Masaru Ichikawa wasn't special. Not in the way people usually mean when they say it. He wasn't some prodigy, he didn't have a tragic backstory, and nobody ever looked at him twice when he passed them on the street. He was just some guy.
Worked a delivery job. Lived alone in a tiny apartment above a laundromat that always smelled like burnt dryer sheets. Spent most of his time minding his business.
And yeah he was kind of a nerd.
Not the loud kind. He didn't wear anime shirts in public or start quoting characters in casual conversation. That wasn't his style.
Masaru was the lowkey type. He'd come home after work, kick off his shoes, heat up some instant curry, and then sink into his worn-out couch with his old laptop balanced on his thighs.
He'd open one of his bookmarked fanfics usually something long and ridiculous about someone getting reincarnated into Naruto with some busted power and just read for hours. He didn't care how many plot holes there were. As long as the characters were cool and the story didn't drag too much, he was good.
He liked imagining what it'd be like to wake up with a Sharingan or some made up kekkei genkai that let him shoot lava from his fists or something crazy like that. Not that he thought it'd ever happen. It was just a way to relax. A little fantasy before the next boring day.
Most people around town didn't really talk to him. A few coworkers at the delivery depot knew his name, but that was about it. He nodded to his neighbors when they crossed paths in the stairwell, but nobody ever invited him out or asked him what he was into.
That was fine with him. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He just wanted to make it through the week without anything annoying happening.
But on a random Tuesday, something annoying did happen.
He was already running a little behind that morning because he stayed up too late reading a fic where the main character got reborn as a Senju and accidentally stole Madara's girlfriend.
It was stupid, but he laughed harder than he had in weeks. He forgot to set his alarm and ended up rushing out of his apartment with half his hair sticking up and one sock on inside out.
He jogged toward the depot, checking his phone to make sure he hadn't missed a message from his boss. Nothing. Good. Maybe he could still make it. The sky was clear, the air smelled like someone was cooking miso soup nearby, and for a second, it felt like a decent start to the day.
Masaru crossed the street near the corner convenience store, thinking about whether he had enough money left to buy another can of that coffee he liked. The bitter one that came in the silver can. The one that always tasted a little burned but still hit the spot after a long shift.
And then the truck hit him.
Just like that.
The driver didn't even see him until it was too late. Guy was probably checking his GPS or messing with the radio. Masaru's body hit the pavement hard enough to crack it.
His bag flew off to the side, spilling a few small packages across the road. Someone screamed. A couple of people stopped and pulled out their phones. The police showed up ten minutes later, but by then, it was over.
They took him away. Tagged his stuff. Wrote his name down on some report that no one would ever read again unless they had to.