Chapter Text
The rain fell in a soft, relentless patter against the medium-sized windows of the office, a gentle background hum that blended with the occasional click-clack of keyboards from the few colleagues who were either brave enough to work or masters of the art of pretending to.
Honestly, Atsushi couldn't tell which, and he didn't care enough to figure it out.
The combination of those two sounds — the rain and the typing — was like a lullaby specifically designed to drain the energy from his bones, and a long, jaw-cracking yawn escaped past his lips before he could even think to stifle it.
His light brown eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, were fixed on the computer screen in front of him with the intensity of a cat watching a blank wall. A random folder was open, its contents a blur of meaningless documents he'd already reviewed twice. His fingers, moving of their own accord, found a strand of his honey-blonde hair and began to idly twist it, a habit he'd never been able to break.
Tuesday. It was only Tuesday morning.
The clock in the corner of his screen seemed to mock him, its digits crawling forward at a pace that could only be described as glacial. His shift was supposed to end at five, a solid eight hours away, but the cruel joke was that he'd already finished everything he needed to do for the day. Everything. By ten-thirty. Atsushi was bored to the point of existential contemplation.
He glanced sideways, first at Tanaka, who was furiously typing an email that was probably about something utterly unimportant, and then at the young woman whose name he cycled through in his head — was it Aina? Ayano? Well, it was definitely Ai-something. She was staring at her screen with the same vacant expression he was sure he wore.
Atsushi wasn't close enough to any of them to strike up a friendly conversation. They exchanged pleasantries, borrowed pens, and occasionally shared a collective groan when the coffee machine broke, but that was the extent of it. He supposed that's what you got for working in an average company, surrounded by equally average people. And Atsushi? He was the most average of them all, just another face in a sea of gray suits and tired eyes.
But oh well, he didn't really care.
The philosophy was simple; pretend to work, collect the paycheck, go home, and collapse onto his sofa. He could already picture it — the worn, gray fabric, the way it perfectly molded to his body, the comforting weight of his television remote. He'd watch some mindless variety show, maybe a drama if he was feeling ambitious, and eat something quick and satisfying. Probably yakisoba. Yeah, yakisoba sounded really good. Just as he was mentally debating between pork and chicken flavor, a voice cut through his culinary daydream.
"Psst. Atsushi."
The young man blinked, his focus slowly returning to the present. His immediate neighbor, the one whose name he honestly had no idea about — a quiet guy with glasses who never said much — was leaning slightly towards him, his voice a low whisper.
"Um... the boss is asking for you in his office."
Atsushi's brow furrowed. He turned to look at the man, head tilted in genuine confusion.
"Really?" his voice was incredulous, just a touch too loud for the quiet office. "For what? Did he say why?"
The boss, Mr. Sato, was a man whose face seemed perpetually set in an expression of mild dissatisfaction, as if he'd just bitten into a piece of fruit that wasn't quite ripe. He was a really closed-off, unapproachable figure who rarely interacted with anyone he judged being below him. On the very rare occasions he summoned someone, it was usually for something mundane, like picking up important documents from the printer downstairs.
But Atsushi had no important documents. He had a random folder open on his screen and a head full of yakisoba.
Before the quiet guy could respond, Tanaka, who apparently had bionic hearing when it came to office gossip, swiveled in his chair. His eyes were wide with excitement behind his wire-rimmed glasses;
"Oh, I know!" he whisper-shouted, leaning over his desk. "It's definitely about a promotion. I overheard Mr. Sato on the phone yesterday, vaguely mentioning he was planning to give one to someone. Someone in our department!"
Atsushi's eyebrows shot up, a flicker of genuine interest sparking in his tired eyes.
"You think?"
He tilted his head to the other side, the movement making him look less like an office worker and more like a confused puppy trying to understand a new trick.
Tanaka beamed, giving him a double thumbs-up.
"One hundred percent, my friend!"
The young woman — Aina, Atsushi simply decided to commit to that name for now — let out a soft, light laugh, slightly shaking her head at Tanaka's antics.
"Don't get his hopes up if you're wrong," she murmured, but there was a friendly smile on her lips.
Ah, well. A promotion.
The thought was enough to get his blood moving slightly faster than its usual sluggish pace.
Atsushi slowly stood up from his chair, stretching in a way that was probably too crude for the office environment — his arms shooting up over his head, his spine giving a satisfying pop. He caught Aina's slight smirk and didn't care. He readjusted his tie, which had somehow migrated to the side and was hanging completely loose, and then re-buttoned the last two buttons of his white shirt. He really hated wearing ties. They felt like a noose, a constant reminder of the corporate chokehold on his life. But, he supposed, he didn't have much of a choice.
A promotion, huh? Atsushi mused as he made his way through the maze of cubicles towards the glass-walled office at the end. That means a bigger paycheck, right?
His heart gave a tiny, anticipatory thump against his ribs. He pictured the extra numbers on his payslip, the slight increase that would allow him to maybe order takeout an extra night a week, or finally replace his worn-out sofa.
Ah... but wouldn't a promotion also mean more work?
The thought dampened his enthusiasm slightly. More responsibilities, more meetings, more pretending to care. He sighed. There was always a catch.
Atsushi finally stopped in front of Mr. Sato's closed door, the frosted glass completely obscuring the view inside. He took a deep breath, readjusted his tie one last time for good measure, and knocked firmly.
The reply was immediate, sharp and to the point;
"Please, come in."
Atsushi entered, closing the door softly behind him. He walked up to the desk, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. Mr. Sato didn't even look up, his attention entirely consumed by the documents spread out before him.
The silence stretched for an awkward beat, and Atsushi felt his heart rate pick up again, not with panic — he didn't like this job enough to panic about it — but with a nervous anticipation. The promotion. It had to be.
"Good morning, sir," Atsushi said, offering a polite smile that felt a bit stiff on his face. "You wanted to see me?"
Mr. Sato finally lifted his gaze, giving Atsushi a brief, almost dismissive once-over before instantly dropping his eyes back to his documents.
"I'm really sorry, Atsushi," he said, his tone completely flat and devoid of any genuine remorse. "But we're letting you go. Please, clear out your desk."
The words hit Atsushi like a bucket of ice water.
Huh?
Time seemed to stutter, and a few seconds passed in complete, ringing silence. Atsushi's brain, usually so good at shutting down, scrambled to process the sentence that had just been lobbed at him. His boss, the one who'd barely glanced at him, was already back to his documents as if he'd just dismissed a minor inconvenience. Atsushi's mouth fell open slightly, his head tilting to the side in a gesture of pure, uncomprehending confusion. The young man stood completely motionless, a statue in an ill-fitting suit.
If this were a cartoon, a little bird would have circled his head, chirping, followed by three comical dots.
"Excuse me?" the words finally croaked out, his eyebrows knitting together.
Mr. Sato's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he still didn't bother to look up.
"You're fired, Atsushi," his voice was a bit firmer now, clipped and impatient.
Fired? But what about the promotion?! The thought screamed in his head, a frantic, disbelieving shriek. Tanaka said—
"But... why?" Atsushi managed to ask.
Mr. Sato let out a very long, very deliberate sigh. He set down his pen, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and closed his eyes, as if Atsushi's very presence was an unbearable drain on his energy. He took his sweet time responding, and Atsushi simply stood there, waiting, his mind a chaotic swirl of confusion and the first flickers of indignation.
Finally, Mr. Sato opened his eyes and fixed Atsushi with a tired, unimpressed stare.
"Someone reported that you've been arriving late in the mornings consistently, and that you've also been leaving early without notifying anyone," his voice was monotone, simply reciting facts. "Upon reviewing the security log footage, it's been confirmed that you haven't been respecting your contracted hours. That is the reason."
Oh.
The single syllable echoed in Atsushi's mind, flat and empty.
Who is the bastard who ratted me out?
It was true, Atsushi couldn't even deny it. He didn't respect the hours. But he'd been so careful! The backpack had been the first to go — it was too obvious, a neon sign blinking 'ARRIVING' or 'LEAVING'. So Atsushi had switched to just carrying his laptop in its sleeve. That way, arriving at eleven instead of nine just looked like he was coming from a meeting. Leaving at three instead of five? No, he was just heading to an off-site appointment. People saw the laptop and their brains filled in the blanks, immediately assuming he was going somewhere important. The truth was, he was just going home to nap.
He'd been doing it for months. It had worked perfectly.
Well... until now.
Wait a damn minute, a horrible, sinking realization dawned on him. The promotion... was it for the person who reported me? Is that how this works? Someone snitched, got a pat on the head, and I get kicked to the curb?
"You can leave now," Mr. Sato's voice cut through his thoughts, flat and final.
Atsushi blinked.
"Ah, yes," he mumbled, his voice devoid of any emotion.
He had nothing else to say. No arguments, no pleas. What was the point? It was already done.
He turned and left the office the same way he'd come, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Once in the hallway, he immediately reached for his tie, loosening it completely with a sharp tug, and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. He rolled his sleeves up past his wrists, revealing the pale skin and the faint blue lines of his veins.
The simple act of undoing the corporate uniform felt like a small rebellion, the first breath of fresh air.
His boss's final instruction echoed in his ears; clear out his desk. Atsushi almost laughed. Clear out what? He had no personal belongings here. Not a single photo, not a plant, not even a favorite pen. The papers on his desk were all borrowed, the pens he used he'd 'forgotten' to return to Tanaka and Aina over the past weeks. They'd never complained. They probably didn't even notice.
When Atsushi walked back into the bullpen, Tanaka's head snapped up immediately, his eyes wide with anticipation.
"So?" he asked, his voice a little too loud. "What did he say? Is it official? Are you moving to a corner office?"
Atsushi shrugged, a lazy, unbothered motion. "I'm fired."
The silence that followed was deafening. Tanaka's jaw dropped, his expression morphing from eager anticipation to pure, comical shock. Aina's hand flew to her mouth.
"What?!" Tanaka whisper-shouted, his voice cracking.
"Yeah," Atsushi rolled his eyes, a flicker of annoyance finally surfacing. "Someone snitched on me for not respecting my hours. Apparently, I've been a very bad boy."
"But—" Tanaka sputtered, gesturing wildly around the office. "But nobody respects the hours! Everyone comes in late sometimes, everyone leaves early on Fridays! That's—that's not fair!"
Atsushi just shrugged again, the fight already leaving him. The initial shock and indignation were fading, replaced by a bone-deep weariness.
"Ah, whatever," he yawned, the sound wide and unrestrained. He stretched once more, a final, theatrical display of his newfound freedom. "Well, I guess my day's officially over then. See you around, Tanaka. Aina."
Tanaka reached out a hand as if to stop him, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly, but Atsushi was already walking away, weaving through the cubicles towards the exit, his laptop swinging loosely from his hand.
He didn't look back.
The moment he pushed open the glass doors of the building, the rain hit him. It was a cold, insistent assault, fat drops that soaked into his hair and shirt almost instantly.
"Shit," Atsushi muttered under his breath, hunching his shoulders. "I forgot it was raining."
He stood there for a moment on the sidewalk, defeated by the weather. His honey-blonde hair was already plastered to his forehead, darkened to a dull brown. His white shirt, now translucent in patches, clung unpleasantly to his skin. He let out a soft sigh, then tilted his head back, closing his eyes and letting the cold drops fall directly onto his face. He could feel the stares of passersby, their quick, curious glances as they hurried past with their umbrellas.
They probably think I'm crazy as hell, he thought, and the idea was oddly liberating.
Atsushi stood there for a few seconds, emptying his mind of the morning's events. The promotion that would never be. The extra numbers on his paycheck that would remain a fantasy. The faceless, nameless traitor who'd traded his job for a pat on the back. It all just... washed away with the rain.
Finally, he opened his eyes and began the slow, wet walk home, the rain drumming a steady rhythm against his body.
He forced himself to look on the bright side — he hadn't even liked the job that much to begin with. It was boring, soul-suckingly dull. The only good part was the paycheck at the end of the month, and that was gone now. But he was only twenty-one. He had decades of boring jobs ahead of him. This was just a chance to rest for a few weeks, maybe sleep in, before diving back into the corporate cesspool.
"Finally fucking free," he said to himself, a quiet laugh escaping his lips.
Atsushi glanced around to make sure no one had heard him.
His gaze drifted down to his right hand, to the laptop in its damp protective sleeve. He really should have brought a backpack. Then his eyes snagged on something else — his employee badge, dangling from its lanyard around his neck, the plastic card now plastered to his wet shirt.
He stopped walking, looking at the object for a long moment. The company logo, his bland ID photo, his name. Okada Atsushi. Employee. Not anymore.
"Well," the boy murmured, his voice flat. "Guess I don't need this anymore."
With a lazy, almost dismissive flick of his wrist, Atsushi grabbed the lanyard, ripped it from his neck, and tossed the badge into the street without a second thought. He didn't watch where it landed, his mind already drifting back to dinner possibilities. Maybe he'd treat himself to something nicer than yakisoba tonight. Celebrate his freedom. Or mourn his unemployment. Same thing, really.
He should have paid attention.
The badge landed in the middle of the rain-slicked road, bouncing once on the asphalt with a faint clatter. At that exact moment, a city bus rumbled past, its massive tires rolling directly over the plastic card. There was a dry, sharp crack that was almost completely swallowed by the hiss of the rain and the groan of the bus's engine.
The plastic shattered. Pieces skittered across the wet road, propelled by the force of the tires.
Atsushi kept walking, his free hand buried in the pocket of his black suit trousers, quietly whistling a tune he couldn't get out of his head. He was thinking about dinner, about his sofa, about the blissful emptiness of the next few weeks.
A single shard of plastic, tiny and sharp as a razor, was flung from the road by the pressure of the bus's tires. It flew through the air in a short, vicious arc, aimed directly at him.
And Atsushi didn't even have time to register what exactly was happening;
The tiny piece of embedded itself deep into the hollow of his neck. Right in the soft, vulnerable space between his trachea and the sternocleidomastoid muscle. The precise location where his carotid artery and internal jugular vein ran, just beneath the surface.
The effect was instantaneous.
Atsushi stopped mid-step, his whistling cut off with a sharp gasp. His hand flew to his neck, his fingers meeting the foreign object, the searing pain that was only now beginning to register. Surprise was the dominant emotion, a stark, cold shock that eclipsed the pain for a fleeting second.
Then he pulled his hand away and looked at his fingers.
They were scarlet. His blood, vivid and shockingly red, washed away instantly by the rain as it poured down his hand, only to be replaced by more immediately. Atsushi didn't need to be a doctor to know he was in deep, unfathomable shit. The amount of blood, the way it was pulsing, pumping from the wound...
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
He took a shaky step back, as if he could somehow undo the last five seconds. He could feel it now — the frantic, powerful pulse of his carotid artery against the embedded shard, the hot gush of blood hemorrhaging from his neck. It was soaking his collar, staining his white shirt a deep, spreading crimson before mingling with the rain and pouring onto the wet ground at his feet. Why was there so much blood? Did it hit something vital? He needed a hospital. He needed to put pressure on it, to call for help—
Atsushi's knees buckled.
They gave way without warning, the strength draining from his body as quickly as the blood from his neck. His laptop hit the ground with a wet thud, and he felt his consciousness, his very grip on reality, beginning to slip away, a curtain of gray closing in on the edges of his vision.
Around him, the world continued its indifferent hum. He could still vaguely hear the blare of a car horn in the distance, the fragmented chatter of passersby, the hurried slap of footsteps on the wet pavement. And then, piercing through the fog, a high, horrified scream. A woman's scream. Was that for him? He couldn't be sure. His senses were failing, shutting down one by one.
Atsushi's light brown eyes, glassy and unfocused, fluttered closed against his will. As his body began its slow, inevitable tilt forward, he caught a final, fragmented glimpse through the rain — a young woman, her face twisted in absolute horror, running towards him, a phone pressed to her ear. Her mouth was moving fast, but the sound was distant, muffled, like he was underwater.
His body violently hit the wet ground with a sickening, heavy thud. His eyes were closed now, his chest still. The blood continued to pulse from his neck, a relentless, rhythmic flow that pooled around his head, a dark red halo spreading in the gray rain.
His very last breath, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, escaped past his lips and was lost to the wind.
And just like that, at twenty-one years old, on a random rainy Tuesday morning, Okada Atsushi died in the most humiliating way imaginable.
━━━━━━━━
Atsushi felt like he was floating in the middle of a strangely calm ocean.
The sensation was nearly impossible to put into words — not that he was trying very hard, given that his brain felt like it was wrapped in the softest, warmest cotton imaginable. If Atsushi had to describe it, he'd say it was like the moment just before falling asleep, when you're perfectly comfortable and all the worries of the day have completely melted away, except magnified by a thousand. His mind, usually cluttered with mundane thoughts about work, dinner, and the general monotony of his existence, was now completely empty.
Blissfully, peacefully empty.
Atsushi's body felt impossibly light, as if gravity had simply decided to stop applying to him, and for the first time in... well, ever, he felt absolutely nothing negative.
No boredom. No exhaustion. No vague sense of existential dread. Even the wound on his neck—
The wound on his neck?
Atsushi's eyes suddenly snapped open, and he only realized at that moment that they'd been closed in the first place. The first thing the boy saw made his brain stutter to a halt, then desperately try to reboot.
White.
Absolutely everything around him was white.
Not even the warm, creamy white of his apartment walls, or the harsh fluorescent white of his former office — this was a white so pure and absolute that it seemed to go on forever in every direction, with no horizon, no shadows, and no texture. Just... white. Endless, silent, pristine white.
By reflex more than anything, Atsushi's hand shot up to his neck, reaching for the spot where that tiny piece of plastic had embedded itself, where he'd felt his life pumping out of him in hot, terrifying pulses.
But his hand... he couldn't feel it moving.
He looked down, and yes, his arm was definitely there, rising towards his neck, but his body refused to transmit any sensation of the movement. In fact, now that he was paying attention, he realized he couldn't feel anything at all. Not the ground beneath him (was there ground?), not the air on his skin, not even the phantom echo of the pain that should have been screaming from his throat.
"What the actual fuck?" the words came out as a murmur, but his voice sounded strange — distant, echoey, like someone else was speaking far away. "I'm dead, aren't I?"
The thought should have been more alarming, but his newly calm soul seemed to buffer the impact.
"And this is... Heaven?"
Atsushi squinted at the endless white around him, trying to find something — anything — that would confirm or deny this theory. If this was truly Heaven, then it was the most boring, minimalist version imaginable. No harps, no clouds, no pearly gates. Just... white, and white again. And if he was dead, then why did he still feel so aware? So present? His memories were intact — he remembered the rain, the bus, the shard of plastic, the blood. He remembered the woman running towards him with her phone. He remembered the exact moment his body had given up.
So why was he here, alone, in this infinite white void?
Having absolutely no other options and no idea if he was even supposed to be doing anything, Atsushi decided to try walking. Maybe there was something other than white a little further ahead? A door, a sign, literally anything? He sincerely hoped so, because the alternative — wandering completely alone in an endless white room for eternity — was a special kind of hell he hadn't even considered.
Atsushi started walking.
Or rather, he willed himself to walk, and when he looked down, his legs were indeed moving in a walking motion. But he felt nothing, again. No pressure of his feet against the ground, no shift of weight, no subtle movements of muscles and joints. It was like controlling a character in a video game, except the character was his own body and the sensory feedback was completely disconnected.
He looked down at himself.
His clothes were still the same — the damp white shirt now dry and pristine, his black suit trousers, and his loosened tie. No bloodstains. No rain. Atsushi looked exactly as he had before the whole disaster unfolded, except for the complete lack of any physical sensation.
"Is this a joke or what?" he sighed, genuine annoyance creeping into his voice despite his soul's persistent calm. "Why am I even here, to begin with?"
He was supposed to be dead. Dead in a really embarrassing way that he'd like to forget forever, thanks very much. So why was he still breathing (he realized he was, in fact, breathing), still seeing, still thinking, still existing as if nothing had happened? None of this made any sense.
The brief burst of energy that had prompted him to walk faded quickly, replaced by his characteristic laziness.
What was the point, really? If this void was infinite, walking wouldn't accomplish a single thing. If it wasn't infinite, something would eventually appear whether he walked or not. Either way, effort seemed pointless.
Atsushi decided to sit down instead.
Or rather, he decided to sit, and his body complied, arranging itself into a seated position on... whatever was beneath him. The young man still felt absolutely nothing — no ground, no pressure — but he was getting used to this strange, disconnected existence.
Hell, even the thing he was sitting on wasn't really ground. It was just more of the same endless, formless white.
After a very long moment of staring blankly into the void, Atsushi leaned back and laid down completely, spreading his arms and legs in a starfish shape. If he was going to be trapped in an infinite white space, he might as well be comfortable. Or as comfortable as one could be without actually feeling anything.
Atsushi stared up at... well, up.
There was no ceiling, no sky, just more white. Atsushi's mind, freed from the need to process sensory input, began to wander. He thought about his apartment, his sofa, the yakisoba he'd been planning to eat. He thought about Tanaka's shocked face, Aina's soft laugh. He thought about the bastard who'd ratted him out and wondered if they were enjoying their promotion right now.
And then, at the exact moment he decided to stop trying to understand anything — because really, what was the point, and honestly he couldn't be bothered — he felt something.
Not on his body, but... a presence. A presence so powerful, so vast, so utterly overwhelming that it made the infinite white void around him feel suddenly small and contained. It was suffocating in its intensity, pressing against his consciousness from all sides, and yet there was nothing threatening about it. It felt ancient. It felt divine.
"Atsushi."
The voice resonated directly in his head, gentle and melodious, like the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard wrapped in warmth itself.
"You're finally here," a little pause, weighted with something that felt like centuries of patience. "Do you know how long I've waited for you?"
Atsushi's head snapped up, his body moving without his conscious command.
What stood before him was... incredible. Fascinating, even. Terrifying in the most beautiful way possible.
At first glance, one might say it was just an ordinary man. But Atsushi knew, with an immense certainty that went deeper than thought or reason, that this was no man. The aura emanating from this being was so powerful, so undeniably divine, that it stirred something deep within Atsushi's very soul — something he hadn't even known existed until this very moment. This being in front of him was a God. Atsushi was absolutely certain of it.
And yet, when Atsushi tried to make out his face, his mind refused to comply.
It was like trying to hold water in his hands — the moment he thought he had it, the details instantly slipped away. All he could perceive was that this being was roughly his height, around six feet tall, with hair so light it was almost white, verging on an ethereal, luminous gold. A magnificent golden scarf covered his eyes, the fabric itself seeming to shimmer with its own inner light, divine and untouchable. His clothing was very simple — just a white robe sprinkled with delicate gold accents, the kind of robe a God would wear in ancient paintings.
He was so magnificent it almost hurt to look at him.
And his smile. That smile was so gentle, so warm, so full of something that looked like love, that Atsushi felt a sharp, aching pain deep in his soul. He didn't know why; he'd never seen this being before in his life. But something in that smile made him feel like he'd been missing something his entire existence without knowing it.
"Who are you?" the question tumbled out before Atsushi could stop it. "No, before that—where am I? Why am I here? I'm supposed to be dead, I felt myself die, but I'm still—I'm still here, and I don't understand anything, and—"
"Please, calm down first," the divine voice resonated in his head once again, cutting through his rambling with gentle authority. "Your soul is so agitated, Atsushi."
"I..."
The divine being stepped closer, closing the distance between them with a fluid grace that didn't seem to involve actual walking. He raised a hand and placed it delicately on Atsushi's shoulder, and the moment those fingers made contact — through his shirt, through his skin, directly to something deeper — Atsushi felt his soul settle. The confusion, the anxiety, the desperate need for answers... it all smoothed out like ripples disappearing from a pond.
He was still confused, still had a thousand questions, but the frantic edge was gone.
"I have waited for you for a long time, Atsushi," the being removed his hand just as delicately, and Atsushi almost wanted to ask him to put it back. "A very, very long time."
He waited for me? The thought echoed in Atsushi's newly calm mind. What does that even mean? Why would a God wait for me? I'm just... me. Average Atsushi who got fired and died in the most embarrassing way possible.
Atsushi swallowed hard, his throat working even though he couldn't even feel it. His soul might be calm now, as serene as an ocean without a single wave, but his mind was still spinning. Way too much was happening in too short a time, and his poor human brain, used to processing nothing more complicated than what to eat for dinner, was really, really struggling to keep up.
"Let's walk, shall we?"
The being looked at him — Atsushi couldn't see his eyes behind that golden scarf, but he did felt that gaze, heavy and warm and full of something that made his chest ache. It was the look someone might give a long-lost treasure they'd finally found again. And Atsushi couldn't understand why. Really, he was nothing special. He'd never done anything remarkable. He was just... him.
But he pushed his questions to the back of his mind for now, letting them wait patiently, and decided — without really hesitating — to follow this God.
Atsushi fell into step behind the divine being, walking slowly, deliberately keeping himself a few centimeters back. It felt right, somehow. Disrespectful to walk alongside such a superior being — but the God himself didn't seem to share that opinion; he slowed his own pace, matching Atsushi's stride until they were both walking side by side. His gentle smile never wavered.
Atsushi still felt like they were walking in place. The white void around them didn't change, didn't shift, didn't offer any landmarks to measure progress against. They could have been walking for seconds or hours; he had no way of telling.
"Where are we?" he finally asked, his voice still carrying that strange, distant quality.
The divine being made a small pout, his brow furrowing slightly as if considering the question carefully. It was such an unexpectedly human expression that Atsushi felt his tension ease just a little.
"Well..." the being tilted his head. "Let's just say we're at my home. Kind of like my sanctuary."
That doesn't explain anything at all, Atsushi thought, but he kept it to himself.
"So why am I here? And who are you? Are you a God?"
The being's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew warmer, more amused. Atsushi could feel his unseen gaze on him, gentle and penetrating.
"You are here because I was waiting for you, Atsushi," he said it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I waited for quite a long time, you know? Watching you live your life was... entertaining. Quite enjoyable, actually," his smile took on a slightly amused curve. "I was rather surprised, and admittedly quite amused, by the way you lost your life. Very creative. Very... you."
Atsushi stopped dead in his tracks.
He... watched me live?
The realization hit him like a truck.
He saw everything? Every boring day at work, every nap on my sofa, every embarrassing moment?
Atsushi's face flushed hot with mortification.
And he saw me die? In such a stupid, pathetic, completely avoidable way?
"Oh my God." Atsushi hid his face in his hands, his voice completely muffled. "Tell me this is a bad dream. Please. I'm begging you."
A soft laugh escaped the divine being, his shoulders shaking with quiet amusement.
"And I wouldn't call myself a God," he continued, as if Atsushi's existential crisis was merely a pleasant interruption. "Please, you can simply call me Shinji. I am absolutely nothing like a God."
Shinji. The name settled into Atsushi's mind, feeling somehow familiar and completely foreign at the same time.
He lowered his hands, his face still warm.
"Shinji," the name felt strange on his tongue. "What did you mean when you said you waited for me? I really don't understand. Why me? What's so special about me?"
Shinji crossed his arms behind his back, his expression serene, peaceful in a way that Atsushi had never seen on any living face. They continued walking — or at least, Atsushi's legs moved, and Shinji moved beside him, though the void remained stubbornly unchanged.
"If I offered you the chance to be reborn," Shinji said, gently ignoring Atsushi's question. "What would your answer be?"
Atsushi didn't hesitate for a single second. "Oh hell no."
The response came from somewhere deep in his soul, automatic and absolute. Live another life? Start over from scratch? The very thought made Atsushi tired.
Being reborn would mean going through everything once again — childhood, school, puberty, the awkward teenage years, the struggle to find a job, and the monotony of daily existence. Even if Atsushi kept all his memories, even if he had some kind of advantage, he'd still have to redo his entire education. Sit through endless years of classes he'd already taken. Deal with teachers, with homework, with exams. And for what? So he could eventually end up in another boring job, in another gray office, pretending to care about something meaningless?
No. Absolutely not. Death was supposed to be the end. The final rest. He'd earned that much, at least.
Shinji let out another soft laugh, his shoulders shaking with genuine amusement.
"I knew you would say that," his smile softened, becoming something almost apologetic. "But I'm really sorry to tell you... you don't actually have a choice, Atsushi. After all, that's the reason I waited for you for so long."
Atsushi stopped walking.
His eyes fixed on Shinji, searching for... something. A hint that this was a joke, maybe. Or some sign that he was simply misunderstanding.
"What?" his voice came out flat. "What do you mean, I don't have a choice? Wait—I have to start a new life? Really?" Indignation crept into his tone, sharp and hot. "You're telling me I died, and instead of resting in peace like a normal dead person, I have to do the whole thing over again?"
Is this some kind of cosmic joke? Did I offend some deity in a past life I don't remember?
Shinji's expression remained gentle, patient, like a parent explaining something difficult to a child.
"Unfortunately, Atsushi, it's far too early for me to explain everything," he paused, his unseen gaze heavy on Atsushi's face. "There are things you're not ready to understand yet. Things that will become clear in time."
Shinji looked away then, his head tilting slightly as if listening to something, or perhaps looking at something in the distance. His brow furrowed just a fraction. Atsushi followed his gaze, squinting into the endless white, but saw absolutely nothing.
"Do you have any other questions?" Shinji asked, turning back to him. "We don't have much time left."
Atsushi opened his mouth, a dozen questions fighting for priority — why me? What do you mean you waited? What's going to happen in my new life? Why can't you explain now? But something stopped him. The look on Shinji's face, perhaps. The sense that whatever was coming was inevitable, and fighting it would simply be useless. This wasn't a situation where he had any real choice.
Atsushi sighed, running a hand through his honey-blonde hair — or at least, he went through the movement, since he still couldn't feel anything.
"Will I at least be rich?" he asked.
It was honestly the only question that came to mind, practical and self-interested and perfectly in character. Atsushi tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy, his hair falling across his eyes.
"In my new life. If I have to do this whole thing again, the least you could do is make me rich."
Shinji chuckled once more, the sound warm and fond. He took a few steps closer, closing the distance between them until he was standing right in front of Atsushi. Even without seeing his eyes, Atsushi could feel the weight of his gaze, full of something that looked suspiciously like affection.
"You will be," Shinji said softly. "Indeed, you will be very, very rich."
A huge smile spread across Atsushi's face, bright and genuine, and excitement bubbled up in his chest.
If he was going to be rich — really rich, as Shinji promised — then he wouldn't have to work in his next life at all! He could just... exist, and enjoy himself. Do absolutely nothing all day, every day, and eat only the most delicious foods ever. He could travel, maybe. Or just stay home and be lazy in absolute luxury. Either way, it sounded infinitely better than his previous existence of gray offices and mind-numbing boredom. He could clearly see it now; a beautiful mansion with a beautiful view, a kitchen full of ingredients for whatever he wanted to cook (or better yet, a personal chef!), a sofa so comfortable it would be illegal. No boss, no coworkers, no pretending to care about things that didn't matter — just peace, just freedom.
His new life was looking excellent.
"It deeply saddens me," Shinji's voice brought him back to the present. "But it's already time for you to leave."
Shinji's expression shifted slightly, something melancholic flickering across his ethereal features before settling back into that gentle smile.
"But please, don't worry—I will always be with you. Although not physically."
Atsushi's excitement dimmed slightly, replaced by confusion. "What do you mean?"
Shinji didn't answer directly. Instead, he reached out and placed his hand delicately on Atsushi's head, his fingers threading gently through his honey-blonde hair, ruffling it with a tenderness that made Atsushi's chest ache again.
"I wish you good luck, Atsushi, because you will need it," his voice was softly serious now. "Seeing you has been my greatest pleasure. I sincerely hope we meet again."
Atsushi opened his mouth to ask what he meant — What do you mean I'll need luck? What do you mean you'll always be with me? What does any of this even mean? — but no sound came out of his mouth. His throat seized, his vocal cords refusing to cooperate. He brought his hands to his throat instinctively, frowning in confusion.
What's happening now?
When he pulled his hands away, they were covered in blood.
His blood — fresh and red and pulsing, just like before, just like on the rainy street. But this time, he felt no pain. No sensation at all. He looked down at himself and saw the blood spreading across his white shirt, soaking through the fabric, but his body refused to acknowledge it.
Atsushi's vision began to darken at the edges, the endless white slowly fading to gray, then black. He felt his breathing become difficult, his chest struggling, but still no pain. No fear, just the strange, detached observation of his own death.
Did Shinji make it so I don't feel anything? he wondered distantly. Is this his parting gift?
Through the darkness creeping across his vision, he could still see Shinji. The divine simply being stood there, watching him with that same gentle smile, his golden scarf hiding eyes that Atsushi suddenly desperately wanted to see. His lips moved, forming words that didn't reach Atsushi's ears, didn't resonate in his head.
And for the second time, just like that, Okada Atsushi died.
[ Welcome back, Atsushi! ]
Or rather — a soft voice that sounded suspiciously exactly like Shinji's echoed in the void he left behind, welcome to your new beginning.