Gen's breathing was shallow as the smoldering wreck of the helicopter faded behind him, its metal frame hissing quietly in the distance. The Cloak Module flickered around his body, bending light for just a minute—just long enough to get out of sight.
He didn't look back.
His muscles screamed in protest, each step more sluggish than the last, but he pressed forward. South. He needed to lay low. Disappear. Think.
A paved street became a dirt path. Towering skyscrapers gave way to flickering streetlights and crumbling signs. Civilization, as he knew it, thinned out.
Still in the cloak's final seconds, he slipped behind a dumpster, stripping the smoldering pilot's jacket from his body and wrapping it tightly around his head, hiding everything but his eyes. His hoodie's sleeves were torn, and ash clung to the fabric. He reeked of smoke and sweat and blood.
He stopped only once—a tiny convenience stall nestled between a laundromat and a run-down repair shop.
Its windows were dusty. A neon sign blinked open in weary Morse code. He stepped inside, bell jingling faintly above the door.
The air was thick with instant coffee, old oil, and plastic. A battered CRT television perched above the register played the evening news. The store clerk barely looked up.
Gen kept his head low, the jacket still masking his face. His eyes scanned the shelves. He moved fast, decisive:
Two packs of instant ramen.
One black rain poncho.
A worn-out baseball cap.
He shuffled to the counter, heart thudding so hard it nearly echoed. The clerk glanced at him with mild curiosity, raising a brow—but said nothing.
The cashier scanned the ramen, then the poncho. The hat.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The television volume spiked.
"—breaking news. Transportation magnate Ito Shinji found dead after a fall from the upper floor of Linguang Tower—"
Gen froze.
The anchor's voice drilled into him.
"—police believe foul play. Suspect identified as Gen Nanami, seventeen-year-old high school student. A reward of one million yen has been placed on his head."
His face appeared on the screen. The school photo. Clean. Innocent. It felt like another life.
The clerk paused mid-scan, turning slightly to glance up at the TV.
Gen's palms were sweating. He could feel the twenty crumpled in his hand sticking to his skin.
The clerk's eyes moved from the TV to Gen—just a flicker. Just a heartbeat.
"That'll be 1,980 yen," the man said casually, holding out his hand.
Gen slowly extended the bill. His fingers trembled as they released the note.
Their eyes met briefly.
Then the clerk stuffed the bill into the register and handed him a small bag. "Have a good night."
Gen nodded once, jerky, and slipped out the door. The bell jingled again.
Behind him, the cashier's brow furrowed. He looked back up at the screen. Then at the door.
"…Wait a second."
But Gen was already gone.
The city around him dissolved as he traveled further south. The sleek skyline was swallowed by rusted rooftops and makeshift homes. Pavement gave way to dry-packed dirt, the air heavier, laced with smoke, sweat, and fried dough.
There were no more cars here—only mopeds sputtering by and dented bicycles with creaking baskets. Children darted through the narrow alleys barefoot, laughing, weaving through piles of discarded scrap metal and wooden crates.
This part of the city—Shingawa Slums—existed outside of maps. It was the place the government forgot, where authority rarely stepped, and where people disappeared into the cracks.
Perfect.
Gen ducked into an alley between two vendor stalls. He stripped off the jacket from his head and tossed it into a trash heap, pulling on the black poncho and hat in one motion. The rain hood dropped over his face like a curtain. A new disguise. A new skin.
He stepped back into the crowd.
Chaos.
The slum streets were alive in a different way. No symmetry, no order—just movement. Dozens of vendors shouted over each other. Frying oil popped loudly. Roosters clucked. A woman slapped a cloth on a table stacked with counterfeit watches. A man juggled used phones in a rickety booth beside her.
Everyone here was on the grind. No questions. No judgment. Just survival.
Gen kept his head down, navigating through the chaos like a ghost. But it was hard to shake the paranoia. Every time someone brushed his shoulder, he twitched. Every pair of eyes felt like they lingered a second too long.
He pushed forward, shoving through the crowd.
He passed a child sleeping inside a cardboard box. A man heated tea over a portable burner next to a puddle. Above him, dozens of electrical wires dangled like tangled vines from the rooftops.
No one looked at him for more than a moment.
He was invisible here.
And yet—he didn't feel safe.
Finally, at the edge of a narrow back alley, he found a broken-down shed—barely standing, fitting no more than 2-3 people. Brick walls stained black. A torn paper flyer flapped in the breeze. He slipped inside through a bent metal door.
Dark. Cold. Abandoned. He slumped against the wall, and finally let out a long, shaky breath.
He was alone.
But his mind wouldn't quiet.
He had survived. But at what cost?
He had no food, no money, no allies. And every screen in the city had his face.
Gen leaned back against the wall, letting the shadows take him.
But even here, buried beneath the city—he felt the storm approaching.
Something was coming.
And he wasn't ready.