Chapter 2 – Kiyono Miyuki
"Whoa! Another wipeout? Where the hell did this kid come from!?"
"Boss, where'd you find this guy? Might as well let him play mahjong by himself!"
The smoky, tea-scented air inside the mahjong parlor buzzed with complaints.
A boy calmly smiled as he counted his winnings.
"We truly are well-matched opponents. I look forward to our next thrilling match."
"Match your head!"
"You won every damn round! Only a fool would play you again!!"
"Get lost! Don't let me see your face again!"
By the time he walked out with the cash in hand, night had already fallen.
The sky above was painted in rich strokes of ink, like a slumbering beast watching from the dark.
Yuzuki Gen strolled down the road, heading home, the streetlights gleaming softly against his jet-black hair.
Getting a part-time job? Not happening.
So, for daily expenses, he could only rely on Japanese mahjong. Sure, the Nihon Shōjitsu Private High School offered generous scholarships—and he earned one nearly every exam—but it never hurt to have extra income streams.
Especially when you're a lone orphan with no one to depend on.
Not that he minded. This identity suited his current self.
The world around him felt both strange and familiar. It looked exactly like the Japan in his memories—except it was called Nihon.
And the capital city? Not Tokyo, but Shōjitsu.
A parallel world, huh?
He couldn't be bothered to care anymore.
The apartment building he lived in creaked as the elevator groaned its way up, threatening to crash at any moment. But with his current income, this was one of the few places in Shōjitsu that qualified as "home."
Still, Gen didn't head straight there.
He made a quick stop at the supermarket to pick up some fruits and vegetables.
As he reached his unit, he paused before the neighboring door.
It was covered in graffiti—vulgar phrases like "Pay your debt" and "Die, you and your whole family."
Today, someone had even splashed fresh red paint on it, thick and glistening like blood.
Gen glanced at it for only a second before pulling out his keys and stepping inside his place.
Before long, the sounds of stir-frying filled the air, along with the mouthwatering aroma of food.
When he stepped out again, his hands were full:
Two bento boxes, and a bag of fresh fruit.
He walked over to the graffiti-stained door.
Knock, knock, knock.
No answer.
But Gen knocked again, undeterred—as if he knew someone was inside.
Knock, knock, knock!
Knock, knock, knock!
"…Who is it?"
A frosty voice finally echoed from within.
"It's me. Open up."
"…Didn't I tell you not to come here anymore?"
Her voice trembled with a chill that went straight to the bone.
But Gen's face didn't flinch.
"I never agreed to that. Now open up, I brought you dinner."
"…No need. I'm not opening the door. Please don't come again."
"In that case, I'm letting myself in."
"…Eh?"
---
Gen ignored the strange voice behind the door.
One hand held a bag of groceries, the other supported two heavy bento boxes with effortless balance—steady as a mountain.
With a practiced motion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a brand-new key.
Without hesitation, he unlocked a door that, by all rights, wasn't his to open.
The lights inside were already on.
Facing the doorway sat a young girl in a wheelchair.
She had strikingly beautiful features—long lashes, pale skin, and sharp, elegant contours. But her entire aura was shrouded in a cold, quiet gloom.
Even her long hair draped over her shoulders like a forest of shadows.
She wore only a floral summer dress, thin and ill-suited to the weather, while her fingers gripped the edges of her skirt tightly, knuckles pale.
She stared daggers at Gen, somewhere between outrage and helpless resignation.
"Where did you get that key?"
she asked, voice icy.
Gen shrugged, calm and unconcerned.
"Had it made last time I was here. You have a habit of not cooperating, after all."
Before she could protest, he was already behind her, gently pushing the wheelchair deeper into the room, ignoring the silent fury in her gaze.
From this angle, he could see the crown of her head, the messy flow of hair—and inadvertently, the graceful curve of her neckline and chest.
Can't skimp on nutrition,
he mused thoughtlessly.
"Don't touch me. I told you—you don't have to come here anymore. Do you even realize it's illegal to copy someone's house key?"
"Then go report me."
He smiled.
"Oh wait—you probably haven't paid your phone bill. And can you wheel yourself to the police station?"
A cruel joke.
And it only made the fire in her eyes blaze hotter.
"Is this what you came for? To humiliate me? Do you get some twisted satisfaction from pitying a cripple?"
Her voice was trembling, both from anger and something deeper—shame, perhaps. The blood had rushed to her face, making her beauty even more intense—like a fallen Roman goddess, awaiting conquest.
At the table, Gen set down the food and turned to her with a warm, infuriating smile.
"Of course not. I just know you can't stand kindness. So if yelling at me makes it easier for you to accept dinner, I'll take the abuse."
"Get. Out."
She seethed.
"If you break in again, I'll move away. I mean it."
Gen didn't argue. He calmly unboxed the food.
Sat across from her. Picked up his chopsticks.
"Kiyono Miyuki. If you leave here… where will you go?"
That question made her bite her lip hard.
After the accident, she lost her parents. And her legs. The doctors had said she'd never walk again. No support, no future. If she lost even this small, dingy apartment—
She truly had nowhere left.
She wasn't even qualified to be homeless.
If not for him… she likely wouldn't have lived this long.
And maybe that was the reason she needed to push him away.
"That's none of your concern," she snapped, voice brittle.
"Fine, then let's eat. You feeding yourself, or should I help you?"
The bluntness of his question made Miyuki's eyes widen.
Her face flushed again.
"I'm not eating."
"Not an option. Either you feed yourself, or I do it for you."
He was still smiling, but something in his eyes made it clear he meant it.
Reluctantly, she picked up her chopsticks.
Head down, cheeks red, she began to eat—slowly, deliberately.
Only then did Gen begin eating his own meal.
The silence at the table was broken only by his casual chatter—small talk, daily anecdotes, nonsense.
Miyuki didn't respond. At most, she would glance up briefly, then return to ignoring him, hoping the wall of indifference would finally drive him away.
That he'd realize his "kindness" was wasted. That it was just a burden.
But he never flinched. Not once.
He ate calmly, finished the food, cleaned up.
Then, placing the fruit on the table, he asked:
"Want some fruit? Vitamin C's good for you."
"Good for me?"
Miyuki gave a bitter laugh. Her beautiful face twisted into something distant and cold.
"Look at me. What could possibly help me now? Everyone who tries to help me just gets dragged into a bottomless pit. If you're being nice just because I still have a decent-looking face…"
She gritted her teeth. Her voice shook.
"…Then let's sleep together. Right now. Just do it and promise me you'll never come back."
Gen raised an eyebrow thoughtfully.
"Not a bad reason. You're dying inside and don't want to die a virgin, so you want to lose it to a decent-looking guy who's been helping you out. That about right?"
The tension in the room exploded.
"I'm not trying to experience anything!!"
she shrieked, flustered.
If sheer embarrassment could make her walk again, she would've leapt from the wheelchair that moment.
"Then what makes you think I want your body?"
His voice changed—mocking, cool.
"I'm smart, handsome, and I just turned eighteen. I've got girls lining up for me. You can't even stand, let alone do anything else. Do you really think that's why I'm here?"
Miyuki's mouth opened, then shut again.
She had nothing.
Because… everything he said was true.
Awful. Crude. But true.
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.
But just then, Gen came over and turned her wheelchair to face him.
He smiled.
Like an angel.
"So don't get it twisted. I'm not some saint. And I don't want your body."
"I…"
"Alright. Lift your skirt."
"...What???"