# Nine Lives in Neon Lights
## Chapter 2: The Impossible Test
Akira's alarm clock had been screaming for three minutes before she realized she'd been awake for the past hour, staring at the ceiling and listening to her mother's soft breathing. Sleep had been elusive, filled with dreams of gunshots and ancient laughter that felt more like memories than imagination.
She rolled out of bed carefully, hyperaware of the tail pressed against her back. In the morning light filtering through their small window, the events of last night felt surreal. Maybe she'd hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe the trauma of being shot had—
The tail flicked in irritation at her denial, nearly knocking over her water glass.
"Right," she whispered. "Still there."
Her mother was already gone—she started her cleaning shifts at 5 AM. A note on the kitchen counter read: *Breakfast in fridge. Have a good day at school. Love you. - Mom*
Akira stared at the neat handwriting, guilt churning in her stomach. She still had to get the academic intervention form signed. Still had to figure out how to explain why her grades were about to mysteriously improve—because somehow, she knew they were going to.
The walk to school felt different. Colors seemed more vivid, sounds more distinct. She could smell the morning coffee from the café three blocks away, hear conversations from apartment windows four stories up. And the knowledge—random facts about literature, history, mathematics—kept bubbling up in her mind like water from a spring.
*The Tale of Genji was written by Murasaki Shikibu around 1000 CE, notable for its psychological depth and innovative narrative structure that influenced Japanese literature for centuries...*
She stopped walking. Where had that come from? Yesterday she couldn't remember the author's name, let alone analyze the book's literary significance.
"Weird," she muttered, then winced as her tail twitched against the makeshift belt she'd fashioned from a scarf. Hiding it was going to be a daily challenge.
Sakura Academy loomed ahead, its modern glass and steel architecture gleaming in the morning sun. Students in perfectly pressed uniforms streamed through the gates, chatting about weekend plans and upcoming exams. Akira had never felt more out of place.
She made it to her locker without incident, though she could swear several students' eyes lingered on her longer than usual. Paranoia, probably. Or maybe her enhanced senses were making her imagine things.
"Akira!" Hiroshi appeared beside her locker, his usually cheerful expression tinged with concern. "You look... different today."
"Different how?" she asked, stuffing her books into her bag while trying not to let her tail show.
"I don't know. More... alert? And your eyes seem brighter." He studied her face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. "Did you do something to your hair?"
"Just tired," she lied. "Couldn't sleep."
"About yesterday..." Hiroshi's voice dropped. "The test score. Nakamura-sensei was pretty harsh. Are you okay?"
Before she could answer, the first bell rang. They hurried to Modern Literature, sliding into their seats just as Nakamura entered with his usual stack of papers and disapproving expression.
"Good morning, class. Before we begin today's lesson, I have your essays on contemporary Japanese authors." He began distributing papers, each one landing on desks with varying degrees of force that corresponded to their quality.
Akira's essay landed with a thud that suggested she'd once again failed spectacularly. But when she looked at the paper, she blinked in confusion.
The grade at the top was 98%.
"What?" she whispered, loud enough that Hiroshi glanced over.
"Yamamoto-san," Nakamura said, pausing beside her desk. "Interesting development in your work. We'll discuss this after class."
Akira stared at the essay—three pages of analysis about Haruki Murakami's use of magical realism that she definitely hadn't written. The handwriting was hers, but the ideas, the vocabulary, the sophisticated literary analysis... none of it was familiar.
"Akira," Hiroshi hissed. "How did you—"
"I don't know," she whispered back, genuinely confused.
The rest of the class passed in a blur. Nakamura discussed symbolism in modern Japanese fiction, and Akira found herself following every word, making connections she'd never noticed before. When he asked a question about metaphorical representations of post-war anxiety, her hand shot up before she could stop it.
"Yes, Yamamoto-san?"
"Murakami uses surreal elements to externalize internal psychological states," she heard herself say. "The fantastical events in his novels represent the disconnection and alienation of modern Japanese society, particularly the generation that grew up during the economic bubble."
The classroom fell silent. Nakamura's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline.
"That's... an excellent observation," he said slowly. "Continue."
"The recurring motif of wells and underground spaces symbolizes the unconscious mind's attempt to process collective trauma. Characters who descend into these spaces are metaphorically descending into their own psyche to confront buried emotions."
Where were these words coming from? Akira felt like she was listening to someone else speak through her mouth.
"Outstanding analysis," Nakamura said, genuine surprise in his voice. "Class, take note. This is the kind of critical thinking I expect from students at your level."
When the bell rang, Akira remained seated as her classmates filed out, many throwing curious glances her way. Hiroshi lingered by the door, his expression mixing confusion and concern.
"Yamamoto-san," Nakamura approached her desk. "What happened?"
"I don't understand what you mean, Sensei."
"Yesterday you scored twenty-three percent on a basic comprehension test. Today you've demonstrated graduate-level literary analysis." He held up her essay. "This work shows sophisticated understanding of complex themes. The writing is elegant, the arguments are compelling, and the insights are original."
Akira stared at the paper, her mind racing. She remembered sitting at her desk last night, staring at the blank page with growing panic. But she couldn't remember actually writing anything.
"I... studied hard last night," she offered weakly.
"Studied hard?" Nakamura's tone was skeptical. "Akira, this isn't the result of one night of study. This demonstrates years of careful reading and analysis."
*Maybe it does,* she thought. *Maybe I suddenly have access to years of knowledge I never acquired.*
"I'm postponing the academic intervention," Nakamura continued. "I want to see if this improvement continues. But I'm also scheduling a conference with your guidance counselor. This kind of dramatic change... it's unprecedented."
"Am I in trouble?"
"Trouble? No. But we need to understand what's happening here." He gathered his papers. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. Your mother would be proud."
---
Lunch break found Akira hiding in the library, trying to process what was happening to her. She'd aced a pop quiz in Chemistry, correctly solved a complex equation in Advanced Mathematics, and participated in a heated debate about economic policy in Social Studies—all subjects she'd been barely passing before.
"There you are," Hiroshi said, sliding into the seat across from her. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Just needed some quiet time to think."
"About your sudden transformation into a academic genius?" His tone was light, but his eyes were serious. "Akira, what's really going on? People don't just become brilliant overnight."
She looked at her best friend—kind, loyal Hiroshi who'd stuck by her through years of academic mediocrity. The urge to tell him everything was overwhelming. But how could she explain about the shooting, the healing, the tail currently wrapped around her waist like a furry secret?
"Maybe I just needed motivation," she said instead. "You know, rock bottom and all that."
"Rock bottom doesn't give you the ability to quote Dostoyevsky in the original Russian," Hiroshi said dryly. "Which, by the way, you did in Philosophy class. In *Russian*, Akira. You don't speak Russian."
Wait, had she really? The memory was fuzzy, like trying to recall a dream. But she could feel the knowledge sitting in her mind—Russian literature, French philosophy, advanced mathematics, all of it accessible like files in a computer.
"I've been studying," she said weakly.
"For eighteen hours? In multiple languages you've never learned?" Hiroshi leaned forward. "Akira, I'm worried about you. This isn't normal."
Before she could respond, a commotion erupted near the library's entrance. A group of students had gathered around something, their voices excited and nervous.
"What's happening?" Hiroshi asked, craning his neck to see.
Akira's enhanced hearing picked up fragments of conversation: "...transfer student..." "...so handsome..." "...Kuroda Industries..." "...never seen anyone like him..."
Through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of pale skin, dark hair, and eyes that seemed to capture light like mirrors. The new student was speaking to the librarian, his voice carrying an odd, formal cadence that reminded her of old movies.
Something about him made her skin prickle with awareness. Her tail twitched restlessly beneath her scarf, and she had the strangest urge to either hide or move closer.
"Ryouta Kuroda," someone whispered. "He's a senior transfer. His family owns half of Tokyo."
The name sent an odd shiver down her spine. When Kuroda's gaze swept across the library, it paused on her for just a moment. In that brief contact, she felt something electric pass between them—recognition, though they'd never met.
His eyes widened slightly, and she caught the faintest hint of a smile before he turned back to the librarian.
"Akira?" Hiroshi was staring at her with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," she lied, still watching the mysterious transfer student. "Just tired."
But as the lunch bell rang and students began to file out, she couldn't shake the feeling that Ryouta Kuroda's arrival wasn't a coincidence. Something about the way he'd looked at her suggested he knew exactly what she was becoming.
And somehow, that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
The afternoon promised to be very interesting indeed.