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Age 9
The mall buzzed with life—chattering families, jingling arcade machines, and the distant aroma of food court fries. Ichiro held tightly to his father's hand and, even more tightly, to the strings of various birthday balloons. His birthday hat drooped slightly, lopsided from excitement and static.
His mother was laughing and taking pictures of him. His father stood warmly beside him. It was a perfect day.
Then he saw the boy.
What caught his eye was the boy’s unusually colored hair. He was scrawny, pale, and alone, hovering near the edge of the fountain like a ghost no one else could see. He stared at Ichiro with a feeling that Ichiro didn't yet know the name of.
Ichiro slowed.
"Do you want to take a break?" his father asked gently.
"I'll be right back," he said with a smile, letting go of his father's hand.
He ran toward the other boy with purpose.
The boy flinched as he approached.
Ichiro said nothing. Instead, he extended his red balloon with a bright smile—a peace offering, a soft, wordless hello.
The boy gave him a confused look but took the balloon.
He offered a barely-there smile. Before he could speak, a girl slightly older than him called out. He waved goodbye to Ichiro and ran to her, proudly showing off the balloon. Ichiro watched from a distance, then turned to see his parents seated nearby. He smiled at them, signaling that he was returning.
Before he could take a step, a loud boom shattered the moment.
Chaos erupted. People screamed. Smoke billowed.
The colors turned to dust. Lights flickered. Ichiro lost sight of everything except the balloons flying into the sky—and then, darkness.
Later, Ichiro would wake up in the hospital, asking where his parents were.
Later, Shiro would be found on the street outside, clutching the string of the balloon like a lifeline.
Neither would remember the other. But something stayed.
Age 13
Winter clung to the city like a second skin. Ichiro walked home with his head down, collar up against the wind, thoughts a storm in his skull. They found the culprit for the bombing and followed a swift trial. He had no reason and no excuses, nothing to say. It was over before Ichiro could process it. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to set the world on fire—but he couldn’t. He shouldn't worry his grandmother. He had to be good. He was all she had left.
Then someone slammed into him at the corner.
His notebooks, pens, and folders hit the sidewalk. So did the other boy's things—loud, chaotic, careless. The boy scoffed instead of apologizing, picked up his stuff, flipped him off, and ran.
Ichiro started picking up his belongings, biting back the words he couldn’t afford to say. Then he noticed something that wasn’t his.
A pack of cigarettes.
He turned to toss it in the trash.
Stopped.
Stared.
Pocketed it.
Didn’t look back.
That same evening, high above the street, Shiro sat on a rooftop, legs swinging off the ledge, trying not to cough as he lit his first cigarette. The two older boys beside him were loud and laughing, already drunk. He hated the smell. Hated the taste. But he liked the noise. The feeling of not being invisible for once. One of the older boys slung an arm around him, pulling him closer. It felt like something new—dangerous, thrilling, and warm. It made his heart flutter, and an unknown feeling took root in him.
Ichiro stood behind the school building, lighter trembling in his fingers. The smoke stung. He coughed. The second drag went down easier. He smoked like it was punishment. A slow, quiet rebellion against himself. The only thing he could control.
They both smoked until the city faded quiet around them. Trying to feel grown. Trying to feel anything.
Age 16
The karaoke bar glowed with cheap neon and reeked of sweat, booze, and something sour beneath it all. Ichiro ducked inside, searching for the group of men who had been harassing Chika on her way home. He had followed them there, checking every room. His last resort was the bathroom.
He pushed open one stall door and found no one. As he approached the next, he paused. Someone was kneeling on the dirty floor—just shoes and a hunched silhouette. A man’s moan followed.
Ichiro froze. He walked to the sink and pretended to wash his hands.
The stall creaked open. One of the men from earlier stepped out, adjusting his belt. A boy followed behind him—someone who looked to be his age. That made him feel sick.
The boy asked for his payment in a hushed tone. The man snarled before punching him.
"You should be greatful I let you live. Perverted fag," he spat before storming out.
The boy scoffed and stepped to the sink, dabbing blood from his face. He met Ichiro’s eyes in the mirror.
"What? You want a turn too?" he said flatly.
Ichiro didn’t respond. He walked out.
Minutes later, Shiro checked the security camera behind the bar. He saw the same boy with a broken bottle in hand. The man from earlier was bleeding, while the other two were hesitating. The boy was wild with rage.
Shiro could sense the onlookers calling the police. He turned off the camera and ran outside.
He grabbed the boy’s jacket and yelled “Run.”
They bolted into the back streets, ducking sirens.
Eventually, they stopped in the dark. Shiro let go of the boy’s hand and studied him.
The boy glared. “What?”
Shiro snapped out of it. He pointed to his chest. “You. There’s some darkness in you, huh?”
The boy stiffened. He suddenly felt like covering up. He felt exposed and raw in front of a complete stranger.
They stared at each other for a moment too long.
“Hope I never see you again,” Shiro said, waving as he disappeared down the alley.
Age 24
The night air was biting, the kind that slid under jackets and stayed in your bones. Ichiro was finishing his patrol shift when he saw them—two men walking hand-in-hand, sharing soft smiles and lingering looks.
Ghen came a group of boys, loud and drunk, slurs and jeers spilling from their mouths.
A memory hit Ichiro. A bathroom. A boy with bloodied lips. Slurs echoing in his ears. He had walked away then.
He wouldn’t walk away again.
He stepped forward, ready to intervene—only to stop when he saw the blonde boy take down all three attackers in under a minute. Fast. Efficient. Almost graceful.
“See? Told you I could fight,” the blonde said, grinning at his partner.
Ichiro froze. Not out of duty. Out of awe.
Then—a glint. One of the boys was getting up again, switchblade in hand.
Ichiro blew his whistle.
Everyone scattered. But before the blonde disappeared into the shadows, he looked back.
And winked.
Ichiro stood there long after they were gone, heart thudding, wondering why that face felt like something lost to time.
Age 26
The funeral had passed. The case was officially closed. Rion was gone.
Ichiro stood in his pressed suit as a superior handed him his new badge and gun like it was just another Tuesday.
“Welcome to the team,” they said.
He nodded. Said thank you. Didn’t smile.
Across the city, in a rougher part of town, Shiro sat in a smoke-filled backroom. The air was thick with tension and the kind of men you don’t want to make eye contact with—each one meaner than the last.
An older man slid a drink across the table, his tone too casual to be harmless.
“I’ve heard you’re a go-getter,” he said, letting his hand drift up Shiro’s thigh under the table.
Shiro smiled, lifted his glass, and downed it in one go. “I’m willing to do anything,” he replied in a sultry voice, ignoring the bile rising in his throat.
That night, Ichiro woke up from the nightmare of remembering the video of Rion’s final moments.
On the other side of the city, Shiro rose from the filthy motel bed and walked to the window, a cigarette between his lips.
Rion’s death haunted them both.
Neither went back to sleep, both lying awake, wondering what she had died for.
Age 29
The graveyard was quiet, save for the wind threading through the trees. Ichiro knelt beside Rion’s grave, head bowed. He burned incense with his last matchstick, the smoke curling upward as if trying to reach her. Instead of flowers, he brought her favorite beer—a 500ml can, slightly warm in his coat pocket.
He didn’t expect company.
Footsteps crunched behind him. He turned, already frowning.
Shiro stood a few feet away, just as startled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Shiro asked, eyes narrowing.
"I should be asking that instead" Ichiro stood his ground.
They stepped forward at the same time, fists bunching in each other’s collars.
“What are you doing at my sister’s grave?”
“What are you doing at senpai’s grave?”
They stared, breathless, confused, furious. Then it clicked.
“She was my mentor,” Ichiro said first, letting go.
Shiro blinked. “She is my sister.”
The tension didn’t break so much as freeze.
“I know her death probably haunts you much more than it haunts me. I think I can be of help to you. Work with me,” Ichiro offered. “Just until we find who did it.”
Shiro crossed his arms. “I don't trust the police.”
Ichiro sighed, taking out the beer from his pocket and placing it gently atop the grave. “You don’t have to trust the police. Just trust me. We have the same goal.”
Shiro took a long look at his face, trying to parse what he was hiding. But all he saw was sincerity.
He took out the beer he brought for her and placed it next to Ichiro’s.
They stood there in mutual understanding—or maybe just mutual grief.
Outside the cemetery gates, Ichiro pulled out his cigarette and started fumbling for a match.
“No lighter?” Shiro mocked.
Ichiro shook his head.
With a dramatic sigh, Shiro slid his out of his jacket. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and leaned forward. “Come here.”
Ichiro leaned in. Their cigarettes touched.
Flame.
They smoked in silence, side by side. Not friends. Not strangers. Not yet allies. But something was shifting.
They wouldn’t remember the red balloon.
They wouldn’t remember the cigarettes, or the alley, or the wink.
But they’d know.
Somewhere beneath scarred skin and tired eyes, they’d feel the echo.
Not fate. Not coincidence.
Just two unfortunate souls orbiting toward each other.