PART 1: WHO AM I?
The last thing I remembered was the cold steel of the blade sliding into my gut. Then, a profound, almost peaceful darkness. No pain, not really. Pain was a concept I understood intellectually, but rarely experienced in the visceral way others seemed to. My former life, as Kenji, a sixteen-year-old high school student in Tokyo, had been a curious experiment in detachment. And now, it was over.
What happens next?
That question, a rare flicker of genuine curiosity, was the last coherent thought before everything dissolved.
From an early age, I was…different. The doctors, with their hushed tones and furrowed brows, used words like "autism spectrum disorder." I didn't fully grasp the meaning then, but I understood the implication: I was an anomaly. While other children giggled over cartoons or chased butterflies, I found myself drawn to the stark realities of existence. The way a worm writhed when stepped on, the precise mechanics of a falling leaf, the satisfying crunch of bone when I twisted a toy too hard.
My earliest memories aren't of playgrounds or lullabies, but of observation. I watched, I analyzed, I processed. Emotions, those intricate dances of joy and sorrow that seemed to govern everyone else, were foreign territory. I could mimic them, of course. A forced smile, a feigned frown, the appropriate nod of sympathy. But they were performances, learned responses to navigate a world that demanded a certain kind of conformity.
Then came the fights. They started in kindergarten. A push here, a shove there. Other kids would cry, would run to the teacher. I would…engage. Not out of anger, not out of malice, but out of a simple, almost scientific curiosity. What would happen if I hit back? Harder? What was the limit of their tolerance?
And the blood. God, the smell of blood. It wasn't horrifying; it was invigorating. A metallic, almost sweet aroma that filled my senses and sharpened my focus. It was the scent of raw life, or its abrupt cessation. It held a strange, mesmerizing quality that nothing else could replicate. Teachers tried to intervene, parents looked at me with a mixture of fear and confusion. They called it "aggression." I called it…exploration.
When I was seven, it happened. A group of older kids, maybe nine or ten, cornered me behind the school gym. They called me names, threw pebbles, laughed at my unresponsive demeanor.
"Freak," they spat. "Robot." They treated me like something less than human, an object to be tormented.
Something in me snapped. Not in a fit of rage, but with a cold, clear precision. One of them, a bulky kid with a perpetually snotty nose, pushed me to the ground. I remember the feel of the asphalt scraping my palms. And then, without thought, my hand closed around a shard of broken glass from a discarded soda bottle. It was sharp, gleaming in the weak sunlight.
I didn't think. I acted. The blade plunged into his side, a quick, almost surgical strike. He screamed, a high-pitched, pathetic sound, and then he was gurgling, blood bubbling from his mouth. The others scattered, their screams echoing in my ears. I watched him, impassively, as his eyes glazed over, as the last breath rattled in his chest. Dead. Just like that.
The aftermath was a blur of police, social workers, psychiatrists. They talked about juvenile detention, about "deep-seated psychological issues." But the adults, in their infinite wisdom, managed to sweep it under the rug. My parents, wealthy and well-connected, pulled strings, arranged for private tutors, isolated me from the "bad influences" of public schooling. They called it a "tragic accident." I called it a promise.
A promise to myself: never let anyone get close. Connections were weaknesses.
Emotions were liabilities. If I remained a blank slate, an unreadable cipher, then no one could ever use those vulnerabilities against me. No one could ever treat me like "something else" again.
From then on, my life became a meticulously crafted façade. I learned to blend in. Not to stand out, not to attract attention. I became the ultimate background character. In middle school, then high school, I cultivated an aura of utter mediocrity. My grades were average. My appearance was unremarkable. I spoke only when spoken to, and even then, in the fewest words possible. I made no friends, joined no clubs, expressed no opinions.
No one knew my past. No one suspected the chilling, analytical mind behind the perpetually downcast eyes. They saw a quiet, perhaps slightly awkward boy. They saw Kenji, the one you forgot existed five minutes after seeing him. And that was exactly how I wanted it. It was a comfortable, predictable existence. A sterile environment where I could observe, analyze, and exist without disturbance.
Until Sarah.
Sarah Nakamura. The observant one. She wasn't like the others. She watched me, not with fear or pity, but with a strange, quiet curiosity. She tried to talk to me, to breach the carefully constructed walls I had erected around myself. I dismissed her, of course. A fleeting anomaly in my carefully curated solitude. A minor disturbance, easily ignored.
But then, the hallway. The two thugs. The baseball bat. Her scream.
A purely rational calculation led to my intervention. She was an innocent. Her suffering was illogical, an unnecessary disruption. And, truth be told, the thought of unleashing the dormant beast within was a strangely appealing prospect. It had been too long since I'd felt the thrill of pure, unadulterated combat. The scent of fear, the primal satisfaction of overwhelming a weaker opponent. It was a compulsion, a dark hunger that gnawed at me when suppressed for too long.
I moved with a fluid precision born of years of suppressed instinct. They were clumsy, predictable. The lanky one, all bluster and no skill. The short one, a lumbering brute. They crumpled like paper dolls under my onslaught. The crack of bone, the tearing of flesh, the choked gurgles of their dying breaths – it was a symphony. A brutal, beautiful therapy. Each blow was a release, a reaffirmation of my existence, of my strength. I reveled in it, in the absolute control I wielded over their pathetic lives.
But these weren't just common thugs. Their cheap tracksuits and crude weapons were a disguise. I knew, with a certainty that transcended mere intuition, that they were Yakuza. Lower-tier enforcers, perhaps, but connected nonetheless. And by dispatching them with such…enthusiasm, I had just signed my own death warrant.
It was a mess. A glorious, bloody mess that I had brought upon myself, all because of Sarah Nakamura, the girl who dared to observe me.
The chase that followed was exhilarating. Adrenaline coursed through me, a familiar, welcome companion. The Yakuza, a whole family, descended like vultures. They were better equipped, more numerous. Knives, guns, trained killers. But I was faster, more unpredictable. I wove through the city's underbelly, a phantom in the shadows, leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered expectations.
For two days, it was a dance of death. I enjoyed every second of it. The thrill of the hunt, the strategic evasion, the brutal counter-attacks. I felt alive, more so than I ever had in my life as the unremarkable Kenji. The blood, always the blood, the intoxicating scent of it. It was a magnificent, violent ballet.
But even a phantom can be cornered. They got me in an alley, a dead end. A dozen of them, their faces contorted with rage and desperation. I took down five before the inevitable happened. A flash of silver, a searing pain – or what I understood to be pain – in my stomach. The knife twisted, then again. They wanted to make sure.
I fell, my vision blurring, the metallic tang of my own blood filling my mouth. The last faces I saw were distorted by a triumphant, hate-filled glee. They thought they had won. They thought they had extinguished the problem.
And then, nothing.
So, here I am. Or rather, here I was. Dead. A statistic. A quiet boy dragged into a brutal underworld he secretly thrived in. My promise of detachment had been broken, shattered by a single act of unexpected, brutal heroism.
What happens next?
The question hung in the void, waiting for an answer.
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