Aika Hoshino had mastered the art of going unnoticed.
Her uniform was plain, her voice softer than most, and she walked like she was always trying not to wake something sleeping. The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour convenience store buzzed overhead, harsh and cold, casting shadows beneath her eyes that hadn't seen a full night's sleep in weeks.
She stood behind the counter, elbows resting on its chipped laminate edge, watching the reflection of Tokyo's evening lights shimmer across the glass door. The city outside never stopped moving, but in here, time dragged.
She checked the clock. 10:42 p.m. Still two hours to go.
"Hey, Hoshino," her coworker, Kento, called from the stockroom. "You want a break or what?"
Aika turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward the back. "No, I'm fine. You go first."
He poked his head out, raising an eyebrow. "Do you even eat?"
She held up a half-unwrapped onigiri. "I chew. That counts."
Kento chuckled. He was a few years younger, always too casual, with dyed brown hair and a soft spot for Bluey keychains. "You know, normal people work one job. Two if they're nuts. But three?"
"Maybe I'm a little nuts," she replied, carefully.
"You ever thought about… I dunno, doing something else?"
Aika turned her eyes back to the window. "Doing what?"
Kento hesitated. "I don't know. Art? Music? You seem like you'd draw. Or write weird poetry."
She didn't answer. He was kind. And kind people asked dangerous questions.
Kento sighed and wandered into the aisles to straighten the drinks. "Suit yourself. But if you turn into a ghost one day, don't say I didn't warn you."
Ghost.
The word sat heavy on her skin.
The bell jingled again. Aika instinctively straightened. A man entered—tall, black coat, no umbrella. His hair was slick with rain, his presence immediate. But his eyes… they never looked up.
She couldn't see them.
He moved past her without a word, disappearing into the far end of the store.
Her fingers tightened around the onigiri. Something about him didn't sit right.
When she finally looked down again, the envelope was there.
⸻
Elsewhere
He watched the city from behind glass tinted darker than night.
Daizen Kurosawa stood with one hand tucked into the pocket of his black slacks, the other gripping a tumbler of untouched whisky. The lights of Tokyo flickered below, a mosaic of people too far away to scream.
He preferred it that way.
In the center of the room, a man knelt—bloodied, coughing, his white shirt soaked through. Two guards stood behind him, statues in tailored black.
Daizen didn't raise his voice when he spoke.
"You opened something that wasn't yours."
"I didn't know—" the man rasped.
"You did."
"I swear, I didn't mean—"
Daizen turned slowly. The ice in his eyes made the temperature drop. "Intent means nothing when you break blood."
The silence that followed was final.
The guards moved.
Daizen returned to the window.
He didn't watch the man die. He didn't need to.
He only watched the city—her city. Somewhere beneath that storm of neon and smog, a girl with mismatched eyes had been marked. The letter had been delivered.
And that meant the story had already begun.
⸻
Back at the Store
Kento returned to the counter with a bag of discounted melon bread. "Here. Eat something with flavor."
Aika tucked the letter behind the register. She hadn't even touched it, but it felt warm. Heavy.
"What's that?" Kento asked.
"Nothing."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
She smiled faintly, forcing normal into her face. "Just… junk mail."
But her hand didn't leave the drawer.
Because something deep in her gut already knew—junk mail doesn't bleed.