The arcade's neon lights flickered behind me as I stepped into the cool evening air, my phone showing 9:47 PM. Another Thursday, another few hours lost to rhythm games and a gacha game I'd probably delete next week. The street was mostly empty, convenience store workers changing shifts, a few salary men stumbling home, the usual Shibuya night crowd thinning out.
I am Akira Sato. Seventeen years old. High school third-year. Completely, utterly average.
That's what my life looks like from the outside, anyway. My grades hover around the class median not because I'm stupid, but because I've perfected the art of doing exactly enough to avoid attention. Teachers stopped calling on me years ago. I'm the kid who sits by the window, three rows back. The one whose name takes people a few seconds to remember.
My parents run a small accounting firm. They're proud of their mediocrity, wear it like armor. "Don't stand out, don't make waves, don't dream too big" the Sato family motto, unspoken but understood. I have a younger sister who actually studies hard, actually cares about her future. She'll probably be fine.
Me? I'm fine with fine.
The truth is, I'm good at things. Really good. Pattern recognition, logic puzzles, strategy games; my mind works fast when it wants to. I placed third in a national shogi tournament when I was fourteen, using an account my parents didn't know about. Quit before the finals because explaining where I'd been would've been annoying. I hit Master rank in three different competitive games using tactics I'd theorized while staring out classroom windows.
But what's the point? Being smart just makes you a target. Better to coast. Better to be forgettable.
I turned down a side street, cutting through the quieter residential area. Faster route home, fewer lights. My phone buzzed probably the game telling me my stamina had refreshed. I didn't check. I'd deleted worse grinds before.
The footsteps started about two blocks from the arcade.
At first, I didn't notice. White noise of city life everyone's going somewhere. But my brain, that annoying pattern-recognition machine, flagged it anyway. Same distance. Same pace. Same rhythm as my own steps.
I slowed down. The footsteps slowed down.
I sped up slightly. They matched.
My analytical mind kicked in, running probabilities like a background process. Coincidence? Possible. Same destination? Sure. But my instincts; honed by too many stealth games, too many hours optimizing paranoia builds were screaming louder than logic.
I glanced back. Casual. Just a kid checking his surroundings.
A figure. Maybe twenty meters back. Average height, average build, face obscured by a hood and the gap between streetlights. They didn't look away when I turned. Didn't pretend to check their phone. Just kept walking.
That's when I knew.
Normal people avert their eyes when caught staring. This person didn't.
My heart rate picked up. Not panic, not yet. My mind was already running scenarios, calculating options like a strategy game on hard mode. Run? I'm not particularly athletic. Fight? Even less viable. Call someone? My parents would lecture me about walking alone at night. The police? And say what, someone's walking behind me?
I turned down another street. Residential. Darker. Stupid move if this was a stalker, but it would confirm my suspicion.
The footsteps turned too.
Okay. Not coincidence.
I tried to think. Apartment buildings lined both sides, most windows dark. No convenient crowds to blend into. My house was still six blocks away. The analytical part of my brain noted, with clinical detachment, that my breathing had gotten faster.
Maybe I could...
The footsteps suddenly accelerated.
That's when I ran.
No strategy, no clever plan just pure animal instinct overriding three years of practiced apathy. My backpack slammed against my spine, my phone nearly slipped from my hand, and my legs, my stupid, untrained legs, pumped harder than they had since mandatory gym class.
Behind me, the footsteps matched my pace effortlessly.
I risked a glance back. The figure was closer now. Ten meters. They weren't running just walking very, very fast. Like they knew I'd tire first. Like this was inevitable.
My lungs burned. Five meters.
I should scream. Why wasn't I screaming?
Three meters.
A hand grabbed my shoulder.
And the world went black.
Not the soft black of closing your eyes. Not the gradual fade of falling asleep.
This was instant. Total. Like someone had cut the power to my brain mid-thought.
***
When I opened my eyes again, everything was wrong.
The ceiling was white. Sterile. Not my bedroom ceiling with its faint water stain shaped like a duck. Not any ceiling I recognized.
I sat up too fast, and my head spun. I was in a small room, maybe three meters by three meters. White walls. White floor. A single metal door with no handle on my side. No windows. A single LED panel overhead providing cold, even light.
And on the floor beside me, a small handbook bound in black leather.
My hands were shaking as I picked it up. The cover was blank except for embossed text:
ROUND 1: THE CROSSING
READ CAREFULLY. YOUR SURVIVAL DEPENDS ON IT.
I opened it.
And my ordinary, forgettable life ended forever.