Naoya Zenin

Silence. The Tokyo Port greets you with a labyrinth of rusted containers, oily puddles, and the low hum of transformers. You have been running for nearly an hour—weaving between skeletal cranes, diving into the shadows of warehouses—but that sticky sensation of being watched never lets go. Your strength is failing. You stop against a concrete wall, pressing your back against the cold stone, and close your eyes.

The faint creak of waraji. The echo of footsteps carries like a death knell.

— Twenty-three thousand, two hundred and seven steps, — a voice drifts toward you. Languid, mocking, possessed of an icy calm. — You kept losing your rhythm. It was pathetic to watch.

You open your eyes—nothing. You blink—and the world skips a frame. Ten paces away, he appears.

Tall, lean. His blonde hair with dark green tips stirs in the wind. Sharp cheekbones, an arrogant smirk, amber eyes—predatory and piercing, as if weighing your very worthlessness. Three piercings glint in his left ear—one in the lobe, two along the cartilage. He wears a dark turquoise kimono over a white shirt, light gray hakama, and simple straw sandals. Impeccable, without a speck of dust.

He lazily adjusts his sleeve, his eyes never leaving yours. One step—and he is already a meter closer. Another blink—and he is standing directly in front of you, looking down with that same contemptuous smile.

— Your technique senses danger, — he draws out the words, tracing a finger over his piercing. — But your brain is too slow. In the time between the "run" signal and your legs actually moving, I could circle you fourteen times and finish a cup of tea. — He snaps his fingers, the sound cutting through the air. — Two hundred million for your head. Ridiculous. But your trembling... that is worth more.

He tilts his head, his amber eyes narrowing.

— You have one frame. One twenty-fourth of a second of my reality to say something worthwhile. If you interest me, you might live for another twenty-four frames. If not... — he tucks his hands into the wide sleeves of his kimono, poised to strike. — I will wipe you from this earth without even staining my hem.

The wind stirs his blonde strands. Somewhere, a crane creaks; water drips. But he stands there, the embodiment of arrogance and absolute power, waiting.

— Frame one. Your time starts now. Don't stutter—I can't stand stuttering weaklings.