It’s raining hard outside, sheets of pouring rain smashing onto the roofs of apartments, offices, and shops. Kyoto will drown if this storm keeps up, I think. My hand hovers over the kiosk as I look at dozens of drink choices. I riffle through a few before I find one I like; vodka, one of the cheaper drink selections imported from Poland. I finish making my order and pay a total of ¥700 with the scanning of my identification card. My eye is on the shelves of drinks behind the counter, each bottle containing fluids ranging in color from bright fuchsia to translucent ivory.

I lay back slightly in my seat, the beating rain outside like music to my ears. My gaze falls upon a cactus-shaped slab of chartreuse metal encompassed by emerald neon lights, the iconic logo of the Lone Ranger bar. It illuminates the entire room with a faint green glow, and along with the cheery music, it creates a calm atmosphere.

Behind me, four tattooed figures sit in a circle on white couches, downing mugs of tap beer as cigarette smoke surrounds them; they are obviously members of a syndicate. Another booth is occupied by an upper-class couple clinking their glasses filled with exotic wines. I am an outcast here, an alcoholic citizen coming to drink only because there is nothing else to do.

“Here, sir,” a voice declares behind me. I turn to see the barista- probably no more than twenty years old- holding out a shot of vodka. I can’t help but think that I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I shrug it off. My eyes are glued onto the small glass shot cup as I mumble a half-articulated thanks. My obsessed posture screams addiction.

Gingerly, I place the cup to my mouth and stare at the liquid below. The drink is transparent to the point where it can be mistaken as water if it weren’t for a strong fragrance rising up from the glass. I point the bottom of the shot demitasse towards the ceiling, and the vodka slides into my mouth. 

I swallow.

It is like consuming pure nostalgia. Vague and blurry images stir in my mind, but I feel the ever so clear presence of reminiscence. Relishing the feel, I ask for another shot, and another, and then another. Soon there is a pile of empty glasses, and my head starts to spin. I press the cold glass to my forehead to clear the dizziness. 

My vision sways back and forth in a wave-like pattern, and my head rolls toward my right shoulder. The room is spinning, the couches, the customers, the employees, all revolving around me. The room just won’t stop spinning… 

The feel is intoxicating, a different kind of high, and in a subconscious daze, I press my shot cup onto the counter. More. Even though I feel the weight of drunkenness, I want more. I need more. I demand more. And so with my brain completely absent, I ask for more.

The barista surveys me with ambivalence and turns for yet another shot cup.  She says something to her friend, who eyes me carefully, and despite my scrutiny, I cannot make out their conversation. Everything is blurry and obscure. I stand up and walk around aimlessly for a moment; I start to think about something- perhaps it was my family- but I quickly forget what it was. By the time I careen back to my seat, the vodka shot is already waiting on the counter. I grab it and slowly bring it to my mouth, and then quaff the entire thing. The room spins again, and I know that I am drunk, full of the drink that is like ambrosia to me. And in this moment, a moment of longing and memory, I accept insanity; it’s not an abnormality, simply a coping asset. My vision blurs, but in the blindness I see light. Light like at the end of a tunnel. I stand up, only half-awake, and wobble towards the white recliner I’ve grown so accustomed to. Collapsing onto the comfortable cushions, and I stare up at the analog clock. The time is 9:01.

I blink. Maybe it really is too late for revenge. Maybe it is too late for completion. I close my eye; the ebony rim of the clock is the last sight I see before I fall into dormancy, letting my dreams becomes destiny. 

<><><><><><>

Fluorescent white light engulfs my vision as my eyes flutter open. Blinking profusely, I stare at the clock conveying the time. There are dark spots in my eyes, and for a few seconds, I am unable to tell how long I’ve been sleeping. My head throbs from hangover and I regret the night’s activity.

After a few moments in blindness, I squint at the clock. The minute hand ticks slowly towards midnight. I have a few seconds to compose myself, a few seconds to choose, and a few minutes to act. I can’t give up now. I can’t. Not when I have not fulfilled my life’s purpose. I jump out of the cushion in distress, ignoring the drums banging in my skull, and trot to the front exit of the Lone Ranger. With a glance behind me, I see that the bar is still relatively full of syndicate members; the barista that had served me is still working, although she barely notices me.

The flow of tap beer behind the counter echoes against the moody music. I turn the brass knob on the door and push, immediately thwarted by the sound of rain splashing on concrete. I slip my dust mask back on and extend a hand into my small haversack and grab a translucent umbrella. Extending it, I step up the companionway into an elevated alley.  

“Stupid rain,” I spit in frustration, in spite of experiencing precipitation ranging from light sprinkles to voracious downpours nearly every other day in summer. Perhaps I just want to say something after two hours of silent slumber, but I am still only talking to myself. 

Nobody to talk to, nobody to care about, nobody to love… 

I hold the umbrella over my head, watching as raindrops slide off the biodegradable nylon surface and drip onto the floor. I stare above the suburban sprawl to see the skyline of downtown Toyko. Shrouded in midnight mist, glass and concrete skyscrapers radiate bright hues of every color. Some stretch over a kilometer into the iridescent black sky. The sight is truly arresting, more magnificent than anything my home, a place notoriously known by the civilians as Neon District, could muster.

The downtown area of Kyoto, famously nicknamed the District of the Zaibatsu, shines gloriously in the distance. The twin towers of the Halogen Associates Digital Service Corporation stand sentinel over the city, rivaling the neighboring Akane Enterprises skyscraper. The shadow of the enormous buildings cast a radiant blanket on the streets of the suburban townships in almost poetic symbolism of their constant presence. I need to hurry, or I’ll miss my chance, I think, but the city draws me in.

The neon giants of Kyoto are truly the pinnacle of the capitalist world. The windows of the skyscrapers are constructed wholly of photovoltaic glass, which a mere twenty years ago was a rare commodity. The advertisements that rest on designated commercial palettes are either digital, holographic, or composed of noble gases. Maybe that artistic part of me is still alive, I think. The city is just so beautiful… I force myself to snap out of the daze, ashamed at my behaviour, and start my way back down to the lower street.

I hold the metal railing of the stairwell with my free hand and jog down the step, staring at the Krypton Solutions store. The company is a branch of its parent conglomerate, Akane Enterprises, and so there are many prosthetics and such for sale inside. There is almost nobody on the street, only a few of the urban vagrants- Wanderers, us citizens call them, for their habit of walking aimlessly on the streets, or perhaps as an emblem of their unclear moral paths. The vagabonds sit around their makeshift fireplaces, talking; some hold empty whiskey bottles, others exhale smoke from their wooden cigars pipes, others laughing like hyenas. Almost all of them wear tattered, grimy leather jackets or ripped and dirty sweatshirts.

There are only twenty meters between me and Krypton.  

My eyes dart side to side, scanning the area. One my right, I see a bridge leading to the Shizukesa Plaza, built over a river of polluted water and oppidan sewage. On my left, I see the Shiguto Apartments, a home for the middle and upper-class citizens. The quite spacious rooms of Shiguto Apartments are adorned with luxurious furniture compared to the average apartment of a Neon District civilian; a sizeable portion of the populace refers to the Shiguto residents as ‘rulers in hell’. As I walk forward a bit more, I see the City Security Precinct in my peripheral vision, looming over Neon District like a shadow. City Security, arguably more infamously known as ‘The Watch’, are mostly resented among the people for the corrupt personality of their junior officers, as well as their tendency to accept bribes. 

There are only fifteen meters between me and Krypton.

I look forward with a focused stare, though everything in my periphery is barely comprehended. The Halogen shop adjacent to Krypton is hard to ignore, however, especially the chrome array of lights flashing out the company name. Beyond the logo are shelves of augmented reality optic lenses, smartwatches, smartphones, and laptop computers. In the reflective rain-covered glass of the Halogen store, I see my reflection. I cringe at it- a one-hundred-eighty centimeter tall disheveled figure stares back at me, eyes tired yet filled with wrath. A monster created by other monsters. For a second I imagine a boy of fifteen with happy eyes, laughing and running in a field of falling cherry blossoms, munching on a five yen mochi from the park stands. I swallow hard, and my eyes start to sting. I turn my head away and continue walking.

There are only ten meters between me and Krypton.

My eyes follow the Halogen shop, and at the top, there is a room that looks as if it were an oversized shipping box. Paint peels off its walls and there is a windowless metal door guarding the entrance. A blue glow emits from the small window on the side of the room, so faint that it looks as if it were sunlight fighting to penetrate a wall of water a kilometer thick. It looks extremely ominous, but today is not the day to put the investigation of the undiscovered over the campaign of the certain. It’s never too late for retribution, is it? I clench my fists. I can still do this. 

There are only five meters between me and Krypton. 

The Neon District Gym is starting to close. There are only a few minutes before the last of the late-night bodybuilders leave. I see three people total in the gym, completely negligent of the closing time. One of the visitors is a middle-aged woman in her twenties jogging on a treadmill with an energy drink in her hand. From the look of it, she seems to be listening to music. Another is a stoic looking man with a jacket slung over his shoulder, tank top dripping with sweat. The punching bag behind him still has dents the size of basketballs on its surface. The last one is a younger girl holding a can of Coca-Cola. It’s strange to see such a small child in such a dangerous place at such a dangerous time, holding of all things a high-sugar soda that is not exactly conducive to exercise. 

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

There are only three meters between me and Krypton.

The three bright panels in front of Krypton exude a titian light, giving my blue jacket an orange tone. The panels flash the slogan of the company; ‘Upgrade Yourself’. There is a corner alleyway to the right side of the store, and I head towards it. 

The alleyway is not very big, and a large green dumpster takes up most of the already limited space. The three sides of the alleyway consist of the right wall of the Krypton Solutions store and two oriental-style concrete walls. Leaning on the dumpster is an ambiguous middle-aged man in a three-piece suit and black shades. His nearly two-meter tall frame dwarfs me, and his muscles are prominent even through his fancy attire. He raises both eyebrows and smiles as he sees me approach him. “You finally came,” the man says in Chinese. “I thought you had chickened out.” 

“A deal’s a deal,” I respond in kind. “And I don’t break promises.”

“Bit late, I would say,” the man says, looking down at his golden wristwatch. He tilts his sunglasses downwards and reveals his eyes.

“I got drunk and passed out, what do you expect? I’m here now.”

“Right.” He reaches into a suit pocket and produces a knife. He tilts the sharp point towards me. “Not the best one on the market, but it will kill.” He chuckles. “See, I honestly don’t know why you couldn’t retrieve a weapon in more… legitimate ways. Civilians like you don’t belong in the black market.” He scans me with his eyes. “Especially not at such a young age.”

“You don’t know me the way I do.” I counter. “Legitimate is far behind me now.”

“Yes. But couldn’t you just take a knife from your apartment?”

“No. I mean, yes. But I wouldn’t stain the knives I use for food with someone else’s blood. I’m not a psychopath.”

“If you’re not a psychopath, then why are you buying a knife on the black market?” The man asks. “Seems pretty psycho to me, you know.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Er... that was a joke.”

“Okay?”

“Uh, I really don’t get how your paying for all of this. You work at a grocery store and spend most o’ your money on alcohol anyways.”

“I live off of my parents’ money. I just found a job because it’s what my parents would want.”

“Any good parents wouldn’t want their child drinking like you. Or buying on the black market like you,” the man says mockingly, almost condescendingly. “So you’re clearly picking and choosing what part of your parents’ wishes you want to follow.”

“Just take my goddamn money!” I shout, waving a handful of cash in front of him. “Just give me the knife so I can do what I have to do, damn it!”

“Fine. As you say, then.” He extends an open palm from his right hand and holds the knife in his left. “Trade?”

At this I press the bills, worth around ¥4000, into the man’s open palm. He laughs as he sees the money. He pockets the bills and puts the knife in my hand. “I don’t normally do this type of business. Nice to see someone finally buying a permanent fix to their problem rather than a temporary one.” 

“I’ve been living like this for too long. Emptiness and sorrow, and then a sprinkle of euphoria and false hope, and after that emptiness and sorrow again,” I respond. I pause for a moment before saying, “Well then, thank you.”

The man nods. “Sayounara; the name’s Guan Yehu.” He leans back further on the dumpster and lifts his shades back into place. He counts the money, admiring the bills. As I leave, he calls back to me. “Whatever you’re doing with that thing, good luck.”

<><><><><><>

I canter away from Krypton holding the newly purchased knife in my hand. Within seconds of my brisk movements, I am at the bridge. I divert my eyes from the sight of the inky sepia refuse below, settling my eyes on a much more elegant view, the dragon statue in the middle of Shizukesa Plaza. There are a few city security officers patrolling the areas.

I tread the concrete floor of the plaza and keep walking forward. The flap of my jacket skims the marble simulacrum of the mythical beast, and I rotate my body right. Sighing, I take a moment to look at the things I have taken for granted. The smell of moisture in the air, the soft glow of the lights in the shops, the creepy darkness in the depths of the unlit parking lot entrance, the rainbow glow of ads shining into the square…

No.

I must do this today, and every second is of the essence. I cannot let procrastination be at fault for failure. A newfound rush of purpose fills my body, and I turn swiftly, headed towards the underground parking lot. By this point, the ground starts to gently slope down. The Quick motorcycle shop is already closed, the Lee’s Defense gunshop is vacant, and the BeFashion clothing outlet is also empty. I give a grim smile. No witnesses- at least none close enough to stop me in time.

“Today is the day,” I whisper, and almost as if on cue, a midnight black McClaren pulls into the parking lot from the opposite side which I am standing. He is coming from the District of the Zaibatsu, it seems. I immediately back away into the shadows of a nearby alleyway. Kabetarou Takahashi, the Chief Financial Officer of Andromeda Innovations, steps out of his voluptuous vehicle and into the parking lot alone. He’s always alone. He’s always wandering the streets late at night instead of attending late cocktail parties. He’s diligent, adventurous, agile. We’re both somewhat of outcasts, anomalies. Maybe that’s how he got in touch with the syndicates. Maybe that’s how I got in touch with alcohol.

We may be both scared, we may be both isolated. But he is evil. And I am not. 

Kabetarou Takahashi, the man who planned my father’s murder, the man who dictated my mother’s imprisonment, the man who caused my sister’s suicide. Rage, six years old and bubbling, floods back. Wrath, images of stab after stab after stab, resurface. My face tightens and a tear rolls down my eyes. My knife vibrates from my vindictive shaking, fueled by a cacoethes for murder.

I remember the day where my life took a turn for the worse. Vividly. 

The sound of a fist on wood echoed through the apartment room. My younger sister Aimi, only twelve at the time, stood up to get the door but my father arrived there first. He opened the door and two Kanto yakuza members barreled in. They both were towering men, tattoos covering their naked upper body. Their hair was dripping wet from rain, but they were not cowed. In their hands were Uzi firearms, and before my father could meekly say ‘good day’, there was a series of flashes, dents in the wall, and almost a dozen bloody holes in my father’s body. He was dead before he hit the ground. 

There was a pause, the two syndicate members lowering their guns, my mother, sister, and I in shock, unable to comprehend the situation. My mother snapped out of her stiff position and ran towards my father. She fell onto her knees by his side, my father’s cold hand in hers. My mother turned around violently to face the criminals.

“What are you doing?! What did you do to him?!” My mother screamed. Her eyes were wet, but I couldn’t tell if it was from grief or fear; likely both. “All this for what? Because he le-” My mother was cut off as one of the syndicate members stepped behind her and put a gag into her mouth. 

“He’s dead. And if you don’t cooperate, you will be, too.” The first thug said, and then turned to his accomplice. “Spare the kids, Kabetarou told us not to touch them.”

The second thug violently gripped my mother’s arm and dragged her through the doorway and out of sight. The first thug looked over, inspecting, and was about to leave when my sister cried, “Kill us too! We can’t live without them! We’re family, either we’re all alive or we’re all dead! I won’t live without them! Just kill us, too!”

“Sorry kid,” the criminal said. “Can’t touch you.”

“Why, then?” My sister had her face buried in her hands and was hyperventilating. “Why did have you do that? To… kill them?”

“If you knew what they did, you would understand.” And with that, the criminal picked up my father’s leg and left, leaving a trail of blood where my father used to lay, where he made his last stand against fate.

As soon as the thugs left, I grabbed my sister by the arm and pulled her violently to face me. “What was that?” I demanded. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“What’s the point of even living without them?” She cried. “Why are we even alive? We should have been the ones. We should have died!”

The same night, my sister disappeared, and in her place, I found an empty bottle of sleeping pills. The most crippling moments in my life were those where the effervescence, the happiness and sorrow and laughter and tears and hopes and dreams, the very humanity, left the eyes of my father, my mother, and my sister. The next day I slumped to the bank and withdrew all the money from my parents’ bank account, then bought a train ticket and left Osaka in time to escape a scheduled press conference. 

I had nobody left to love, nothing left to cherish, but one person to kill. The first days I thought it was myself. I desperately wanted to take after my sister. But as that momentous day replayed over and over in my head, one name became first a thought, then a voice, then a chant, and then a roaring current of fury and rage. Kabetarou Takahashi. He was known for many syndicate-related scandal accusations, and the thugs who killed my parents even said his name. It had to be him. I went by train to Kyoto, the city where I knew he lived. Then I could have my vengeance.

Kabetarou becomes a silhouette as he leaves the light and safety of the parking lot. The man who destroyed my family. The man who destroyed me. He is making a turn for the corridor which will lead him into the East Sector’s Tengoku Sky Condos, out of the hostile streets, the shady slums, and the impoverished city. He is making a turn towards sanctuary. Now is the time to avenge the family- the life- which I’ve lost. 

But is discovering vengeance really worth risking my humanity? For a short moment I hesitate, but I continue. Since when did I even care about this humanity shit, anyway? I’ve almost reached my life’s goal and now I’m questioning the morality of this? Pathetic. I hold my knife like a dagger and raise it to my chest, slowly walking towards Kabetarou. 

I am getting too close for him not to be suspicious. I need to act- now. I sprint towards him and then jump. My left foot collides the ground with a thud as I propel my entire body into the air, raising the knife up to stab. The sound makes Kabetarou turn around, and he is quick to react, but I am already over him, holding the knife above his head. We topple to the floor, and he reaches out his right arm block my arm. In the struggle, we strain against each other, but I rapidly retract my arm and make a move for his chest. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Kabetarou yells, but before he can finish the last syllable, the knife plunges into his chest. He stops mid-sentence, blood gushing out of the wound and his mouth. For a moment he just stares up, shocked, and my damp eyes meet his. I pull the blade out and stab again- and again, and again, and again. “What am I doing?!” I ask, infuriated. “What am I doing?! I’m making you pay for your mistakes, you egotistical bastard!” I yell, though I know he cannot hear. “I lost everybody because of you!”

Boys don’t scream.

Blood, blood that is not mine, sprays up to soak my hand, leaving droplets of the substance dripping on my sleeve. At that moment, I feel no remorse, no regret, only pure adrenaline. But maybe, behind the curtain of emotionlessness, my soul is beyond repair. I move my hand upwards, towards Kabetarou’s neck. The blade slides past his thyroid cartilage and through his esophagus, not slowing until it hits the concrete ground. “How do you like it? How do you like the piquancy of blood?” I say, though I know he cannot taste. 

Boys don’t mourn.

I hold a leaning position on the blade and pull up sadistically, making chunks of flesh fly on the ground. I slide the knife downwards above his neck and finally stab him in the chest, the blade sliding right between his ribs. He is dead but I want more. Tears stream down my face and mix with the rain. “Does it hurt?” I ask him, though I know he cannot feel. There are tremors in my voice, and hot air circulates inside my dust mask. “Does it? Do you know what pain you’ve caused me now?”

Boys don’t cry.

I rip the knife out of his right lung and raise the gory shank high above my head with both hands. With my knees on both sides of his corpse, I expel my entire body weight into the blade and drive the weapon into his heart. It is now when I notice three armed policemen aiming their guns for their own kill. I stumble to my feet and give one last look at Kabetarou’s maimed carcass, surrounded by a pool of burgundy-colored fluid flowing like rivers into hideous yet satisfying reservoirs on the ground. “And that is the godforsaken fluid you don’t deserve a milliliter of!” I call out, though I know he cannot see. I turn back to face the officers, their guns pointing at me. My job is done, I think. I want to stand my ground, to let the bullets pass through me, but I can’t. 

Boys don’t run. 

I stare into the dark barrel of one of the guns, cold and unforgiving. One of the officers says something, and I have no time to ponder whether behind one of the helmets, behind the synthesized uniform of cold steel, there is another human, hesitant and afraid. Adrenaline engulfs my body, drowning out all thought, and I sprint by instinct into a caliginous alleyway to escape my pursuers. As if all of hell was chasing after me, I run against the wind, softened into zephyr by the buildings of the district, allowing the rain to wash away the blood on my hands and cleanse the scars in my soul.