July 6th, 2025
Tokyo never sleeps, neither does McDizzle - especially not on a rainy Tuesday night.
The smell of oil, burnt patties, and bleach clung to Ian Everhart like a second skin as he stood behind the steaming grills, spatula in one hand, bun in the other. His black hoodie was soaked with sweat at the armpits and back. Grease sizzled and popped, mirroring the noise in his head that never shut up.
"Order up! Two cheesies, no onions, one spicy, no lettuce!" the shift manager barked from the counter.
Ian grunted. "Got it."
His voice barely cut through the constant hum of fryers, the hiss of soda dispensers, and the distant squeal of some kid losing their mind over a Happy Feathery Goose Toy.
This was his fourth shift this week—eight hours each, kitchen crew. Technically part-time. But ever since Shogo quit, the manager decided Ian was "reliable." Which meant —"dump all the missing hours on him."
He didn't complain. Not out loud anyway.
He flipped the burger patty, watched the meat bleed onto the grill, and waited. That's what life was for Ian these days—waiting. Waiting for something to change. Waiting for graduation to matter. Waiting for Tokyo to notice him.
"Hey, Ian! Got any more sauces back there?" asked Mariko, one of the cashiers, popping her head around the fry station.
Ian nodded silently and ducked under the shelf to grab a box of Goose Special Sauce packets. As he passed her the box, their fingers brushed for a millisecond.
Mariko smiled—polite, nothing more.
"Thanks. You're a lifesaver." She said.
He gave a stiff nod.
"No problem." Ian followed.
His heart beat just a little faster. Not because he liked her, but because human interaction was always a mini earthquake.
10:47 PM
His shift was almost over, but the line kept growing.
"Where the hell is that damn spicy?" Kenta shouted, the night manager, again.
Ian wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, grabbed the bun, and started stacking.
"Coming!" he muttered.
His eyes stung. He hadn't slept properly in two days. College projects were piling up. The subway home would be packed with drunk businessmen, and he still had to cook actual food for himself if he didn't want to die of sodium overdose by 30.
"Fucking hot in here," one of the new hires muttered near the fryer.
"Yeah," Ian said, his voice almost a whisper.
"Tokyo's hell in July." He added.
The guy didn't hear him.
11:23 PM – Locker Room
He sat on the wooden bench in the small staff locker room, peeling off the hoodie like a skin he no longer wanted. Underneath, his toned arms and defined shoulders gleamed with sweat—muscle from years of martial arts training he no longer did.
Nobody ever noticed. Or cared.
He looked in the cracked mirror above the sink. Unkempt dark hair fell into tired eyes with shadows under them. Good bone structure, sharp jawline, high cheekbones—all hidden under the cloak of invisibility he wore like a shield.
He ran his fingers through his messy hair, pushed it back for a second. The reflection almost startled him.
You used to be someone.
12:23 AM - Subway
The subway station was cold. Metallic. Silent. He stood, hoodie on, earbuds in, lo-fi music humming in the background as the train thundered toward the platform.
He stared at his own reflection in the train window—hood up, face blank, invisible in the crowd.
But behind that blankness, Ian Everhart was thinking.
Thinking about the presentation due Friday. The student loan notifications piling up. The time his landlord said something about rent going up. The exes. The way their eyes used to look at him like he was the center of the world.
And now… he was just another Tokyo ghost.
1:04 AM – Apartment
The one-room apartment smelled like old books, coffee, and instant noodles. Ian collapsed on the futon, hoodie still on, phone buzzing with unread messages from classmates, delivery apps, and one unread message from someone he didn't want to open.
[Unknown Number]
"Still working late, I see. I walked past the McDizzle earlier. You looked... exhausted. :)"
He stared at it.
His heart skipped.
No name. No context. Just familiarity and menace.
He blocked the number. But it didn't help. They always came back.
He sighed, tossing the phone aside, burying his face in the pillow.
He hated this city.
He hated himself.
And he hated how he still missed the madness… even if it nearly destroyed him.