The alarm clock screamed.
Haruki slammed a hand over it, his fingers fumbling before the shriek stopped. He blinked at the ceiling, groggy and already annoyed. His room was awash in pale morning light, filtered through the thin curtains his mom kept saying she'd replace. Outside, a bird chirped cheerfully. Haruki hated that bird.
He turned his head toward the digital numbers glowing on his nightstand: 7:24 AM.
"Crap," he muttered, tossing the blanket off.
Then it happened again.
As he sat up, rubbing his eyes, a glowing line of text materialized in the air just above his bedroom door:
"If you skip breakfast and leave now, you'll probably make it to school on time — 62%"
Haruki froze.
There it was. The number. Again.
This had started a few weeks ago. First, it appeared during gym class. Then in the middle of a pop quiz. The percentages floated in midair, like projections no one else could see—harmless, but somehow always right. At first, he thought he was losing it. Stress, maybe. Too much late-night anime.
But the numbers were accurate. Eerily accurate. Like some part of the universe had opened up and decided to give him little hints.
He stared at the glowing 62%. It pulsed faintly.
"If I go now…" he said aloud.
He shifted toward his desk and scanned the floor for his school pants. The number remained, unchanged.
But as he shuffled to the door and glanced down the hallway toward the kitchen, another number flickered into existence:
"If you stop for toast: 48% chance of making it. Mom starts talking — derails you."
He could almost hear it now—his mom's voice, cheerful and chatty.
"Haruki, sit down! You need breakfast! What kind of example are you setting for your sister?"
He'd nod, take a bite, and then somehow it'd be 7:45, and he'd be dashing down the street like a maniac. Again.
He took a step back, hesitating in the doorway. Toast sounded amazing. His stomach growled in protest. But that number—it was a low one. 48%. A coin flip, really. And he already had bad luck with those.
"You can make it," the first number blinked again, "but only if you move right now."
Haruki exhaled through his nose. He grabbed his bag, yanked his sneakers on without socks, and bolted out the front door with a muttered "Sorry!" to his mom's distant, muffled voice.
He didn't have time for explanations. He had 62%.
Outside, the morning air hit him like a slap—cool, damp, laced with dew. His breath puffed in the spring chill. He sprinted down the hill toward the station, taking the cracked sidewalk like a parkour amateur. At the intersection, he paused for the light to change, heart pounding.
"Wait 11 seconds — 95% chance you catch the next walk signal without incident."
He waited.
Sure enough, the crosswalk blinked green. Haruki took off again.
He wasn't quite sure if this… ability—if that's what it was—meant he had superpowers. It didn't feel like a comic book thing. There were no explosions. No lightning. No mysterious old man handing him a magic ring.
Just numbers.
Glowing, hovering, unobtrusive—but always precise. Always relevant. They didn't scream answers at him. They didn't force choices. They just… gave him odds.
Haruki reached the station steps. His legs ached. He pushed up them two at a time.
"Make this train: 66%. Don't trip."
He stumbled a little. But he made it.
The train doors shut behind him with a satisfying hiss. Haruki collapsed into a seat and leaned his head back, panting.
"Still hungry," he muttered, clutching his stomach.
A boy next to him was eating a sandwich. Haruki eyed it with longing.
A new number blinked into place above the sandwich:
"Ask him for a bite: 3% chance he says yes."
"Not worth it," Haruki whispered to himself.
The train rattled along, a comforting rhythm underneath the discomfort in his gut. He watched the city roll by. Apartments, shops, endless bikes chained to fences. Tokyo always looked like it was building itself while simultaneously falling apart.
Haruki opened his phone, pretending to scroll, but his mind stayed locked on the morning's percentage. 62%. He'd made it. Barely. Still, it was enough.
But something about it gnawed at him.
Was this… cheating?
No, he told himself. It wasn't like the numbers guaranteed anything. Even the high ones didn't always go right. The first time he saw a 95%, he bombed the test anyway—forgot a formula, blanked under pressure. Numbers weren't fate. Just… possibilities.
He leaned his forehead against the train window and watched a salaryman doze off with a newspaper in his lap.
What was that weird saying? "Knowing the future doesn't make it easier—it just makes it heavier."
Yeah. That felt about right.
At school, Haruki slipped through the gate with seconds to spare.
The morning bell rang as he climbed the steps to homeroom. He was drenched in sweat and short of breath, but victorious. He took his seat near the window and dropped his bag with a thud.
Yui turned around in her seat and raised an eyebrow. "Late again?"
"Late-ish," Haruki corrected, tugging at his damp collar.
She held up a small rice cracker like a prize. "Want it?"
He hesitated.
"Accept rice cracker: 89% chance she makes fun of your 'gross sweat hands'."
"Pass," he said, forcing a smile. "I value my dignity."
She laughed and crunched it instead. "Your loss."
He turned toward the window and watched the breeze sway the trees in the courtyard.
The percentage had been right. But now that he'd made it, he didn't feel triumphant.
He felt… tired.
What had he sacrificed to hit 62%?
Just a piece of toast?
No. It was more than that. It was a morning ritual with his mom. A moment to feel like a family. A few comforting bites of warm, crispy bread and a little idle conversation—yes, even the "you're growing so fast!" ones. The numbers didn't show that part. They never did.
They showed what he wanted—not always what he needed.
During math class, Haruki's stomach growled again, louder this time. The teacher paused mid-equation and glanced his way.
"Haruki-kun, is the graph of y = 2x + 3 linear or quadratic?"
A glowing number appeared over the chalkboard:
"Say linear: 100% chance you're correct."
He answered. The teacher nodded. The class moved on.
But Haruki's thoughts were elsewhere.
What if he had taken the toast?
Would he have made it anyway?
He'd never know. That alternate morning was gone now—replaced by this one. Slightly more punctual, slightly more hungry.
He chewed his pencil, not listening as the teacher moved into word problems.
Maybe that's what the numbers were. Not a power, not a curse—just a mirror.
A way to see the branch before choosing which to break off.
But once you picked? The other disappeared.
By lunch, Haruki had stopped looking for numbers. They only showed up when he focused—when he looked at a decision point. If he didn't ask for odds, they didn't offer them. He could ignore them.
Couldn't he?
He sat on the edge of the schoolyard, finally eating. Rice, pickled plum, a tiny omelet wedge. His mom had still packed his bento, even though he'd run out without saying goodbye.
He imagined her at the kitchen table, sighing.
He took a bite, chewing slowly.
"I'll talk to her after school," he whispered. "Make up for it."
And right then, a new percentage flickered into the corner of his vision:
"Apologize and help with dinner — 91% chance she forgives you completely."
He smiled to himself.
That number? He liked that one.
That evening, after school, Haruki returned home and stood in the doorway, still in uniform, hair windblown.
His mom was washing vegetables in the sink. She turned as he entered.
"You didn't eat breakfast," she said, not angry—just tired.
Haruki walked into the kitchen, set his bag down, and rolled up his sleeves.
"I'll help with the curry," he said.
She blinked at him. Then handed him the carrots without a word.
Above her shoulder, a soft number shimmered:
"This moment: 100% real."
Haruki didn't need anything else.
He was starting to understand—
The power didn't come from the numbers.
It came from the choice to use them… or not.