The second I step off campus, everything shifts.

  The school’s endless buzz fades behind me, swapped for the chill quiet of the backstreets. Not many people around, which just means more time to wallow in the pain and humiliation wrecking my life right now.

  I limp. Not in a cool, action-hero way. More like “I fought my zipper and lost.”

  Yeah, full-on groin assault, all thanks to my tragic speed-zipping attempt. Ten out of ten wouldn’t recommend.

  Honestly, every guy’s probably had a close call down there, but mine? Mine deserved a slow-mo replay with sad violin music.

  Anyway, let’s not dwell on that.

  The real nightmare isn’t the pain. It’s knowing the word’s already out. High schools’ve got faster gossip networks than Twitter.

  Bet Rei knows. Bet everyone does. I can already picture her face. That awkward mix of pity and secondhand embarrassment.

  I groan, muttering some not-safe-for-school words under my breath like a tragic hero cursing the gods. My pace picks up once the pain dulls to a tolerable throb. Every step’s an angry stomp. I’m punishing the sidewalk for existing.

  Sometimes I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting a squad of students to jump out with their phones, ready to add my failure to the group chat.

  Only two people know where I’m headed. Mai, who I trust. And Taiga, who I tolerate.

  I’m not really into crowds. I’m all about handling my stuff solo. Just me, my thoughts, and a vague sense of doom.

  Ten minutes later, I roll into the old part of town. Everything here looks like it’s got a backstory. The buildings are low and packed tight, like they’re gossiping about the good old days. The paint’s chipped, the windows are dusty, and the sidewalks are uneven enough to sprain an ankle. Honestly? Kind of beautiful.

  The wind brushes past like it’s got something to say, and the background hum of distant traffic makes it feel like the city’s watching but doesn’t care enough to step in.

  Then, out of nowhere, a black BMW pulls up beside me. Slick. Silent. Shiny.

  The windows are tinted so dark, I wouldn’t be surprised if they sucked in light.

  My gut immediately screams, Main character energy, danger approaching.

  I slow down, half-expecting the door to swing open and a bunch of guys in matching suits to hop out like I’ve just triggered a boss fight.

  But nothing happens. No door swings open. No suit guys. No music.

  Still, I side-eye the car as I walk past, just in case I got to run for my life.

  Finally, I spot it. My destination.

  Sandwiched between a bakery that smells like heaven and a bookstore that smells like… paper… is Komei’s Games.

  The sign above the door used to be gold, I think. Now it’s just “old but trying.” The shop window is cluttered with retro posters and old consoles, like it’s been frozen in time during the golden era of gaming. Faded Mario, moody Cloud, angry Street Fighters—all watching over the entrance like pixelated guardians.

  Walking in feels like getting hugged by childhood memories and static electricity.

  The place’s a glorious mess. Shelves are overflowing with cartridges, discs, and game boxes from every generation. Atari to PS5, all jammed together like some kind of nerd museum curated by a hoarder with taste.

  The smell? A weird but comforting mix of solder, dust, and melancholy. Not for everyone, sure, but for me? Peak aromatherapy.

  Behind the counter sits the legend himself.

  Komei-san.

  Guy looks like he belongs in a Ghibli movie. Short, round, graying beard, tiny spectacles hanging off his nose like they’re barely holding on to the will to live.

  He glances up from his newspaper, eyes narrowing over the top of the pages.

  Yeah. He saw the limp.

  I stand tall anyway, like nothing’s wrong. ’Cause dignity? Totally a state of mind.

  “Yo, Komei-san.” I toss him a casual bow that probably looks more like a neck cramp.

  “Hey there, Kira-chan.” He gives me a nod, folding his newspaper like it’s some ancient scroll of wisdom. “Done with class?”

  “Yep.” I jerk my thumb toward the back. “If you need me, I’ll be at my spot.”

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  “Sure thing,” he says, nodding again. Then, right as I’m turning, he hits me with, “So, Kira-chan. This year gonna be your year?”

  I freeze.

  Open my mouth to answer, and boom—

  Rei’s voice hijacks my brain. All sweet and chaotic, like a demon with a sugar rush.

  “Zipper-kun! Zipper-kun! Zipper-kun!”

  My soul flatline.

  I slam my palms over my ears like I’m trying to smother a ghost. No words. No comebacks. Just pure mental retreat. I stomp off without answering, dignity in shreds, pride dragging behind me like a busted backpack.

  The back of the shop’s dim and dusty, full of forgotten shelves and flickering fluorescent lights that make it feel like I’m walking into a boss dungeon. This place’s been my hideout since junior high. My escape pod. My secret therapy booth.

  And waiting for me in the corner, like a loyal dog with anger issues, is Time Crisis II.

  Old. Sturdy. Stunning. The arcade cabinet’s tucked there like a shrine. The dual light guns are mounted up front, daring me to waste a few hours blasting digital baddies instead of dealing with real-life embarrassment.

  Here’s a little-known fact about me.

  Besides peaches (and yeah, I don’t mean the fruit), I’m also a total sucker for anything with guns. Not in some creepy loner manifesto way. More like a stylish action movie protagonist who just wants a snack and a clean shot.

  This corner of Komei’s Games? It’s my personal warzone.

  The rest of the shop could burn for all I care. Over here, the sound of enemy grunts and explosions drowns out whatever mental madness I’ve dragged in with me.

  Taiga and the others are all about those slow-burn RPGs with ten-minute cut-scenes and theatrical betrayal arcs. Me? I don’t need some epic saga about destiny. Just give me a plastic gun and wave after wave of bad guys. Let me shoot my problems in the face, thank you very much.

  Part of it’s from my keisatsukan dream. Aside from the weird fantasy of chasing and frisking deri jō in Nakasu’s red-light district, the thought of protecting people with a handgun? Yeah, that hits different.

  Komei-san must’ve seen me storm off, because I hear him mumble something behind me like, What’s with this kid?

  Valid question, honestly.

  But I’m not listening. I’ve got a mission. I grab the light gun and boot up the game, picking my go-to character, Keith Martin. The guy’s got energy. Style. Probably doesn’t mess up his zipper.

  I’ve already beaten the game with my right hand like a hundred times. My current goal? Beat it with my left hand. And let me tell you, it’s hell. Pure, finger-cramping hell.

  The game fires up, and I slip into the zone.

  Every enemy that pops out? Gone.

  Every reload? Smooth.

  Every level cleared? A small win against the cringy horror reel looping in my head.

  For a while, nothing exists except me and the screen. I’m not Kira, the walking disaster. I’m Agent Keith. Dual-wielding pro. Hero of the hour. Defender of the peace. Zipper? What zipper?

  And then, almost two hours in, it happens. Final stage cleared. Game complete. My eyes widen.

  A sound explodes from the machine. My victory theme.

  I let out a victorious whoop, fist-pumping the air like I’ve just dunked on the universe, and maybe throw in a little dance that should never be seen by human eyes. I’ve done it. Left-handed completion, baby.

  I’m now ambidextrous and emotionally unstable. It’s a deadly combo.

  I turn, still buzzing, and wave at Komei-san. “See you tomorrow.”

  He just shakes his head like I’ve said something about the meaning of life, and he hated the answer. “Okay. Take care, Kira-chan.”

  The air outside hits me like a cool restart button.

  Everything feels lighter. Like I’ve just offloaded a truck full of shame and replaced it with pure pixel-fueled confidence.

  Zipper-kun might’ve taken the L earlier, but now? I’m back on the leaderboard.

  The sun dips low, dragging streaks of orange across the sky like someone spilled a smoothie on the ceiling. The streets go into chill mode. Just a few cars rolling by and soft evening chatter that makes you feel like the world’s on low volume.

  I’m halfway to zoning out completely when I reach the junction. That’s when I see them.

  A mom and her little girl step into the crosswalk. The light’s green. Everything looks safe. Like, capital-S Safe. Textbook urban peace.

  And then comes the sound.

  Screeching tires.

  That same slick black BMW from earlier. Yeah, the one that gave me villain vibes. It tears down the street like it’s got a grudge against sidewalks.

  Its engine howls like some caged beast that just snapped. Time doesn’t just slow. It stops. My brain goes full emergency mode, every neuron screaming in caps.

  The car’s heading straight for them.

  Without even thinking, I break into a sprint.

  “Watch out!” I shout, voice cracking halfway through, like my puberty came back just to mess with me.

  The mom and kid freeze, eyes wide, feet locked in place. I don’t stop to think. I just launch myself forward.

  I catch them with a shoulder and a shove, sending them stumbling out of the kill zone. They look at me like I’ve just dropped from the sky in a cape and spandex. For a hot second, I actually feel it. Like I’ve just pulled off the dopest hero move in history.

  But that warm-fuzzy glow? Yeah, it lasts about one heartbeat.

  Then the car hits me. Hard.

  Everything goes crack and snap and oh god, what’s my spine even doing?

  I’m airborne. Arms flailing. Pain like a thousand tiny ninjas with shurikens lights me up from the inside. But weirdly enough? I’m not panicking.

  I’m floating.

  Detached.

  Like I’m watching someone else’s body get sent to the moon.

  And then the dumbest thought slaps me.

  I’m flying. Without wings.

  Gravity’s taking its sweet time dragging me down. Meanwhile, the sky above stretches out like some kind of endless IMAX screen. Everything else fades. The car. The street. The mom. The kid. Gone.

  Then the weird part starts.

  Giant flowers bloom in midair.

  Like, huge. Absurdly huge. Petals spin open like slow-mo fireworks, catching the light in that anime sparkle way.

  Each one looks like it’s modeled after a peach, ’cause… yeah, of course it is. My subconscious is apparently a hopeless perv.

  I reach out, fingers brushing the edge of a petal that sparkles like it’s made of soft glass. I want to stay. Float forever in this dreamscape of vivid hallucination.

  But then—

  Smack?

  Nope.

  Crash?

  Still nope.

  Instead, I land cross-legged in some massive room with no windows, no doors, and no instructions. Just a whole lot of “where the hell am I?” feelings. The shift had been so smooth, it felt like falling asleep during class and waking up in a completely different subject.

  My brain’s lagging hard trying to catch up. The place’s glowing, like the air itself has its brightness setting turned up too high. The room spans in every direction, no walls in sight. Just light. And space. And silence.

  I squint, scanning for answers.

  Nothing.

  No magical narrator. No “Press Start To Continue.” No loading bar.

  Just me and the realization my high-speed car crash either dumped me in another dimension or some weird spiritual limbo.

  I look around again, utterly baffled.

  Then mutter under my breath, dead serious. “Where the hell did the peaches even go?”