Genzō pushed the apartment door open with his shoulder the lock screeched like it hadn't been oiled in a decade. The door gave way with reluctant resistance, and immediately the smell hit him: fresh paint mixed with old dust from the carpet and something faintly metallic, as if no one had truly lived here for a long time. The narrow genkan barely fit two pairs of shoes; beyond it, a tiny kitchen-living room where the table pressed right against the sofa, and the TV hung on the wall like the only witness to normal life. Parents' bedroom door on the left. His cornerbehind a thin sliding screen on the right. The balcony was just a windowsill with railings, facing the blank wall of the neighboring building half a meter away. No sky, no street, no air. Just gray concrete staring back.
He kicked off his sneakers without untying the laces; they thudded dully to the floor. The backpack followed, landing against the wall with a soft rustle. Silence descended instantly thick, sticky, as though the apartment had been waiting for him to enter so it could finally shut up completely. Only the refrigerator in the corner hummed low and steady, and far outside, muffled car engines and occasional traffic-light beeps filtered through.
Genzō padded barefoot to the kitchen the floor cold, linoleum slightly tacky from recent cleaning. He opened the lower cabinet: Mom had already arranged everything neatly. Instant ramen packets stood in a row like soldiers, rice in a clear bag, a can of tuna, and two large bags of chips—one salt & vinegar, the other wasabi & nori. He grabbed the wasabi one. Tore the package open with his teeth the foil crinkled loudly, echoing off the bare walls. The sharp, stinging smell hit his nostrils, almost burning.
He dropped onto the old sofa brought from Osaka sagging in the middle where Dad always sat. The fabric still carried the faint scent of their old home, the one that now belonged to the past. He picked up the remote from the armrest and turned on the TV. The screen flickered, then lit up. An old black-and-white movie was playing: yakuza in long coats, rain streaking the asphalt, betrayal in a half-dark alley. The actors' voices were muted, subtitles crawling slowly across the bottom. Genzō didn't try to follow the plot. He just needed background noise dialogue, music, footsteps on screen. Anything to keep the silence from swallowing him whole.
He leaned back, stretched his legs onto the low coffee table. Opened the chip bag wider, scooped out a handful. Crunch loud, rhythmic. One after another. The wasabi burned his tongue, made his eyes water slightly, but it felt good something real in all this emptiness.
Thoughts drifted in slowly, without hurry, like drips from a leaky faucet.
Mom texted this morning: "Interview at three, back around eight or nine. Eat properly, don't live on chips."
He replied: "Ok."
Dad hadn't appeared in the chat since the day before yesterday. Probably buried at work again new position, new people, new rules.
Tomorrow he should go out, find the nearest convenience store. Buy soda, maybe a bento for dinner. Or just sit there, watch people.
School in three days. Uniform already bought, but he hadn't tried it on here yet. Different collar, different feel. Wonder if the kids will be the same as back in Osaka the ones who spot weakness instantly and poke at it. Or maybe Tokyo is different. Maybe here he can at least disappear into the crowd.
He finished the handful, reached for more. Crunch, crunch, crunch. On screen the protagonist stood under rain, smoking, staring into nothing. Genzō watched him and wondered: did he ever have a day when he just walked into a new place and realized no one was coming home on time?
He had no idea that at that very moment, in another part of Tokyo, in an ordinary public middle school on the outskirts, three fifteen-year-olds were sitting in an empty classroom after the final bell. Windows open, but the air still felt heavy chalk dust, lingering sweat, old textbooks.
Renji sat by the window elbows on the desk, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, hair falling over his eyes, hiding the faded bruise under his left lid. He wasn't looking at anyone. Just staring at the scratched surface of the desk someone long ago had carved "fuck school" with a knife.
Two rows away, Takumi sprawled in his seat long legs stretched into the aisle, arms behind his head, a crooked, lazy smirk on his face. He looked down at Renji even though he was farther back. In his eyes: boredom mixed with quiet pleasure, as if he already knew how the day would end.
Aya sat closer to Renji nearer to him than to Takumi. Hands folded on the desk, back straight, gaze calm but tense like a taut string. She said nothing. She just didn't leave. That alone was resistance.
"So, Renji," Takumi drawled without changing position. "Silent treatment again? Tongue gone after yesterday? Or just scared to open your mouth?"
Renji didn't answer. His fingers clenched in his pocket until his nails dug into his palm.
Takumi snorted, pulled out his phone, scrolled aimlessly feed, stories, nothing worth seeing.
"Fine. Tomorrow after classes same as always. Don't be late, or I'll have to remind you another way."
Aya turned her head sharply.
"Enough, Takumi."
Her voice was quiet but sharp, like a blade edge.
Takumi raised his eyebrows; the smirk stretched wider, almost to his ears.
"Oh, Aya's awake. Sitting there like a statue otherwise. What, defending your little loser again?"
Aya didn't blink.
"I said enough."
Takumi shrugged, stood slowly, stretched until his joints popped.
"As you wish. See ya, losers."
He walked out, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. The sound echoed down the hallway.
Renji finally lifted his head. Looked at Aya briefly, wordlessly.
"Thanks."
She shook her head.
"No need. I'm just… tired of it all."
They fell silent. The classroom grew even quieter only the wind rustled the curtains at the open window.
Then, in Renji's mind, a memory flared up like an old film reel, scratched and flickering.
…They were six or seven. Elementary school, first or second grade.
At first it was almost easy. Renji and Takumi played together after classes running across the schoolyard, building forts from bento boxes, sharing candy from the vending machine. Takumi was always louder, inventing games, dragging Renji along. Renji liked it he was quiet, and Takumi made everything brighter.
Aya transferred in later. She approached during a long recess, small, short-haired, big eyes.
"Can I play with you?"
Takumi laughed.
"Sure! Now we're three!"
They played as a trio. Tag to the fence, chalk drawings on asphalt, hide-and-seek behind old trees. Simple. Fun.
Then Kaoru appeared.
She was four or five. Long dark hair in two braids, bright jacket, small hands always moving. Only child her mother worked nights. Kaoru sometimes waited on the street or came to pick her up after after-school care.
At first she just watched from a distance. Then she came closer. And started.
One day Takumi shoved Renji's shoulder—"joking"—and took his last candy. Renji stayed silent, eyes down.
Kaoru ran over fast, grabbed Takumi's sleeve with her tiny fingers.
"Give it back! He's a crybaby, but it's his candy! Make him give it, or I'll tell everyone he's a coward who can't even fight back!"
Her voice was high and childish, but already laced with poison not innocent anger, but something cold and mean. Takumi laughed, but looked at her with new interest. He gave the candy back. Something in his eyes shifted.
From then on Kaoru came more often. Not to play.
She taunted Renji first poking his back when no one was looking, whispering:
"Crybaby. Coward. Too scared to even talk back."
Laughed loudest when Takumi took his pocket money "for now."
Egged him on: "Go on, take more! He'll give it anyway he's weak."
Takumi brushed it off at first, then started playing along.
"Kaoru's right—he's a loser. Why does he even need money?"
Aya tried to step in:
"Stop it. This isn't funny."
Kaoru snorted, turned to her:
"What are you, his mom? Go home if you don't like it. Or do you want everyone laughing at you too?"
She hated Renji deeply, fiercely, for reasons no one understood, but the hatred burned like a slow fire inside her.
Hated Aya—for not staying quiet, for not being afraid.
Hated Takumi—for not being cruel enough, for not going all the way.
The smallest one among them, but already the one setting the tone.
She decided when it started.
She decided when it stopped.
The memory faded slowly, like a bulb burning out.
Renji dropped his gaze back to the desk.
Aya touched his sleeve lightly, barely there.
"Want to go home?"
He nodded short, silent.
They stood. Gathered their things. Walked out together. Footsteps echoed down the long, cold, endless hallway.
Back in the tiny Shibuya apartment, Genzō finished the last chips. Crumpled the empty bag into a ball, tossed it into the trash under the sink.
Turned off the TV the screen went black, reflecting his face for a second in the dark glass.
Lay down on the sofa, still dressed. Stared at the ceiling white, with a small crack in the corner.
Silence returned. Complete. Absolute.
He didn't know about Renji, Takumi, Aya, or the little girl with long dark braids who already hated them all back then and planted the seeds of the hell to come.
He just lay there.
Waiting for this stagnation to finally crack
and for something anything to begin.