The rain slammed against Kazu's window like an angry fist. Each drop hit the cracked glass with a dull thud, a rhythm that synced with the pounding in his head. He slouched on his sagging couch, the springs creaking under him, worn out from years of supporting his dead weight.
Kazu kicked an empty ramen cup off the coffee table, the plastic clattering across the tatami mat, spilling soy sauce onto the already-stained surface. "Tch," he muttered, voice raspy, barely cutting through the storm outside. His laptop screen flickered, paused on an isekai anime he'd watched a hundred times—a hero reborn in a fantasy world, grinning like he had it all figured out.
Stupid, Kazu thought, rubbing his temples. He was 34, jobless, a shut-in who hadn't left this apartment in weeks—maybe months. Time didn't mean much anymore, just a blur of screens and hunger pangs.
He grabbed another beer can from the table, the aluminum cold against his palm, and popped the tab with a hiss. The bitter taste hit his tongue, sharp and familiar, but it didn't dull the ache in his chest. He'd been a programmer once, good enough to pay the bills, with a cubicle that smelled of coffee and printer ink, coworkers who'd laughed at his bad jokes.
"Those days are gone," he grumbled, tossing the can aside. It landed on a pile of manga, the pages creased from endless rereads, their covers faded—tales of heroes, magic, second chances he'd never get.
His stomach growled, a sharp stab that made him wince. No food left—hadn't been for days. He'd have to go out, brave the storm for a convenience store run. "Ugh," he groaned, dragging a hand through his greasy black hair, the strands sticking to his fingers.
He stood, the couch springs squeaking in relief, and shuffled to the window, peering through the cracked glass. Rain blurred Tokyo into a smear of lights—neon signs buzzing, cars splashing through puddles, umbrellas bobbing in the crowd. He didn't want to go out there, but hunger didn't care.
Kazu grabbed his jacket—a faded black thing with a torn sleeve, the pocket stuffed with crumpled receipts from better days. His sneakers were by the door, soles worn thin, laces frayed and knotted. "No umbrella," he muttered, eyeing the broken one in the corner, its ribs bent like a spider's legs.
He stepped into the hall, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, the yellow glow harsh against peeling wallpaper. The elevator was out—again—so he took the stairs, each step creaking under his weight, the air stale with the smell of mildew and cigarette smoke.
The lobby was empty, glass doors streaked with rain. Kazu pushed through, the storm hitting him like a slap, cold water soaking his jacket in seconds. He hunched his shoulders, hands in pockets, and started down the street, rain dripping into his eyes, sneakers squelching with every step.
Tokyo was alive despite the storm—cars honking, headlights slicing through the gray, umbrellas bobbing like black mushrooms in the crowd. Kazu kept his head down, the city's noise a dull roar in his ears, his mind drifting to the past, to failures he couldn't outrun.
He'd had friends once, a tight-knit group who'd shared late-night ramen runs and dreams of making it big. Hiro had been the loudest, always dragging Kazu to karaoke, his off-key singing a running joke—until one drunken night ended it all, leaving Kazu with nothing but guilt and a void he couldn't fill. He'd cut everyone off after that, too ashamed to face their pity, too broken to try again.
Kazu's foot caught a puddle, splashing icy water up his leg, and he cursed under his breath. He'd been a street artist back then, tagging walls with spray paint under the cover of night, his murals a riot of color—dragons with scales of sapphire and gold, phoenixes trailing flames that seemed to flicker in the moonlight. He'd dreamed of galleries, of his art lighting up the city, but the galleries never called, and the paint cans gathered dust in a corner, their colors faded like his ambition.
Now, his only escape was the isekai anime on his screen—a world where broken men like him got second chances, reborn in lands of magic and adventure. He'd watched it so many times he could recite the lines, imagining himself as the hero, a sword in hand, a purpose driving him. But that was fantasy, and this was reality: a one-room apartment in Tokyo, walls stained with mold, the air heavy with the stench of unwashed dishes and regret.
He turned a corner, the convenience store's neon sign glowing ahead, a beacon in the gray. The rain pounded harder, soaking through his sneakers, his socks squishing with every step. He didn't see the girl until she screamed—a sharp, desperate cry that cut through the storm's roar.
Kazu's head snapped up, rain stinging his eyes as he squinted through the downpour. A small figure stood frozen in the street—a girl, maybe six, her pink raincoat a splash of color against the gray, her pigtails plastered to her face. A truck barreled toward her, its headlights glaring like twin suns, horn blaring a warning she didn't heed.
"Move!" Kazu shouted, his voice swallowed by the storm, but his legs were already moving, instinct kicking in where thought failed. He sprinted, sneakers slipping on the wet pavement, heart slamming against his ribs. The truck was too close, too fast, its tires screeching as the driver tried to stop.
Kazu dove, arms outstretched, and tackled the girl, his shoulder slamming into her tiny frame. They rolled together, a tangle of limbs and rain-soaked fabric, the truck's bumper missing them by inches as it roared past. Kazu hit the pavement hard, pain exploding in his side, water splashing over him in a cold wave that stole his breath.