Chapter 1 - My New Life
The plane shuddered as its wheels touched down, jolting Azazel from a fitful sleep. Through the window, the sprawling lights of Tokyo glowed in the pre-dawn gloom. His new life. The phrase echoed in his mind, bitter and hollow. My new life, hmm. More like a fancy prison exchange.
An hour later, he was in the back of a taxi, wordlessly shoving a crumpled piece of paper with an address at the driver. He watched the neon signs and orderly chaos of the city blur past, a world away from the dusty heat of Egypt or the relentless pace of the U.S.
The apartment was a small, sterile box, but it was his. A balcony, a bathroom, a king-size bed, and a flat-screen TV. He tossed his single duffel bag onto the floor. "The new crib is nice," he muttered to the silence. "Not like back where I came from." It was an understatement that felt like a physical blow.
He'd barely had time to run a hand over the bullet wound on his left shoulder, a familiar ache, when a sharp knock came at the door.
"Azazel? Are you in there?" a woman's voice called.
"Yeah. It's open." He didn't bother moving.
The door swung open to reveal a stern-faced woman holding a manila folder. "Welcome to Tokyo, Azazel. I'm your handler." She didn't offer a name. "I have your file here. I think you should hear it."
She opened the folder and read in a flat, bureaucratic tone that stripped his life of any drama, reducing it to cold facts.
Name: Azazel
Surname: Unknown
Sex: Male
DOB: Unknown
Age: 16 or 17
Physical Identifiers: Skin tone - Espresso. Hair - Black. Eyes - Brown. Bullet wound on left shoulder. Rose tattoo on right arm.
Background: Born in Egypt, grew up in the US. Smuggled through multiple countries including China, South Korea, France, Mexico, and Brazil.
Criminal Record: Illegal street racing, information brokerage, 12 successful escapes from juvenile detention, illegal drug sales, gang affiliation.
Disposition: Relocated to Japan under federal protection following cooperation with an investigation. Granted a clean slate.
She snapped the folder shut. "That's all the information the FBI saw fit to share. There's another note, but I'm going to keep that to myself for now." She placed a neatly folded pile of navy-blue and white fabric on the kitchen counter. "Here's your uniform for school."
Azazel's head snapped up. "Wait a minute. I'm going to school?"
"Yes," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You're still a teenager, on paper at least. Get settled. I'll pick you up tomorrow. Be ready." Without another word, she left, the click of the door echoing in the sparse room.
---
The next morning, the knocking came early and insistent. "Azazel! Let's go!"
He opened the door, sleep still gritting in his eyes. His handler looked him up and down, a flicker of appraisal in her gaze. "Put this on," she said, thrusting the uniform at him. The fabric was stiff and unfamiliar.
The car ride was short and quiet. As they pulled up to the school gates, Azazel stared at the stream of students. "Why are the girls here wearing sailor uniforms?" he asked, baffled.
"That's the standard here," his handler replied, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Isn't it cute?"
Azazel just stared at her. "What?"
"Okay, here you are. I've already spoken with your homeroom teacher. Have a nice day." Her tone hardened. "And remember what's at stake."
She drove off, leaving him standing at the gate. "Good luck my ass," he muttered under his breath. "And I know what's at stake. Don't have to rub it in."
He found the staff room and was met by a young, nervous-looking homeroom teacher. "Ah, you must be Azazel! Please, wait here one moment." She slipped into the classroom, and he heard a hushed, excited chatter fall silent. A moment later, she beckoned him in.
"Class, we have a new transfer student. Please introduce yourself."
Thirty pairs of curious eyes locked onto him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, letting the silence stretch for a beat too long.
"What's up. Name's Azazel. I'm sixteen. My hobbies are... cooking. And programming. That's it. Nice to meet you all."
The teacher, flustered by his brevity, quickly pointed to an empty seat. "Okay, Azazel, please take the seat at the back, by the window."
He slid into the chair, the wooden desk feeling alien and small. He looked out the large window, the schoolyard and the city beyond laid out before him. A slight, cynical smile touched his lips. What a nice place to sit, he thought. I can see everything.
The school day dragged on, a monotonous stream of unfamiliar kanji and polite, distant classmates. When the bell for lunch finally shrieked through the halls, Azazel felt a tension in his shoulders release.
As the class began to empty, the class representative—a girl with neat pigtails and an air of quiet efficiency—approached his desk. She placed a leaflet on it. "The teacher asked me to give this to you. It's a list of clubs. You're supposed to join one."
Azazel picked it up, glancing over the smattering of activities. "What is this, mandatory fun?"
She just shrugged. "It's school policy. But maybe you don't want to." She turned to leave.
"Hey, wait," he called, his eyes scanning the paper. "Basketball club looks cool, but I'd dominate. So, no." He looked up at her. "Which one do you think I should join?"
She seemed surprised by the question. "With your... preferences for physical and intelligent activities..." she said, vaguely referencing his fabricated hobbies.
"Let's go with physical," Azazel cut in.
"Then how about the kendo club? It's very disciplined."
Azazel thought for a moment. A fighting club. That could be useful. A place to blow off steam and stay sharp. "Okay," he said, scribbling his name on the form and handing it back to her. "Sign me up."
He spent his lunch in the cafeteria, grabbing a pre-packaged sandwich before heading to the roof. Pushing the door open, he was met with a sprawling view of Tokyo's skyline. "The view up here is crazy," he muttered to himself, the city feeling both immense and isolating.
---
The final bell felt like a pardon. As Azazel was packing his bag, the class rep appeared by his desk again. "Oh, Azazel, you can go to the club today to check it out. Okay, bye! See you tomorrow." She hurried off before he could respond.
The kendo dojo echoed with the sharp thwack of bamboo swords and guttural shouts. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and polished wood. Azazel found a spot against the wall and slid down to sit, observing the ritualized violence with a critical eye. It was all form and shout, nothing like the dirty, desperate fights he knew.
After a few minutes, a lanky boy with spiky hair, still sweating from practice, plopped down beside him. "Yo, you're Azazel, right? I'm Kenji. Nice to meet you."
"Same here," Azazel said, his tone non-committal.
"Cool. Well, tomorrow I'll see you in training, I guess. Today you can just watch. Anyways, later, bro!" Kenji gave a friendly wave and bounded off. Azazel watched him go. The forced camaraderie was exhausting.
---
As dusk settled over Tokyo, Azazel found himself not heading home, but drawn to the electric pulse of the Kabukicho district in Shinjuku. Neon signs bathed the streets in a garish glow, and the air buzzed with the sounds of pachinko parlors and whispered solicitations. This was a language he understood.
He slipped into a back alley, his eyes scanning. It didn't take long. A man with a dragon tattoo coiling around his forearm was leaning against a wall, smoking. Azazel approached, the posture and the ink a universal sign.
"You selling anything good?" Azazel asked, his voice low.
The man looked him up and down, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, kid. I got good product. What's your poison?"
"Got any weed on you right now?"
The man nodded, pulling out a small, sealed bag. A quick exchange of cash and product, and Azazel had what he needed. He took the dealer's contact info.
"Hey, kid," the dealer called as Azazel turned to leave. "I got a job for you, if you're interested."
"Sorry, man," Azazel said without looking back. "I'm out of the game."
The dealer's laugh echoed in the narrow alley. "For now you are. But you'll be back. Your type always comes back."
---
Azazel found a secluded bench in a quiet park, far from the main thoroughfares. The only light came from a distant streetlamp, casting long shadows. With practiced ease, he rolled a joint. The first hit was a familiar burn in his lungs, a warmth that seeped into his bones and blurred the sharp edges of the day.
"How long has it been?" he whispered to the night. "This day is so hard. And being the only black person in that school... that's a lot of attention." He took another long drag. "I'm going to have to wait until everybody gets used to it. Or until I do."
He was lost in the haze when a voice cut through the silence.
"Hey. You're the new guy in my class."
Azazel looked up. A girl in a black sailor uniform stood a few feet away. It was the girl who sat in front of him, the one who hadn't once turned around.
"Wait, who are you? No, you sit in front of me," he said, his dealer's instincts kicking in, scanning her for a threat. "What brings you to the park at night all alone?"
"I always come to this park at night," she said calmly, her gaze steady. "It's a nice place to think."
"Ya, I just found it. I really like this place," he admitted. "By the way, what's your name?"
"My name is Ruyi Ironveil. And you?"
"Azazel. Nice to meet you, Ruyi."
"No surname?" she asked.
"No."
To his surprise, Ruyi took a seat on the far end of the bench. They fell into a stilted small talk—about the teachers, the city. She made no mention of the joint smoldering between his fingers, the skunk-like scent hanging in the air.
"Hey," he finally said, cutting her off. "What's making you have a conversation with me? This is... quite unexpected."
"Because you're interesting," she said simply. "Everybody else at school is just so normal. But you? You bring something unique to the school now."
"I see," Azazel said, a cynical smile touching his lips. "So what's in it for me?"
Ruyi stood up, a cryptic smile on her own face. "I don't know. You figure that out yourself. Anyways, it was fun talking to you. I'll see you at school tomorrow. Bye."
He watched her disappear into the darkness, her uniform swallowed by the night. Japanese girls are supposed to be hard to talk to, he thought, the weed making his mind sluggish. And she didn't even mind I was smoking. I need to watch out for her.
A more primal, defensive thought surfaced. You know what? I think I'm going to have to hit that. A body like that could make a lot of problems pass away. That should put her in her place.
When the joint was nothing but ash, he stood, the weight of the day and the drugs making him unsteady. He trudged back to the sterile silence of his apartment, the ghosts of his old life already scratching at the clean slate they'd promised him.
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