Tokyo's late afternoon light filtered through the tall glass windows of Sakura Mart, a modest yet bustling grocery store nestled in the heart of a lively neighborhood. Outside, the city's rhythm pulsed with life—bicycles weaving through narrow streets, the hum of passing trains in the distance, and the muffled chatter of pedestrians. Inside, however, the air was quieter, tinged with the faint scent of fresh produce and the sterile hum of overhead fluorescent lights.

The aisles were lined with colorful goods, their bright labels shouting promises of convenience and flavor in bold Japanese script. At the end of one such aisle stood Souta Tanaka. At just over 172 cm or just barely about 5 '8 and average looking in every department, he blended in with the rows of neatly stacked products, his slight frame and neutral-toned uniform making him a part of the store’s muted palette. His dark brown hair was slightly disheveled, a result of absentmindedly running his fingers through it, and his round glasses perched on his nose reflected the stark white light from above.

He crouched to align a row of canned coffee, his movements methodical but lacking enthusiasm. "Another day, another aisle," he muttered under his breath, the monotony weighing on him like the stacks of canned goods he so often carried. His thoughts drifted, as they often did during these long shifts.

"I’m twenty years old… is this really it? Stocking shelves? Smiling politely? Waiting for payday so I can blow it all on the next volume of that webnovel?" he thought. He sighed. "God, even my inner monologue is boring".

A burst of laughter from the checkout area broke through his thoughts. Souta glanced over, catching sight of a child gleefully spinning a cart while their parents scolded them. The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. For a brief moment, the scene felt warm, almost grounding. Then reality set back in, dragging his mood down with it.

The faint chime of the store’s entrance bell signaled new customers, and Souta straightened instinctively. A group of foreign tourists wandered in, their animated voices carrying across the aisles. They were unmistakably American—loud, cheerful, and slightly overwhelmed by the array of unfamiliar products. Souta watched them from the corner of his eye as they navigated the store with the hesitancy of first-timers.

The trio stopped near the snack aisle, where Souta had been arranging bags of kaki no tane. One of them, a middle-aged woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, scanned the shelves with a furrowed brow before whispering something to her companions. They exchanged nods before cautiously approaching Souta, who was now engrossed in adjusting a display of rice crackers.

“Uh… excuse me?” the woman said, her accent thick but polite.

Souta turned, a practiced smile already in place. “Yes, how can I help you?” His voice was warm, polite—the tone of someone who knew how to manage customers without inviting too much conversation.

“Oh! You speak English!” the woman exclaimed, visibly relieved.

“I do,” Souta replied, tilting his head slightly. “What can I help you with?”

“Well,” the woman began, gesturing vaguely at the shelves, “we were looking for… uh… snacks? Something local? But we can’t read any of the labels.”

Souta suppressed a chuckle, nodding sympathetically. “That happens a lot. Japanese packaging can be… overenthusiastic.” He grabbed a bag of kaki no tane and held it up. “These are rice crackers with a bit of a kick—popular for snacking, especially with beer.”

“Oh, perfect! My husband loves spicy food,” the woman said, taking the bag gratefully. She hesitated before asking, “Your English is so good. Did you study abroad?”

“Sort of,” Souta replied, adjusting his glasses. “I spent my secondary school and college years just outside of London, UK. What you’d call high school, I guess.”

“London? Wow,” one of the other tourists—a younger man—chimed in. “That explains the accent. It’s like, almost British. That’s pretty rare, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Souta said with a shrug. “My parents moved for work, so I tagged along. Learned a lot—mostly how to fake a good accent to impress tourists like you.”

The group laughed, and Souta couldn’t help but grin. "At least my sense of humor’s still intact," he thought.

They continued asking about other snacks, and Souta guided them through the aisle, pointing out popular items and even sharing a few personal recommendations. He couldn’t help but notice the spark of joy he felt in moments like this—when he wasn’t just another shelf-stocker but someone who could connect, even briefly, with others.

As the tourists thanked him and headed toward the registers, Souta lingered in the aisle, his smile fading into a more contemplative expression. He glanced at the rows of neatly arranged snacks, each one identical, uniform, and unchanging. It felt oddly symbolic.

"Is this really all I’m good for? Translating snack labels and making jokes about accents?"

He shook his head, scolding himself silently. "Stop it, Souta. You’re not a character in one of your stupid webnovels. This is real life. You don’t get some magical inciting incident. You don’t—"

A crash echoed from the far end of the store, snapping him out of his thoughts. Souta whipped around to see a small display toppled over, cans of soup rolling across the floor. A sheepish-looking teenager stood nearby, apologizing profusely to a store clerk.

Souta sighed, bending down to pick up a stray can that had rolled into his aisle. As he placed it back on the shelf, he caught his reflection in the glass door of a nearby refrigerator. His own eyes stared back at him—tired but still sharp, framed by his glasses.

For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself as someone else. A hero. An adventurer. Someone who didn’t spend their days arranging cans and explaining rice crackers to tourists. His mind filled with images of fantastical worlds, epic battles, and daring escapes.

"If only life could be like that…" he thought.

“Souta!” a sharp voice called, jolting him back to reality. It was his manager, a no-nonsense woman in her forties. “Stop daydreaming and finish stocking aisle three. We’re short-staffed today.”

“Right. Sorry,” Souta replied, straightening up and pushing his glasses higher on his nose. He grabbed the remaining stock from his cart and moved to the next aisle, his steps a little heavier than before.

As he worked, the fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, the sound almost hypnotic. The rhythmic motions of stocking shelves—grab, place, adjust, repeat—lulled him into a familiar trance. Yet, somewhere deep in his mind, a spark of restlessness flickered, refusing to be snuffed out by the monotony.

Outside, the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. Through the store’s windows, Souta caught glimpses of the world beyond—streets alive with possibility, where people laughed, explored, and lived. He envied them, those strangers whose lives seemed so much fuller than his own.

As the last of the stock was placed neatly on the shelves, Souta leaned against his cart, letting out a long sigh. The tourists from earlier passed by on their way out, waving cheerfully at him. He waved back, his smile automatic but genuine.

“Have a good day!” he called after them, his voice carrying just a hint of longing.

The bell above the door chimed again as they left, and the store fell into its familiar rhythm. Souta glanced at the clock. Two hours left in his shift. Two hours until he could retreat to his tiny apartment, bury himself in the worlds of his favorite stories, and pretend, just for a little while, that he was someone else.

But even as he turned back to his work, the spark inside him refused to dim. Somewhere deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that life had more in store for him—something extraordinary, waiting just beyond the edges of his ordinary world.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The fluorescent buzz of Sakura Mart faded into the background as Souta stepped out into the cool evening air. Tokyo’s streets were alive with their usual symphony of sounds—car engines humming, voices blending into an indecipherable chorus, and the faint clatter of shop shutters closing for the night. Above, the city’s skyline was dotted with twinkling lights, a faint haze of orange and pink still clinging to the horizon as the day gave way to night.

Souta slung his backpack over one shoulder and began his walk to the train station, his steps unhurried but purposeful. He passed by neon-lit signs advertising ramen shops and karaoke bars, their glow reflected faintly in the puddles dotting the pavement. A group of teenagers laughed loudly as they spilled out of an arcade, their carefree energy a sharp contrast to Souta’s quiet demeanor.

“They’ve got it all figured out”, Souta thought, keeping his head down as he walked past them. “Or at least, they look like they do. Meanwhile, I’m twenty years old, and my greatest accomplishment today was helping some tourists pick out snacks.”

He reached the station, swiping his commuter pass at the gate as the turnstile beeped him through. The platform was relatively quiet, save for a handful of other passengers waiting for the next train. Souta leaned against a pillar, staring at the illuminated timetable screen. The minutes ticked by slowly, each one stretching into an eternity.

As the train pulled into the station with a whoosh of air and the screech of brakes, Souta boarded and found an empty seat by the window. He settled in, resting his backpack on the floor between his legs, and stared out at the city as the train began to move.

The fluorescent-lit interior of the train reflected faintly in the glass, overlaying his own tired face onto the blurred scenery rushing past. He sighed, letting his head rest against the window.

"I’ve always been a background character," he thought, the words cutting through the hum of the train’s movement. "In school, I was the quiet kid who blended into the walls. At work, I’m just the guy who stocks shelves and makes small talk with customers. I’ve never been the one who stands out—the hero of the story. I’m the guy who fades into the credits while the real protagonist gets the spotlight."

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the rhythmic clatter of the train tracks lull him into a semi-meditative state. "It’s not like I haven’t tried," he thought, his grip tightening slightly on the strap of his bag. "I thought moving to Tokyo after my parents went back to the UK would change things. I thought I’d find something here—a purpose, a dream, something worth waking up for. But here I am, living in a shoebox apartment, working a job that pays just enough to scrape by, and spending my free time escaping into stories about lives I’ll never have."

The train jolted slightly as it pulled into another station. Souta opened his eyes, watching as passengers came and went. A young couple laughed softly as they sat down a few seats away, their hands brushing together in a way that seemed effortless, natural. Souta looked away, his chest tightening with a familiar pang of envy.

"I’m not jealous," he thought quickly, trying to push the feeling aside. "I mean, maybe I am. But it’s not just about them. It’s about everyone who seems to have it all figured out. Everyone who knows where they’re going, what they’re doing, and why they’re doing it. Meanwhile, I’m just… drifting."

The train began to move again, and Souta turned his gaze back to the window. The cityscape was starting to thin out, the towering buildings replaced by smaller apartment complexes and dimly lit streets. He was heading to the outer edges of Tokyo, far from the neon-drenched chaos of the city center.

By the time he arrived at his stop, the platform was almost deserted. He stepped off the train, the cool night air biting at his cheeks, and began the walk to his apartment. The streetlights cast long, pale shadows across the cracked pavement, and the occasional hum of a passing car was the only sound accompanying his footsteps.

His apartment complex loomed ahead, a weathered, gray building with peeling paint and a flickering light over the entrance. Souta hesitated for a moment before walking through the rusted gate and climbing the narrow staircase to the third floor. The metal steps creaked under his weight, each one echoing in the stillness.

As he reached his door, he paused, staring at the chipped paint and the tarnished brass number "302" hanging crookedly on the surface. He fished his keys out of his pocket, the faint jingle breaking the silence. For a moment, he stood there, key in hand, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.

"This is it," he thought, his lips curling into a humorless smile. "The grand palace of the background character. Welcome home, Souta. Population: one."

He turned the key in the lock, the mechanism clicking faintly, and pushed the door open. The faint smell of instant noodles greeted him, mingling with the musty scent of a space that hadn’t been properly aired out in days. The apartment was as small and unremarkable as ever—a single room with a tiny kitchenette, a low table cluttered with manga and snack wrappers, and a futon pushed against the far wall.

Souta dropped his backpack onto the floor, kicking off his shoes and shuffling inside. He stood in the center of the room for a moment, staring at the mess but lacking the energy to do anything about it.

"Tomorrow," he thought, letting out a long breath. "I’ll clean up tomorrow."

He sank onto the futon, pulling his phone from his pocket and scrolling mindlessly through his notifications. Nothing new. No messages. No surprises. Just the same monotonous routine, repeating endlessly.

As he set his phone aside and stared up at the cracked ceiling, a thought drifted through his mind—one he couldn’t quite shake, no matter how much he tried.

"There’s gotta be more to life than this," he thought. "There has to be."

But as he closed his eyes, the world around him fading into the silence of the night, he couldn’t help but wonder if that "more" would ever find him—or if he’d have to find it himself.

As Souta began to drift into the hazy embrace of sleep, his world was suddenly jolted into chaos. A deafening crash shattered the stillness, followed by the violent tremor of his floor shaking beneath him. His eyes shot open just in time to see chunks of his ceiling collapse, a cascade of plaster and debris raining down into his already cramped apartment. The air filled with dust, and the sharp scent of scorched metal hit his nostrils.

“What the hell?!” Souta exclaimed, scrambling upright as his futon slid across the floor, tangling around his legs. His small table toppled, sending empty ramen cups and manga skidding across the room. The dim light of his solitary bulb flickered madly before dying altogether, plunging the room into an eerie semi-darkness illuminated only by the pale glow of moonlight streaming through the now-destroyed roof.

In the middle of the chaos, something massive and otherworldly had crashed through his ceiling, embedded in the floor like a fallen meteor. Dust and debris swirled around it, catching the moonlight and creating an almost ethereal aura. As the dust settled, Souta's eyes widened, his breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight before him.

It was an armor—if you could even call it that—unlike anything he had ever seen. Its surface gleamed in a deep navy blue, the polished metal reflecting faint, fractured beams of light. The design was sleek yet imposing, every curve and edge meticulously crafted to exude both elegance and menace. The torso was broad and angular, with intricate ridges and overlapping plates that seemed to ripple with power. It resembled the chest of some mythological warrior brought to life, its sharp contours suggesting unyielding strength and protection.

The limbs were proportionally long and powerful, jointed with precision mechanics that looked both futuristic and ancient, as though it belonged to a time or place beyond human comprehension. The legs were built for mobility and impact, reinforced with additional plating along the thighs and shins. The sharp angles of the knee guards jutted out slightly, giving the impression of a predator poised to strike.

Souta’s eyes were drawn to the headpiece—the helmet, if that’s what it was. It bore a sharp, angular visor that pulsed faintly with an otherworldly neon blue light. The glowing slit ran horizontally across the faceplate, unbroken and unreadable, yet emanating a sense of awareness. The helmet was both streamlined and fierce, its design evoking the image of a hawk mid-dive, precise and deadly.

Faint lines of energy pulsed along the suit’s surface, veins of neon blue threading their way across the armor’s joints and edges like a heartbeat made visible. It wasn’t just a machine—it felt alive, humming with a low, almost imperceptible vibration that seemed to resonate with the very air around it.

“What… what is this?” Souta whispered, his voice trembling as he stumbled back, his legs hitting the overturned table. His eyes darted around the wreckage of his apartment—the cracked walls, the shattered furniture—and then back to the armor. It looked impossibly heavy, yet it lay on the floor as if it weighed nothing at all, as though gravity itself bent to accommodate its presence.

A faint hiss filled the room, startling Souta. The neon blue lines along the armor brightened for a brief moment before dimming again, the pulsing light falling into a steady rhythm. It was almost hypnotic, like the slow inhale and exhale of a sleeping beast.

Souta’s heart raced as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “This isn’t happening,” he thought, his mind scrambling for answers. “I fell asleep, didn’t I? This is some weird dream… or maybe I’m hallucinating from all the instant noodles.”

But the sharp pain of a jagged piece of debris poking into his foot told him otherwise. This was real. Terrifyingly, undeniably real.

He took a cautious step closer, his movements hesitant and jerky, as though the armor might spring to life at any moment. Up close, he could see the fine details etched into its surface—intricate grooves and patterns that seemed to glow faintly under the right angle of light. The craftsmanship was otherworldly, far beyond anything Souta had ever encountered in fiction, let alone real life.

“What are you?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the armor lay silent and still. Yet, even in its apparent inactivity, it exuded an aura of power, a presence that made Souta’s small apartment feel even more claustrophobic.

Then, faintly, the low hum began to grow louder. The neon blue lines flared brighter, casting shifting patterns of light onto the walls. Souta stumbled back again, his heart pounding in his chest.

The armor wasn’t just a machine.

It was waking up.