Nishida shut the door behind him, the lock clicking with a tired groan. The smell inside hit him right away: damp concrete, old wiring, a hint of mold buried under colder air. Not exactly home, but close enough when he forced himself to believe it.
He turned the coins over in his hand. They were still sticky, the copper smell mixing with something sharper. At the sink, the faucet coughed before giving a thin trickle. He held the coins under it and watched the pink wash drain away until the water cleared.
The pile of clothes by his mattress waited for him. A mess of scavenged jackets, ripped shirts, whatever he had pulled from dumpsters or found abandoned. He grabbed a faded hoodie and shook out the dust. The sleeves came up short, cuffs worn down to threads.
He thought about heading to the market. Maybe he could find something half decent. Then he pictured the looks, the stares, people deciding what he was worth. His fingers twitched. He put the hoodie on instead.
The clock above the stove was stuck at 3:17. It had been dead for months. He checked the sliver of fading light between the boards on the window and judged it himself.
Still time.
He crouched again, digging through the clothes. Nothing better. Just an old pair of sneakers, both peeling, one worse than the other. He chose the pair that looked less likely to fall apart and laced them tight enough that the edges bit into his skin.
A draft slipped through the cracks in the walls. His breath fogged in front of him.
Move.
He slipped the coins into his pocket and stepped into the hallway. The door clicked behind him, leaving the apartment in silence. For a moment he just stood there, letting the quiet settle before forcing himself to move.
Nishida headed down the concrete stairs, each step ringing through the hollow stairwell. As he descended, the air grew warmer and thicker. The fifth floor landing had its usual trio of elderly men crouched around a camping stove. The sharp bite of cheap alcohol mixed with whatever they were heating, drifting up to meet him. None of them bothered to look up, and he didn't expect them to.
On the third floor, a woman with tangled gray hair swept the landing with a broken broom. She muttered under her breath, brushing at dust that only smeared across the concrete. Her eyes slid toward Nishida for a moment, then drifted away again, retreating back into the place she used to survive the real one.
Tower Twelve closed in around him as he walked. Twelve floors of concrete, rust, and dirt. It had been meant for luxury living before the money vanished and the construction crews pulled out. What remained was a bare shell of exposed wiring, half-installed pipes, and a patchwork of stolen electricity pulled from nearby lines. It worked out for people who had nowhere else to go.
The second floor reeked of urine and old vomit. Nishida switched to breathing through his mouth. A man lay curled against the wall with sheets of newspaper spread under him like a nest. This was what passed for home now, a vertical village of people who had slipped through the cracks. Nishida kept his place on the eighth floor. High enough to dodge the worst of the flooding when storms hit, low enough that the climb did not wear him out too fast.
Could be worse, he reminded himself. His part of the roof barely leaked. Most people stayed in their lane. The occasional territorial argument usually stopped at shouting.
A rock sliced past his ear as he stepped onto the ground floor. It hit the wall and exploded into grit.
"She was mine first." A man with a patchy beard charged across what used to be the lobby. Rage twisted his face. "You knew that."
The other man, tall and thin, backed toward the entrance. "She does not belong to anyone, Kenji. Ask her yourself."
The bearded one lunged and got both hands around the other man's throat. They tumbled into a pile of cardboard, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Nishida hugged the edge of the room, eyes lowered. His posture sent a clear message. Not my business. The two men stayed too busy trying to tear each other apart to notice him anyway.
He slipped through the crooked door frame and stepped into the fading afternoon light, letting their shouts fade behind him.
Nishida followed the crooked street, stepping around puddles that reflected neon signs in oily colors. The market district buzzed with noise. Vendors shouted prices over each other. Metal carts rattled across uneven stone. Food stalls sizzled and smoked, carrying smells that made his stomach twist tight. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, rubbing the coins he had set aside.
Food money. That was what it should be.
But the stone building ahead pulled at him like always. The Blessings Museum of Past Arts rose over the market, its chipped pillars and wide steps feeling almost out of place among the noise. It promised a kind of quiet he could never find in Tower Twelve.
He stopped at the bottom step. Through the glass doors he could see the front desk. The attendant barely moved, flipping through a magazine with the boredom of someone who had worked too many shifts. One hundred fifty yen for entry. The same amount could buy a bowl of discount noodles. Or bread if the bakery dumped its leftovers.
His stomach growled. He ignored it and climbed.
The woman did not bother to raise her head when he set the coins down. They tapped lightly on the counter.
"Student?" she asked, voice flat.
"Yeah." The word slipped out without effort.
She slid a small ticket toward him. "Last entry. We close in an hour."
The museum swallowed him the moment he stepped in. Cool air washed across his skin. High ceilings opened above him. Display cases glowed softly, casting pale light on artifacts and old photographs. He walked through the main hall, past the section on Elemental Manifestations. A faded photograph showed a woman hanging in mid-air, her Blessing keeping her suspended twenty meters up. Next to it sat a warped metal plate, bent by a Fire Wielder from the early nineteen hundreds.
He paused at a tribute to the Sun Champions. Three people who could shape solar energy into walls of blinding light. The plaque said they saved an entire town from a tsunami in nineteen seventy eight.
Everyone with something rare. Something that mattered.
His thoughts drifted to Tower Twelve. Even there, among people with almost nothing, some still had usefull Blessings. Old Takeo could drop the temperature of food and keep it fresh for days. Mira could light her fingertips and cook with them. Together they watched over scavenged ingredients and kept everyone fed when they could.
And then there was him. Threadweaver. A talent that made thin strands that vanished before he found any use for them.
He kept walking, not sure where he was headed until the light shifted around him. He stopped in front of an archway with soft glowing letters.
ART OF SYSTEMS.
Nishida traced the edge of the glass with his fingertips. Inside the case sat a thin slice of metal, no bigger than his thumb. Its surface was packed with tiny grooves that caught the light when he leaned in.
O'Gallagher's First System Prototype. Nineteen eighty six.
He read the plaque twice, slower the second time. It talked about the doctor watching a patient lose control of their Blessing and burn alive before anyone could help. After that, O'Gallagher spent years trying to build something that could steady a Blessing instead of letting it turn lethal.
Nishida let out a breath. A faint patch of fog spread across the glass, then vanished. His fingers curled with the stupid urge to push harder, as if the case would magically open for him.
He forced himself to move on.
The next case held another chip, smaller and shaped differently. The plaque had only three words.
Nineteen eighty seven. Second Prototype.
Nothing else. No note. No context. Not even a sentence about why it mattered.
Nishida stared at it. Museums never left things blank. Even trash exhibits had a paragraph of explanation. The emptiness here scraped at him in a way he could not explain. Like he was supposed to notice it and did not know why.
He scanned the frame for locks. Nothing. No sensors. No obvious alarms. Just glass and old metal hinges. His pulse crept up.
Something like this would sell. Even broken tech earned money at scrap yards. Real prototypes from the early days of Blessing research would get someone excited enough to pay real yen. And he needed yen. Always needed yen.
He checked the hallway. The attendant was still planted at the front desk, flipping pages like the world outside did not exist. The whole floor was almost silent.
His fingers twitched.
Then the lights died.
Everything snapped dark at once. The hum of the air conditioner cut out halfway through a cycle. A heavy silence filled the space, thick enough to press against his ears.
Nishida stopped breathing for a second.
For several seconds there were no backup lamps, no glow strips along the walls. Nothing.
A metallic click echoed down the hall. Sharp. Wrong. His stomach knotted.
Maybe it was a power outage. Maybe.
He did not believe it.
Another click sounded closer. Metal against metal. Something shifting. Something moving without care for the dark.
Nishida pressed his back against the display case. His heartbeat thudded so hard it almost hurt. He kept still, eyes straining against the black, waiting for whatever came next.
Darkness pressed against his eyes. Every sound in the museum seemed to grow teeth. His own breathing, the faint shuffle from the front desk, something heavier moving somewhere deeper in the halls. He could not tell where it came from.
He needed to get out. Right now.
He kept one hand on the wall and moved slowly, trying not to make noise. The emergency exit should have been close. His fingers dragged over cool plaster until they bumped into metal. A door frame. He pushed at the bar, already bracing to slip through.
The crash behind him hit like a gunshot. Glass exploded. Something slammed into the back of his neck with enough force to throw him forward. His face hit the floor hard. Pain flared up his spine. Warm liquid spread across the tile under his cheek and soaked into his hair.
A scream rose in his throat, but the pressure on his neck vanished as quickly as it came. The pain dulled. Then it shifted into a strange numb feeling. His thoughts slid around like they were on uneven ground.
Somewhere in the dark, more glass broke. Voices shouted. Confusion rolled through the museum. People called out for help, for exits, for anything. That sound of panic rose into the air like smoke.
"Everyone out! Emergency evacuation!"
Nishida pushed himself off the floor. His legs wobbled as if they belonged to someone else. The room tilted. He grabbed his neck. His fingers came away wet, but when he probed the skin he felt no open cut, just a raised, tender ridge. It made no sense.
People ran past him, only shapes in the black. Someone clipped his shoulder and nearly knocked him down. Instinct told him to move with them. He staggered forward and let the crowd shove him along.
Red emergency lights flicked on overhead. The world came back in dim color. No one looked at him. No one cared who was bleeding or who had fallen. They just wanted out.
The crowd burst through the double doors into the evening air. Sirens wailed somewhere close, building fast. Police. Medics. People who would want to know what happened to him and why.
A woman in a business suit hesitated when she saw the blood. Her mouth opened in shock.
"Are you hurt? Do you need-"
He did not stay long enough to hear the rest. Panic pushed him forward. His legs found a rhythm and he ran. Away from questions. Away from the museum. Away from whatever had hit him.
Sirens grew louder behind him as he turned down the street.
He kept running until the broken silhouette of Tower Twelve came into view, the only place that felt remotely safe.
By the time he reached the entrance, his legs were shaking. The bearded man from earlier lay slumped against a wall, out cold, blood streaking down from his nose. The other man was nowhere in sight.
He barely registered any of it and pushed deeper inside. The stairwell swallowed him as soon as he stepped in, lit only by the orange flicker of barrel fires scattered across random landings. Shadows jumped along the walls while he climbed, each step sending a jolt through his body. His pulse hammered against his ribs.
Old Takeo spotted him as he tore past the fourth floor. "You look like hell, boy."
Nishida did not slow. Concrete pounded under his feet. Each step sent a hard jolt up his spine and into his skull. The back of his neck burned with an unnatural heat. Not pain. Something worse. Like wires were firing under his skin.
Eighth floor. Finally.
His fingers shook so badly he missed the keyhole twice. The lock clicked. He slipped inside and forced the door shut. He leaned on it, gulping air like he had been underwater.
The apartment felt even smaller than usual. A single bulb swung from exposed wiring and threw long shapes across the floor. His mattress sat in the corner with blankets piled into a messy nest. Empty ramen cups crowded the area near the hot plate.
Bathroom.
He crossed the room, sneakers smearing wet dirt across the concrete. The bathroom was nothing more than a sectioned corner with a toilet and a cracked sink. The mirror above it had shattered months ago. What remained was a jagged mosaic that split his reflection into dozens of misshapen versions of himself. Pale skin. Wide eyes. Blood clumping his red hair.
Nishida turned, trying to catch a clear angle of his neck. He pushed his hair aside with unsteady fingers.
There it was.
A metal chip, gleaming faintly under the light. Embedded just below his hairline. The exact shape of the museum's second prototype. Its edge stuck out slightly from skin that had already sealed around it, ringed by a crusted line of dried blood.
"What the fuck," he said, barely audible.
He pinched the metal between thumb and forefinger and tugged. Nothing. He pulled harder. A sharp pain shot down his spine. The chip did not move. It felt like it had rooted itself into him.
Panic crawled up his throat. He twisted, trying to find a better grip. His nails scraped at his skin, useless and clumsy.
The room tilted without warning. The corners darkened, drawing inward like someone was tightening his vision by hand. Nishida reached for the sink.
His hand slipped.
The world jumped. His temple slammed into the porcelain edge. Light burst behind his eyes.
Then everything fell away into black.