The platform lights at Kisarazu Station flickered like dying stars. One by one, the vending machines blinked into silence, their canned coffee and soda offerings swallowed by shadows. It was nearly midnight. The final train to Tokyo had vanished minutes ago, hissing into the dark like a serpent fleeing the scene of a crime.
Haruki stood alone on the platform.
A one-way ticket—creased and useless—trembled in his hand. His backpack, overstuffed and threadbare, sagged against his shoulder. The railway staff had already cleared out. Even the cherry blossoms, once faithful in their gentle descent, had stopped falling.
He could've waited until morning. Found a bench, tucked into the dark corner of a café, slept on the tiled floor of the station like the forgotten. But something inside him—something cracked and blazing—refused to sit still.
He walked into the silence of the streets, past shuttered storefronts and silent homes, until he reached the parking shed behind his old high school. And there it was. His salvation.
An old, silver Panasonic bicycle. Rust-etched. Tires half-deflated. He hadn't touched it in over a year.
With trembling hands, he wiped dust from the handlebars, kicked the stand loose, and without another breath of doubt, pedaled out into the moonlit night.
♦
The road from Kisarazu to Tokyo was long—over 75 kilometers of asphalt, exhaustion, and second thoughts.
Haruki didn't care.
He followed the faint roar of Route 16 under the stars, the breeze slapping against his face, tears drying in the corners of his eyes before they could fall. With every push of the pedal, rage sharpened into purpose. Each kilometer peeled off a layer of everything he'd been taught to be—dutiful son, quiet heir, background character.
He was no one's placeholder now.
As he passed Sodegaura, the wind picked up, cold and metallic, carrying the scent of the bay and distant exhaust. Trucks rumbled past in the other lane, their headlights washing over him like spotlights. In the mirror of their thunder, he imagined what they saw: a lone boy with fire in his limbs and storm in his chest.
By the time the Aqua-Line Bridge came into view, the sky had turned bruised violet. That long stretch of road—half in sea spray, half in starlight—looked like a path carved just for him. He pedaled onto the bridge like a myth reborn, Tokyo's skyline flickering on the far end like a promise spoken in a foreign tongue.
His legs screamed. His chest burned. But he didn't stop.
Not when his shoelace got tangled in the chain. Not when the wind shoved him sideways. Not when the ache in his spine made him taste copper.
He whispered her name once—Emi—and then bit it back like poison.
No looking back.
No more ghosts.
Only forward.
♦
Just past dawn, his wheels wobbled into Ōta Ward, where the city swallowed the sea. Neon flickered through half-open shutters. Office workers emerged like ants from subway tunnels. Tokyo was already awake—impatient, indifferent.
Haruki stood at a crosswalk watching people brush past him like he was part of the architecture. Briefcases. Earphones. Purpose. He felt smaller than ever, and yet, more dangerous.
Because he had nothing left to lose.
He found a rundown manga café between a pachinko parlor and a secondhand camera shop. Paid for six hours. Six was all he could afford. He sank into a narrow cubicle, sliding the door shut behind him like a tomb.
His legs cramped the moment he stopped moving. His hands trembled as he opened his laptop, not from fatigue, but from what waited.
The blank screen.
Not judgmental. Not cruel. Just waiting.
And Haruki typed:
Project: Tsukikage ("Moonlight" — born in the dark) 1. Master Python. 2. Build portfolio site. 3. Find a client. Any client. 4. Break even. Survive. Scale. 5. Make them say your name with reverence. 6. Never forgive. Never forget.
Project: Tsukikage ("Moonlight" — born in the dark) 1. Master Python.
2. Build portfolio site.
3. Build something people need (not just what I want).
4. Find a client. Any client.
5. Find a shared space with sockets and coffee. 6.Break even. Survive. Scale.
7. Make them say your name with reverence.
8. Never forgive. Never forget
9. Don't call her. Or him. Or anyone.
10. If this fails—fail *loud*.
He hit save.
Outside, the sun clawed higher over the skyline, blazing golden fire across steel windows.
Inside, the city's newest ghost whispered a vow into the hum of a battered laptop fan.
I will build an empire so bright... you'll need to wear shades to look me in the eye.