out across Sojiro's face. "Better get used to it, kid. That’s life."

Akira smooths his face over. Figures. He stoops a bit more and lowers his eyes. "Yes, sir."

A few more rules follow, most involve not bothering Sojiro or his customers. Then the man leaves, without as much as a handshake.

Akira moves to the bed and drops his bag. He sits down on the thankfully clean sheets. "One whole year, huh?" He says to no one. It could be worse, he supposes. At least this room isn't as small of a box as the last one. Akira hears a small rumble from downstairs, which he associates with the typical noise of the cafe.

At this moment, Akira Kurusu has never felt so alone.

#

Akira spends his afternoon cleaning the room. Sojiro, wearing a slick white jacket and fedora, returns from below. He regards the room with a surprised look. "Hm. Not bad, I guess." His gaze turns to Akira, and his interest is gone again. "We'll be heading to Shujin Academy tomorrow. You're going to introduce yourself to the Principal. I want to be in and out, got it?" Akira nods. "Just keep it simple." He turns to leave.

"Thank you," Akira blurts out. Sojiro looks over his shoulder at him. "For taking me in. Thank you."

Sojiro frowns, shrugs, and says, "Don't mention it. I'm heading home. Don't steal anything." He walks down the steps and vanishes.

Akira drops onto his bed and realizes he has nothing left to do. His hand slides to his pocket and draws out his phone. He tells himself he doesn’t have to look, but his thumb clicks on his messenger app and calls up the last message.

MOM: Just remember, I love you.

The acidic swirl of anxiety and anger rises in his chest once more, and Akira deletes the entire message chain. A few more clicks with his fingers, and he's in his almost entirely purged 'Contacts List.' Two names remained. 'Mom,' and 'Home.' He deletes both.

Like that's not an empty gesture? You know the numbers by heart, his brain reminds him, and to block this out, Akira raises his phone above his head as if he's about to throw it.

I'm sure the old man will love having to buy you a new phone.

Akira shakes his head and lowers his arm. Right. Right. Right. He slides the phone back into his pocket.

A murmur makes its way up the stairs and into the room. Sojiro is speaking, but Akira can't make out the words. He stands and creeps over to the stairwell. The boards don't creak like he expects them to.

"...uh-huh. Yeah. This afternoon. Pretty early, I guess there were no delays."

Akira sits on the top step and listens.

"So, do you want to speak to him?" Sojiro asks. Silence for a time. "Are you sure? He's right upstairs. I can grab him for you. Honestly, it's no trouble... Right. Yeah, no. I understand. Sorry." More silence. Then, "I will. Goodnight." Akira hears a faint click, then a sigh, then the jingle of the door as it opens, and then finally silence once it's closed.

Akira stares down the stairwell for a while. Then, he bites the inside of his mouth, hard, until he tastes a bit of blood. He does this because he will not cry. He will not cry.

He will not cry. They can't make him.

Then, exhausted, he gets up and goes to bed.

#

This time, it is the moaning that wakes him. It is faint, weak, and pained. He opens his eyes and sees a black ceiling and cinderblock walls. He sees a lidless toilet and bars where there should be a door.

He is in a box. Another box.

His clothes are tattered clichéd prisoner clothes, pinstriped in black and white. The air is heavy with the stench of sweat and piss. He sits up and finds his arms and legs shackled.

Okay. This is a nightmare. He wonders then why it feels so real.

Beyond the bars, a single light bulb illuminates a small circular room, ringed by cells like his. Panopticon. In the center of the room is a desk. The wood is rotting and peels to reveal the white beneath. The rug underneath is a frayed, monochromatic blue mess.

A stooped thing sits at it. It is not a man. It cannot be a man. Its features are too wrong. Its eyes bulge. Its nose, too long and knifelike. Its grin, too wide, its teeth too sharp. It is a caricature of a man, a farce, an imposter.

It meets Akira's eyes, and its grin grows just a bit wider. "Trickster," it says. Its voice is deep and hollow. "Welcome to my Velvet Room."