The obnoxious blare of his alarm clock tore Hiroki from a restless sleep. He groaned, slapping his hand down on the snooze button with a bit more force than necessary. The room was still shrouded in early morning darkness, the faint glow of the neon signs outside barely filtering through his threadbare curtains. He rubbed his eyes and lay there for a moment, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

Maybe it was all just a dream, he thought. Rogue Wraiths, masked fighters, sarcastic voices in his head…

But then, as if on cue, that familiar, grating voice echoed through his mind.

“Up and at ‘em, kid,” Arkan drawled. “I didn’t sign up to be stuck with a lazy host. You’re not planning on sleeping your life away, are you?”

Hiroki let out a resigned sigh. “Fantastic. You’re still here.”

“Of course I am,” Arkan replied with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonely. Not that anyone else is lining up to keep you company.”

Hiroki ignored the Wraith’s jab, rolling out of bed and stumbling toward the bathroom. As he splashed cold water on his face, he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror—a pale face with dark circles under his eyes, his hair a messy mop. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Maybe he hadn’t.

“All that beauty sleep, and you still look like death warmed over,” Arkan quipped. “Maybe try a little less brooding and a little more, I don’t know, not looking like a zombie.”

“Shut up,” Hiroki muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the Wraith. He didn’t have the energy to argue. Not today.

After a quick breakfast—if half a bowl of stale cereal could be called that—he threw on his uniform, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed out the door. The streets of Neo-Kyoto were already bustling despite the early hour, neon signs flashing, the smell of fried food and exhaust hanging in the air. The city was alive, but Hiroki felt like a ghost drifting through it.

The moment Hiroki stepped through the school gates, he could feel it. That strange shift, like the entire world had snapped back into place, erasing everything that had happened the day before. The students were laughing, gossiping, texting on their phones. It was as if nothing had changed.

As Hiroki walked down the crowded hallway, he glanced at the faces of the students who’d been there during the Wraith attack. They looked normal—unconcerned, unaware. No signs of panic, no whispers about monsters or shadows. It was like the whole thing had been wiped from their minds.

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“Looks like they don’t remember a thing,” Arkan whispered in his ear. “Typical Crimson Hand trick. They’re good at cleaning up their messes.”

Hiroki’s grip tightened on the strap of his backpack. Part of him was relieved. If no one remembered, then maybe he could pretend yesterday never happened. Maybe he could go back to being invisible.

But another part of him—a part he didn’t want to acknowledge—felt a pang of sadness. So no one noticed? he thought. Not even after all that? For once, he’d done something. He’d tried to help. And yet… nothing.

“Aw, is someone feeling a little lonely?” Arkan teased, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I thought you liked being a wallflower.”

“Yeah, well, screw you,” Hiroki muttered under his breath. He kept his head down, making his way to his first class.

Hiroki sank into his seat in the back corner of the classroom, pulling out his notebook more out of habit than actual intent to use it. The teacher droned on about something—history, maybe? He didn’t care. His mind kept drifting back to the events of yesterday. The Wraiths. The masked figures. The fight that felt more real than anything he’d experienced in years.

The whispers started not long after he sat down. Snide comments from the students sitting a few rows ahead, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Hey, why is the loner freak whispering to himself?”

“Yeah, I heard he never talks to anyone. Guess he finally found a friend”

“Yeah about time, lol.”

Hiroki clenched his teeth, pretending to take notes. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the drill. There was always someone making a joke, and there was always a group laughing along. It wasn’t the direct insults that hurt. It was the way they drew a circle around themselves, making sure he was on the outside.

Arkan’s voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. “Why do you let them get to you? You could crush these losers if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to crush anyone,” Hiroki hissed back under his breath. “I just want to be left alone.”

“Yeah, sure,” Arkan replied, his tone dripping with skepticism. “You keep telling yourself that.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of monotony. Classes he didn’t care about. Lunch alone on the rooftop where no one bothered him. More whispers, more laughter that cut into him even though he tried to pretend it didn’t.

By the time the final bell rang, Hiroki was ready to bolt. He slipped out of the school, avoiding eye contact with everyone, and made his way back to his apartment. The tiny, dingy place he called home was as empty as ever. No parents waiting for him, no siblings to bicker with. Just silence.

He dropped his bag on the floor and collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. For a moment, he could almost convince himself that everything was normal. That he was just another tired high school student with nothing to worry about.

But then Arkan’s voice came back, softer this time. “You know, you really ought to find a hobby. Something to distract you from all that existential dread.”

“Shut up, besides I have a job. Just haven’t been to in a while” Hiroki muttered, but there was no heat behind his words. He was too tired to argue. Too tired to pretend that he was fine when he clearly wasn’t.

“You can lie to everyone else,” Arkan said, almost gently. “But you can’t lie to me, kid. I’m in here,” he added, tapping into Hiroki’s mind with a flicker of energy. “I know you better than anyone else ever could.”

Hiroki closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest. Maybe Arkan was right. Maybe he was just lying to himself.

But then, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, he felt it again—the simmering anger that had been with him for as long as he could remember. He was angry. Angry at everyone who ignored him, at the people who laughed, at the world that had pushed him into this corner.

And now, angry at himself. Because despite everything, despite how much he claimed to like being alone, deep down, all he wanted was for someone—anyone—to see him.

But in this city, in this school, it was like he didn’t even exist