July 12th, 2025
The yakitori skewer trembled slightly in Ian's hand—not from cold, but from exhaustion.
It had been another long shift. Oil burns on his forearm. Grease in his nails. Headache in his skull. And for what?
A 400-yen meal eaten alone under a flickering streetlamp.
The meat was overcooked. The glaze barely sweet. But it was warm. That was enough tonight.
Tokyo loomed around him, endless buildings, endless light. Endless noise.
The alley was narrow, quiet compared to the bustling main street, and it suited him. Ian Everhart preferred spaces like this: dim, out of the way, where no one looked twice at you. Where you could exist without explanation.
He leaned against a vending machine, eyes distant beneath his messy bangs. The hood of his worn-out jacket hung behind his neck like a forgotten thought. The glow of the streetlight cast shadows across his angular, tired face.
Somewhere behind him, laughter burst out like champagne.
A group of high school girls passed by, giggling and glued to their phones.
"She dropped a new MV today!"
"I watched it five times already. Her dancing is insane!"
"Foxxy's a damn goddess."
"You think we'll ever find out who she is? Her real name's been kept secret forever!"
That name again.
"Foxxy."
Ian blinked, but didn't turn his head.
Of course he'd heard of her.
Foxxy—Japan's masked phenomenon. A pop sensation with a voice like silk and the moves of a trained assassin. Her style was provocative, her lyrics cutting, her presence magnetic. She wore a sleek silver fox mask during every performance. No one had seen her real face.
A mystery sold better than truth.
That was show business.
He finished his food in silence, tossed the stick into a nearby trash bin, and wiped his hands on the inside of his hoodie. The city glared at him with neon eyes, but he didn't blink.
10:45 PM — Wandering
Sometimes Ian walked just to feel the ground.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The nightlife district of Tokyo roared louder with every step. Music from bars and clubs spilled onto the streets. Laughter echoed like haunting lullabies. Neon signs blinked like tired eyelids trying to stay awake.
Couples brushed by him. Some clinging to each other in love. Others in lust. Some just drunk.
He wasn't jealous.
He wasn't anything.
He drifted past open ramen shops, hostess bars, pachinko parlors. The kind of places that promised warmth but offered none. The scent of cigarette smoke, fried food, and cheap perfume mixed into the air like thick fog.
And then he saw it.
At the heart of the district, high above a luxury shopping center, a massive digital billboard flickered to life. People paused mid-stride to look up.
Ian did too.
Foxxy.
Even among the chaos of Tokyo, she demanded attention. The screen exploded with movement—her silhouette slicing through light, hips swaying, hair whipping like fire in the wind. Her voice bled from the speakers into the street, hypnotic and flawless.
Her silver mask gleamed. Red LED eyes stared into the soul of every onlooker.
Ian froze.
There was something… something in the way she moved.
Elegant. Controlled. Powerful. Familiar?
His brows knit together as he watched her twist and spin, the city's glow dancing across her curves like moonlight on water. She finished her performance with a final pose, hand raised, mask tilting downward like a predator watching its prey.
The crowd clapped. Some even cheered. Others just stared in awe.
Ian remained silent.
He wasn't a fan of idols.
He didn't like pretending.
But something inside his chest stirred. A breath he didn't know he'd been holding escaped.
"Weird," he murmured, finally turning away. "She moves like…"
But the thought faded.
It didn't matter.
She was someone else.
Someone rich, powerful, untouchable.
Someone from a world that had nothing to do with him.
Later That Night — Empty Room, Empty Sky
Back home, the cramped apartment welcomed him with silence.
The lights buzzed weakly as he slipped off his shoes. Every inch of the space was neat. Not a plate out of place. His single mattress was tucked in tightly. His PC setup sat clean and symmetrical, dual monitors quietly humming.
Ian changed into a fresh hoodie, sat at his desk, and powered on the screen.
His social feed opened by instinct. Photos. Posts. Stories.
Former classmates smiling in foreign beaches, expensive suits, wedding photos, flashy jewelry, family reunions. Everything was polished, filtered, bright.
He didn't feel envy. He wasn't petty enough for that.
But something clenched in his chest all the same.
"They don't even remember me," he whispered.
His reflection on the monitor showed a tired man with soft eyes, hidden behind a curtain of hair and quiet thoughts. He could've looked like them. He used to, didn't he?
But that was a different Ian.
A different life.
He exhaled deeply. Closed the feed.
Outside the window, Tokyo glowed like a sleeping monster. Beautiful. Violent. Constant.
And no messages coming from an unknown again.