Kill Sector: Tokyo

Thirty minutes later, Shiro arrived with a dinner tray.

She seemed thrilled to fuss over Miyuki, bursting with enthusiasm.

"Here you go!" she chirped, presenting the tray.

"Thanks," Miyuki mumbled, rising from the bed in his black tank top, having shed his coat and shirt.

He noticed the room's chill. The open window. Heading to close it, he felt a gaze and turned. Shiro stared, her expression hesitant, as if struggling to find words.

Miyuki understood instantly. His back, exposed by the tank top, bore a massive tattoo—two snakes devouring each other's tails, forming a circle. Uroboros.

But the tattoo was marred, as if torn from his skin. The scarred area was gouged, discolored a dull red. Miyuki had seen it in mirrors at the Hagaromo Research Center. It was, he admitted, a brutal scar.

Shiro, concerned, asked, "Does your back… hurt?"

"Not anymore," Miyuki replied with a wry smile, looking away. "Just… old baggage."

He didn't want to talk about the Uroboros tattoo—it carried painful memories. He braced for questions; anyone would ask about such a mark.

But Shiro, defying expectation, leaned in, searching his eyes. "Really not hurting?"

Miyuki flinched, leaning back. "N-no. No pain anymore."

"Good!" Shiro beamed, her relief genuine, as if Miyuki's well-being was her only concern. She asked nothing more, as if sensing his reluctance.

(No way…) Miyuki thought. Maybe Shiro just wasn't curious. Or didn't want to pry. Either way, dodging explanations was a relief.

He sighed, tension easing.

Shiro handed him the tray. "Ol made this. He's great at cooking!"

The meal—grilled fish, boiled greens, pickles, rice, and miso soup—felt like a school cafeteria spread. Outside the window, ruins loomed, yet this ordinary meal peeked through the chaos. The contrast was jarring.

"Can I eat with you?" Shiro asked.

Miyuki hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."

Shiro bounced with joy, darted out, and returned with her own tray, identical to his. They sat on the bed, eating. Shiro, munching rice, spoke up.

"Yuki, you came from outside the Wall?"

"Yeah."

"What'd you do out there?"

"Well… I was in Tokyo first. Then I woke up outside the Wall. Now I'm back."

"Huh? That's complicated," Shiro said, tilting her head, picking at her salmon.

Miyuki froze, staring. Shiro continued.

"I don't know anything outside the Wall. I've always been here."

Miyuki's breath caught.

The Wall and isolation policy began right after he entered cryogenic sleep twenty years ago. A child born here, never knowing the outside world, wasn't impossible. Shiro had grown up in this warped reality, ignorant of normal happiness. The thought tightened Miyuki's chest.

But Shiro, unfazed, smiled. "Is the outside big? What's it like?"

"I grew up in Tokyo, so I don't know much else," Miyuki said. "Twenty years ago, it was a global world. You could go abroad easily. I went to Taiwan and Australia for school trips. Now… I don't know."

"Abroad!?" Shiro's eyes sparkled. "That's cool! But… twenty years ago?"

She stared, sensing something off.

"Uh, well…" Miyuki faltered. He'd slipped up. Panic hit, but then he gave up. Lying was exhausting, and they'd probably doubt him anyway. No penalty for being thought crazy. So, he spoke plainly.

"I… was in cryogenic sleep. Like I time-traveled from twenty years ago."

"Cryo… what?" Shiro looked puzzled.

"Yeah… I don't get it either," Miyuki said, laughing weakly.

Shiro's face fell briefly, then brightened. "But I get that you're from twenty years ago!"

"You… believe me?" Miyuki asked, stunned.

"Yup. Your eyes didn't lie. So it's probably true."

"Shiro…"

"Twenty years is super long. Before I was born. Coming from that far…?" Shiro paused. "Like Urashima Taro. That must be… lonely, right?"

Miyuki stared at her profile. Shiro's eyes, usually childlike, held a mature sadness. It struck him.

"Shiro wants Yuki to not be lonely," she said, her smile returning. "I'll help you feel better!"

She lifted her miso soup bowl, sipping eagerly. "Food's getting cold. Eat!"

Miyuki watched her. (She's kind.)

The thought came naturally. Shiro's childishness wasn't selfish—it held care and empathy. She understood pain.

Miyuki warmed to her. If Shiro were a neighbor or classmate, they'd be friends without hesitation.

If Shiro weren't a Ghost. If Miyuki weren't one either.

Could he have smiled back freely then?

Miyuki spent his first night in Prison City in the assigned room but barely slept.

The next morning, donning his coat, he descended to the first floor. The room from yesterday was empty.

"Now's my chance!"

Grateful for the lodging, he didn't want to get too entangled with the agency. He'd leave to check his home and school.

But Shiro's voice stopped him. "Yuki! Morning! Sleep well?"

"Shiro…" Miyuki cursed inwardly. Too late.

Shiro bounded down the stairs, approaching with a grin. "Going somewhere?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"Can I come?"

Miyuki paused. Shiro's guileless smile wasn't surveillance—just genuine interest.

He considered refusing, but that smile softened him. Shiro seemed harmless, and Miyuki, new to this Tokyo, could use a guide. He could ditch her later if needed.

"Might be a long walk. That okay?" Miyuki asked.

"Yup, I'm fine!" Shiro chirped.

They set off together.

Outside, the area had relatively intact buildings, though aged. Asphalt held up, a small miracle. Towering office buildings lined the street, forming a canyon-like corridor that felt oppressive despite the wide road. The Shinonome Detective Agency, a weathered four-story mansion, stood defiantly among them. Looking up, Miyuki saw a clear sky and more skyscrapers.

"This… Shinjuku?" he asked.

"Yup!" Shiro nodded.

Foot traffic was sparse, far lonelier than the Shinjuku of twenty years ago, once a bustling hub. That everyone here was a Ghost twisted Miyuki's heart.

"Let's go," he said, starting west.

Shiro followed, asking, "Where to?"

"My house and school. I need to see them. They… might be gone."

Given the destruction he'd seen, it was likely. Even if structures remained, the people were probably long gone.

Still, he had to see for himself. Without facing the truth, he couldn't move forward.

"Your house'll be there," Shiro said softly.

Miyuki nodded. "Yeah… maybe."

They walked side by side, passing under massive buildings, the twin towers of the metropolitan government building fading behind. Crossing the highway loop, they reached Nakano, where familiar sights emerged.

But destruction returned—houses half-torn, leaning, or collapsed. A familiar post office's sign was snapped; a pharmacy's windows were shattered, shelves toppled inside. Apartments looked abandoned, save for laundry on upper floors. Everything had changed.

Dread quickened Miyuki's pace.

He reached his home.

"Is this… your house?" Shiro asked, voice hesitant.

No wonder. The house was gone, reduced to a flat lot. No foundation, no mimosa tree from the garden—just weeds overtaking the untended ground.

Miyuki stared silently. No emotions surfaced; he could barely process the sight.

After a moment, he stepped onto the lot. "Thought my place was small… but it was kinda big."

His voice was soft. Spotting a glint in the grass, he picked up an old marble. More lay scattered—about twenty colorful glass orbs with feather-like patterns inside.

"Pretty," Shiro whispered.

Miyuki nodded, pocketing them, unable to discard the fragments.

They left soon after.

His high school was nearby, its earthquake-resistant structure intact.

But inside, it was ravaged. Corridor tiles peeled, windows shattered, glass strewn about. Desks and blackboards were piled in corners, bulbs mostly broken, leaving the halls dim even in daylight.

Miyuki headed to his classroom. Once filled with chatter, it was now eerily silent.

He'd attended this school for barely a year—too short to continue after his first Animus use. Unremarkable before, with decent grades, sports, and relationships, he'd been an average student. But that made him a target.

In his first year's autumn, near Christmas, upperclassmen—former karate club members, black belts, notorious delinquents—cornered him, demanding money. To protect himself, he instinctively used his Animus. He barely understood it then, but recalled them flying back like movie villains.

A week later, he learned a hidden video of it had gone viral, causing an uproar.

Classmates and teachers, once indifferent, turned on him. The betrayal felt like the world itself had rejected him.

Now, no trace of them remained.

His gaze dropped to the floor. Burn marks scarred it—someone had lit fires here. Food scraps, cans, and trash littered the space, unnoticed in the dimness until his eyes adjusted.

Someone was using this place. As the realization hit, Shiro spoke.

"Yuki, let's go."

His ears twitched, alert.

Miyuki gritted his teeth. Just yesterday, he'd faced skull-tattooed thugs. Whoever frequented here was likely a Ghost—caution was warranted.

No need to linger. He left the school.

Stepping outside, blinding sunlight hit him. At the crumbling gate, he looked back at the ruined school.

"It's all… gone," he murmured.

He'd braced himself, but imagining loss and seeing it were worlds apart. Stunned, he couldn't shake the raw shock.

Shiro's small hand gripped his tightly.

"Back to the agency?"

Miyuki nodded faintly. He'd planned to ditch Shiro, but now, that thought was gone. Alone, he might've collapsed, overwhelmed by the loss of his anchors.

He wasn't sure he could've endured that.