Prologue

Worlds Apart

image [https://i.imgur.com/FGVTeU8.png]

Present day

Roppongi, Tokyo Japan

Kenshi Yamamoto

The door groans open, ushering in a blade of winter air that slithers across the floor, coiling around the ankles of those inside. The warm sepia glow fights back the chill, but the cold clings stubbornly to the patron’s coat as he steps in, shoulders bowed under an unseen burden. His scuffed shoes whisper against the polished floor, drawn toward the bar as if solace could be poured from a bottle.

Ken Yamamoto leans on the counter, a towel draped over his shoulder like a forgotten accessory. The soft light glints off the silver streaks in his jet-black hair, lending him an air of timeless calm. His dark eyes, keen and unflinching, track the young man’s approach, weighing him without a word.

The patron sinks onto a stool, its groan slicing through the subdued melody of the piano. He exhales sharply, the sound thick with defeat. “Whiskey. Neat. Strong enough to flatten a sumo.”

Ken’s lips curve into a knowing grin, his British accent gliding like polished glass. “Tough night, I presume?”

The man rubs his temples, fingers pressing into the exhaustion carved into his face. “Tough year,” he mutters, running a hand down his jaw. “Feels like the universe’s got a personal grudge.”

Ken grabs a bottle of aged whiskey, its amber liquid catching the flicker of candlelight. “A grudge?” he echoes, pouring with the precision of a craftsman. “Nah, mate. Life’s theatrical—always angling for a standing ovation, even when the script’s utter rubbish.”

The patron snorts, raising his head. “So, all this misery is just some grand performance?”

Ken shrugs, sliding the glass across the bar with a practiced motion. “A bloody spectacle,” he muses, eyes gleaming with amusement. “But if it’s drama you’re after, you should hear about Carlos and Akina. Now, there’s a proper train wreck.”

The patron’s eyes narrow, curiosity cracking through his weariness. “Who’re they?”

Ken chuckles, a deep, warm sound that fills the quiet space. “Stick around, and I’ll tell you. Their story’s got more twists than that whiskey’s kick.”

The patron hesitates, then takes a sip. The whiskey carves a path down his throat, fire and oak unraveling the tight knot in his chest. He exhales, the weight on his shoulders easing as the room settles around him like a familiar old coat.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Ken leans back, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate movements. The faint piano melody drifts through the air, weaving into the bar’s quiet ambiance. “Carlos,” Ken begins, his voice thick with storytelling mischief. “Musician. Covered head-to-toe in tattoos, each one a bad decision with an even better story. And his guitar?” Ken shakes his head, a bemused smirk playing on his lips. “A battered relic that’s seen better days. Looks like it’s fought its way through a war zone. But to him? It’s salvation wrapped in six strings.”

The patron lifts his glass, masking the faint curl of a smirk. Ken catches it—he always does—and leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Picture this,” he says, sweeping a hand through the air. “Huntington Beach. Waves thrash against the rocks, throwing tantrums under a sky streaked with fiery orange and deep purple. The sun sinks, moody as hell, like it’s tired of the day. But Carlos? He doesn’t notice. He’s locked in a duel with his guitar, dragging a tune out of it like the universe owes him a damn answer.”

The patron exhales a quiet laugh, almost soundless, as Ken straightens with a grin as sharp as broken glass. “And then there’s Akina,” Ken adds, his dark eyes narrowing in mock gravity. “Model. Stunning, sure. But she lingers in front of mirrors, fingers grazing her collarbone, as if trying to remember who she’s supposed to be. Like she’s wearing someone else’s life, and it doesn’t fit.”

Ken pauses, the silence pulsing with the weight of unfinished truths.

“What’s their deal?” the patron asks, his voice rough with intrigue.

“Life,” Ken answers, his grin widening into a sly smirk. “And they’re bloody terrible at it. But let’s be honest—aren’t we all?”

Ken taps the rim of the patron’s glass, the soft clink ringing in the stillness. His voice drops, low and magnetic. “Now lean in,” he murmurs. “Because this story? It’s just getting started.”

The patron takes a slow sip of whiskey, the burn spreading warmth through his chest. He leans in, drawn forward as if Ken’s words have gravity.

Ken swirls the amber liquid in his glass, watching it catch the light. His words unfurl like smoke, curling through the air. “Picture it,” he says, voice smooth, deliberate. “Huntington Beach. The sky’s bleeding fire and ink, waves pounding the shore like they’ve got something to prove. And there’s Carlos. Slouched on a battered bench, guitar on his knee, plucking at the strings like he’s prying secrets from their depths.”

The patron’s glass hovers mid-air, his brow lifting. Ken catches the look, grinning as his fingers mimic a lazy strum.

“That guitar’s seen better days,” he muses. “Cracks snake through the wood, strings stretched thin and frayed. It’s got more scars than Carlos—though not by much.”

The crash of distant waves seems to hum beneath Ken’s words, an echo in the patron’s mind.

“People walk by—joggers, tourists, the kind who don’t stop for anything.” Ken’s grin sharpens. “But for him? They do.”

The patron watches, waiting.

“They don’t get too close,” Ken continues, tapping the counter for emphasis. “The tattoos see to that. Snakes coil around his arms, roses bloom in ink, and words in languages no one bothers to understand cut across his skin. They see trouble when they look at him.” A pause. A smirk. “But the music? That’s what hooks them. They linger, pretending not to listen, like it’s a sin to be moved by a guy who looks like he fights alley cats for fun.”

A quiet chuckle escapes the patron, his guard easing with the whiskey’s warmth. “What’s he playing?”

Ken leans back, rolling his glass between his fingers. “Depends on the day,” he says. “Sometimes it’s hope—raw, reckless. Other times, it’s regret—heavy as stone. But here’s the thing…” He sets his drink down, eyes gleaming. “Carlos? He doesn’t play for them. Doesn’t give a damn if they’re listening or deaf as the seagulls screeching above him. He’s playing for himself. Or maybe for something bigger—something he can’t name.”

Ken’s voice dips into a whisper, but it carries. “And here’s the kicker—half a world away, there’s someone else. A girl. Same questions. Same hunger for meaning. Different path, but somehow... the same damn song.”

The patron exhales slowly, the scent of saltwater lingering in his mind, merging with the burn of whiskey.

Ken lifts his glass in a silent toast. “Hold tight,” he says, a sly grin curling at the edge of his lips. “Carlos’s world? It’s just getting started.”