The second morning came without sunlight.
Just gray. Dusty and dull, like the city itself hadn't bothered to wake up. Cold air clung to the concrete. I was lying on my side, my face pressed to brick, tarp half-wrapped around my shoulders, stiff like plastic. It stank of rust and fried oil.
I didn't care. I was awake. And I was breathing.
Took me a second to realize that wasn't normal.
I sat up slowly. My back didn't creak. My knees didn't grind. That familiar weight in my chest — the one I'd carried through years of fighting, crawling through mud, watching men die in jungles — it wasn't there. Not completely.
My body was… different. Younger. Limber. I looked at my hands. Slim fingers. No calluses. Nails bitten to the quick, not clean but not ruined either. My arms were too thin. My legs too short. I looked like a kid.
That was the first real shock.
Not waking up in a new place. Not even waking up alive when I knew I'd died. But the size of my limbs. I hadn't been this small in thirty years.
I stood, steadying myself against the wall. The street was narrow, more like an alley tucked between older buildings. Boxes piled near dumpsters, a broken bicycle with one pedal, a loose electrical wire hanging like a forgotten noose.
Tokyo.
I didn't know how I knew it, but the word sat in the back of my mind. And not just Tokyo — Sanya, I think. A real place. One of the oldest neighborhoods still left behind by everything shiny and tall. The slums. You wouldn't find it on tourist maps. But it was here.
And somehow… so was I.
I closed my eyes. Tried to search deeper. Not for who I was — I remembered that clearly. My name, or at least the one I carried before this: I didn't know if it mattered anymore.
But this body had a name. I remembered it like an old notebook someone left half-filled.
Arata. This kid was called Arata.
I didn't remember a full life. Just bits. Images. Sounds. A tiny apartment that always smelled like cigarettes. An older woman passed out in front of the TV. A man banging on the door in the middle of the night. Arata had lived alone even when people were around. Forgotten, like a stain on the wall no one bothered to clean.
No school. No one asking questions. Just drifting.
I didn't feel sad for him. I didn't feel much at all. Maybe that was worse.
A low rumble pulled me out of my thoughts. My stomach. I hadn't eaten in — what? A day? Two? I wasn't even sure how long I'd been lying there. But hunger had a way of pulling the world into focus.
I stepped out of the alley. Light hit me through broken clouds, harsh and thin.
People walked past, eyes down. No one noticed a barefoot boy in a torn sweatshirt hugging himself for warmth. That was fine. I didn't want to be noticed.
A few blocks away, the scent of steamed buns floated on the breeze. My feet took me there without thinking. A bakery window was open, metal tray resting on the sill, half a dozen buns steaming in the cold air.
A boy my age walked up, tossed a few coins onto the counter, grabbed one, and left.
No cameras. No shopkeeper in sight. Just a broom resting inside the door.
I waited until no one was looking. Crossed the street. Quick hands.
The bun was hot and soft. I bit in fast, burned the roof of my mouth. Didn't care. I was halfway through before I even turned the corner.
A woman sweeping just inside the store entrance looked up. Our eyes met for a second. Then she looked away.
She'd seen it before. Probably wouldn't be the last time today.
---
Around noon, I found a place behind an old hardware store where warm air blew from a vent. I huddled there, trying to keep the wind off my face. My stomach still growled, but the heat helped.
Didn't last long.
"Hey."
Three kids. Taller than me — fifteen, maybe sixteen. Worn jackets, dirty sneakers. One had a cracked batting helmet like a crown.
"You're sitting in our spot."
I didn't answer. Just stared.
"You deaf?"
"I heard."
One of them stepped forward. "So move."
"I'm warm."
He blinked, then frowned. "You got a smart mouth, kid."
I shrugged. "Not looking for trouble."
He reached for me, probably just to shove. I caught his wrist — not hard, but firm. Let him feel the grip.
For half a second, we just stared.
Then I let go.
He looked at me differently after that. Not impressed. Just… cautious.
"You new around here?"
"Yeah."
"You got backup?"
"No."
That seemed to satisfy him.
"Don't cause problems. You'll last longer."
They left.
---
A little later, I ended up near an old bus stop with no schedule posted. I sat under it, head against the glass. People passed. No one stopped.
Until one did.
He wore a neon orange vest, holding a clipboard and a plastic bag. Volunteer type. Early thirties. Eyes tired, but not hollow.
"You okay, kid?"
I didn't answer.
He crouched down, not too close. "You alone?"
Still nothing.
He sighed, then set the bag down next to me. "I don't care if you talk. Just eat."
Then he left.
Inside: two rice balls, a half-filled water bottle, and a crumpled flyer. Something about Tokyo Youth Outreach — Shelter & Support. I read it. Twice.
It had an address. Said something about temporary stays, food, maybe school. If you cooperated.
I didn't know if I wanted that. But I kept the flyer.
---
Evening rolled in like a dirty wave. The clouds got darker. Streetlights buzzed. My legs ached. I hadn't realized how far I'd walked.
The shelter was exactly where the map said. Tucked between a dry cleaners and a shuttered bar. A small metal sign near the door. Paint peeling. But it looked warm.
I hesitated.
Then I pushed the door open.
The smell hit me first — detergent, old paper, something faintly sweet, maybe air freshener. Not terrible.
A woman behind the desk looked up from her notes.
"You lost?"
I shook my head.
"You here alone?"
"Yeah."
"Name?"
"…Arata."
"Last name?"
I didn't answer. She didn't push.
"Okay. We'll need to contact child services if you stay. Might take a few days. You'll get food, a bed. You don't like it, you can leave."
She pointed down a hallway. "Couch in the back room. Take it."
I walked past tired faces. Some younger, some older. One kid sat staring at a TV screen that wasn't even on.
The couch wasn't soft. But it wasn't wet. That was good enough.
I sat down. Leaned back. Tried to relax.
Didn't work.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with my eyes. The noises around me were low, distant — a snore, a cough, soft crying.
I didn't think about the war. Or Daye. Or the boy with the gun in the jungle.
I thought about nothing. Just… how weird it felt to have clean socks on again. Someone must've put them on me while I slept in the alley. Probably the volunteer.
That was the last thing I remembered before sleep dragged me under.
---
Word Count: ~2,002 words.
That's it for this chap, I'm planning to write a little bit about how he manages in this new world before actually going to high school. He'll meet with characters I think.
Also this is not a harem story, even if it it will be 3 to 4 girls in all the world he will go too.
Thanks for reading <3