Chapter 12: Hunger

Freedom.

That’s what they called this.

But the first breath of outside air was a blade in my lungs.

The first sound of Tokyo was a scream I couldn’t quiet.

I crawled out of the suitcase like a rat from a sewer, body drenched in stale sweat, rain soaking me before I could even stand. The ground was wet concrete. Cold. Slick. My palms pressed into puddles that reflected light—colors I hadn’t seen in fifteen years.

Neon bled across the night like an open wound: crimson kanji burning above pachinko parlors, cobalt strokes of light fencing ramen stalls, pink strobes dripping over rain-slick asphalt. Everything pulsed. Too loud. Too bright. Too alive.

And I—

I was dead.

The city had moved on. Faster. Louder. Like it didn’t remember men like me.

I staggered into the street. Cars hissed by, slicing puddles into shards of glass. Horns shrieked. People brushed past me without a glance. Faces glowing from screens. No one looked at the man who crawled out of hell.

My stomach clenched so hard I nearly doubled over. Hunger—a beast gnawing at my spine, ripping through ribs. Fifteen years of rations and metal trays had left me hollow.

Food.

I needed food.

I gripped the edge of a building, dragged myself forward. Signs flickered overhead—ramen, soba, yakitori—but every step felt like wading through tar. The city was a blur of umbrellas and rushing feet.

Then I heard it.

A sound that didn’t belong to this neon symphony.

A woman’s voice. Frayed. Trembling.

“Please… stop—”

I turned the corner.

---

Three boys. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Cigarettes glowing in the rain like tiny embers. They had her boxed in against a rusted shutter—an office lady, late thirties, clutching her handbag like a shield.

“Come on, oba-san,” one jeered, smoke curling from his grin. “Just a smile. That’s all.”

Another snatched her bag. Apples spilled out, rolling across the gutter like tiny suns in the night.

She scrambled for them. They kicked them away. Laughed.

I froze.

Not because I was afraid. Because I felt something worse.

Heat.

The same heat I felt in that room when the walls started whispering.

Fifteen years of impotence. Fifteen years of fists clenching at ghosts.

And now, here they were. Something I could hit. Something real.

My legs moved before thought did.

---

The tallest one saw me first. Tilted his head. Scoffed.

“What’s this? Grandpa wants to play hero?”

Grandpa.

The word hung in the rain, sharp as a blade.

They laughed. The sound grated like broken glass.

“Go home, old man,” another said, stepping forward. “Before you break a hip.”

I didn’t answer. Words were currency I couldn’t afford.

I let my body speak.

---

He swung first. A lazy, looping punch born from arrogance.

I caught his wrist mid-air.

Snapped it sideways.

Bone cracked like dry wood.

His scream tore through the alley. The others froze.

Then I moved.

Not fast. Not wild. Precise. Efficient.

Everything I learned from TV—the countless hours of Bruce Lee tapes, Kyokushin karate broadcasts, survival documentaries—I carved them into my body in that cell, over and over until they were scripture.

A front kick folded the second boy in half. His breath left him in a wet grunt as he hit the ground.

The third charged, knife flashing from his pocket. I pivoted, caught his arm, drove my elbow into his temple. He crumpled like paper.

Rain slicked my skin. My breath came steady, controlled, even as my heart howled in my chest.

The leader—the one who called me Grandpa—stared at me with eyes wide, lips trembling.

“Go home,” I rasped. My voice sounded like gravel dragged over steel. “While you still can.”

He ran. Shoes splashing through puddles, fading into the night.

Silence fell.

The woman was sobbing softly, hugging herself in the shadows. I looked at her. She looked at me—really looked—and flinched. Like she saw something worse than the boys in the rain.

I turned away before I could see her face again.

---

My hands were shaking.

Not from weakness.

From something darker.

Power.

Control.

For the first time in fifteen years, I wasn’t prey.

I was the wolf.

And I didn’t know if I wanted to stop.

---

That’s when I saw him.

Not the kids. Not the woman.

Him.

A man in black. Standing at the edge of the alley under a vending machine’s glow. Face hidden in shadow, rain sliding down his coat. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched.

Something hit the ground at his feet. A phone. An envelope thick with bills.

I blinked. When I looked up, he was gone.

I walked to the spot, crouched, picked up the phone. Cold. Heavy. Not new.

The envelope—yen, crisp and bound.

Then the phone buzzed.

My pulse spiked. I pressed it to my ear.

The voice was calm. Precise. Like a surgeon slicing open my skull.

> “Seven years. For every year, a truth. Find them. Or be caged again.”

Click.

The line went dead.

---

I stood there in the rain, phone clutched in one hand, money in the other, as the words carved themselves into me like brands.

Seven truths. Seven years.

A laugh ripped from my throat—dry, jagged, feral. People walking past turned to stare. I didn’t care.

The hunger hit then, harder than before. It wasn’t just in my gut anymore. It was in my blood, my bones. A hunger for food. For answers. For destruction.

I staggered out of the alley, down a neon artery of the city. Lights bled into darkness. My vision tunneled. My knees buckled.

Then—salvation.

A ramen shop glowing warm through the rain. Lanterns swaying like little suns. The smell—broth, pork, soy—curled through the air like a lover’s touch.

I pushed inside. Heat slammed me. Voices blurred. A bowl landed in front of me.

I ate like an animal. Chopsticks stabbing. Broth spilling down my chin. My tongue burned, scalded, blistered. I didn’t care.

And then—darkness surged.

The last thing I saw was steam rising from the bowl, curling like ghost fingers toward the ceiling.

Then nothing.

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