Chapter 10: An Unlikely Encounter

In the bustling city of Tokyo, the crowd didn’t stop for lost children. It just kept moving—fast, unbothered, a river of sound that never included her.

There Kotomi Doka crouched behind a rusted vending machine, knees tucked so tightly to her chest she felt like a forgotten toy. The jade-green armor was gone. Not shattered. Just... absent. The place where her energy had rested now felt hollow. The power she relied on to stop a mountain from falling was gone, replaced by a cold ache that felt like ice in her bones.

Her clothes, once neat and warm, hung in soaked tatters. The hem of her skirt was stiff with street grime and old rain. Her shoes didn’t match—one a cracked sneaker, the other a glittery sandal, both scavenged from donation bins like apologies.

As she shuffled past a bakery window. The scent of anpan—sweet red bean and warm dough—hit her like a memory she hadn’t earned, a taste of comfort that belonged to children who didn't fight wars.

This only made her stomach growl. Not politely. But like it was trying to claw its way out.

The bakery staff, pristine in white flour-dusted uniforms, snapped, their voice slicing through the warm scent. “Get out of here, you stupid brat. You’re chasing the customers away.”

Kotomi didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. She just pulled her torn collar higher and kept walking.

She hadn’t slept properly in days. The bridge she curled under was damp and loud, the concrete vibrating with cold traffic. Her body ached from meager dumpster scraps and half-eaten rice balls snatched when no one was looking.

People saw her. They always saw her. They just chose to do nothing.

“That poor girl…” one passerby murmured, pity distant and useless, as they hurried past.

“Idiot. Don’t look at her,” another hissed. “She’s trouble. You know what happens if the police find you talking to runaways.”

A woman in a business suit paused once. Her eyes flicked to Kotomi’s face, then to the bruises on her knees, the bags under her eyes, the way she reeked of damp and muck. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then walked on, her heels clicking a steady rhythm of rejection. Pity was a cheap coin, tossed quickly so the giver could walk away feeling clean.

Kotomi didn’t blame her. She didn’t blame anyone. Not really.

She just wanted her papa.

She pressed her forehead to the vending machine’s metal side. It hummed softly, like a lullaby she almost remembered.

“Papa…” she whispered, voice cracked, seeking a reply the city couldn’t give.

Every once in a while above her, a drone buzzed past—white, sleek, silently corporate. It hovered for a moment, scanning the alley with a high, metallic whine. It looked less like surveillance, and more like a perfectly designed, uncaring predator.

Kotomi didn’t move. Her breathing was so shallow it felt like she wasn’t breathing at all.

She had learned how to make her body small. How to disappear.

The drone circled once. Twice. Then zipped away.

She waited until the whine was gone before she exhaled the air trapped in her lungs.

The Men in White were still searching.

She closed her eyes and whispered again, voice hoarse.

“Mama… Papa… I don’t know what to do.”

***

Kyle—known here as Kaito—stood behind the register, watching the scanner blink in rhythm.

Beep. Order. Bag.

After two years of bloodshed in a world far harsher than this, he had chosen the mundane: fluorescent lights, plastic packaging, and the cool hum of a fridge stocked with canned coffee. The store was a corner unit tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a dry cleaner that hadn’t replaced its flickering sign in years.

Inside, everything gleamed with artificial precision. The aisles formed a geometrically perfect grid of consumerism where the only threats were expired expiration dates. The air smelled intensely of bleach, cheap vinyl, and the thin, chemically sweet dust of instant ramen flavoring.

Kyle liked the logic of it. He could scan the barcode, bag the trash, and stack the inventory. He didn't need to worry about facing off monsters or running out of magic.

He breathed in the scent of chlorine and vinyl. It wasn’t the air of the Demon Lord Citadel, which smelled of sulfur and fear. But it was real. And, crucially, it never smelled of blood.

Mrs. Tamika sighed as she looked at her phone. “Kaito, it seems Mr. Tamika pulled his back again. I need to rush home.”

Kyle nodded, suppressing a flicker of relief at the promise of solitude. “Please, Madam. There’s no need to bow. I know the basics.”

She smiled, grateful then left.

The scanner beeped again. Kyle exhaled. The rhythm was holding.

Until it wasn’t.

At 11:03 AM, the automatic doors hissed open. The sudden rush of humid outside air felt like a breach in the store’s sterile envelope.

A girl darted inside—ten years old, torn clothes. Just the smell alone he could tell she hadn’t bathed in a week. She moved like a shadow trained to avoid light.

Kyle’s hand froze mid-scan. The chip bag crinkled. The rhythm broke. It felt like a vital sign skipping.

She didn’t belong here. Not because she was dirty. But because she moved like someone who knew what it meant to flee from capture.

Kyle’s instincts flared. Not heroism. Just recognition.

He had seen that look before. In mirrors. In war. The look of a creature that has learned that existing in the light is a mistake.

The store fell quiet. Too quiet.

The cool hum of the fridge, the heartbeat of his chosen peace, felt louder now. Like it was holding its breath.

Kyle stepped out from behind the counter. Not fast. Not loud. Just enough to see her.

She didn’t see him. She was watching the door. Waiting for something worse.

His body tensed before his mind caught up. She was ducked behind the snack aisle, breath shallow, fingers trembling. Her fear was real. Immediate. And utterly foreign to this fluorescent sanctuary.

Then the doors hissed open again. The light shifted, casting a long, heavy shadow that stretched toward the counter.

Each one entered in silence with pristine business suits. Their movements synchronized, expressions blank—The Men in White.

They didn’t walk. They executed protocols. Like spreadsheets with fists. Their presence felt like a system update—cold, efficient, and irreversible. They were defiling the logic of the store, tracking the chaos of the outside world across the pale, polished floor tiles.

***

Kyle stepped out from behind the counter. Smile rehearsed. Voice neutral.

“Welcome. Can I help you find something?”

The nearest agent didn’t answer. He applied the exact necessary force to shove Kyle aside.

“Move aside brat.”

There was no emotion, just protocol.

This caused Kyle to crash into a rack of umbrellas. Metal clattered. Pain bloomed in his shoulder. It was the familiar, sharp pain of a life he had locked away behind plastic packaging and canned coffee.

As he winced, he saw it—

The holster beneath the suit jacket.

Not a threat.

A promise.

The agents swept the aisles. Eyes scanning. Not searching. Filtering.

“There she is!” one barked.

Kotomi’s eyes locked onto Kyle’s. Not pleading. Just asking: Will you let me go?

He moved. Not out of heroism. But out of recognition. He had seen that emptiness before. In his reflection. On the battlefield.

He slammed his shoulder into the nearest shelf. Packages tumbled—instant ramen, sugary drinks, plastic chaos. It was a chaotic explosion of cheap sugar and consumer debris that was somehow more effective than any smoke bomb. Three agents went down.

Kotomi bolted toward the back. Her footsteps were soft. But her escape was loud.

“Damn, she’s escaping.”

Kyle pushed himself upright as he watched her disappear through the rear exit.

The agents not caught in the tangle pursued her. Their shoes whispered against wet asphalt. A few discharged silenced weapons—

Phfft. Phfft.

Quiet. Final.

Kyle had heard dragon fire. This was worse. Cleaner. More surgical. More final.

“Remember,” the leader barked into his headset, “capture her alive.”

The three remaining agents turned toward Kyle. Expressions flat. Mechanical.

They drew tuckable military batons. No flourish. Just function.

“The new target is obstructing. Apply corrective force.”

The first agent swung. The baton aimed for Kyle’s head. But his body moved faster than thought—Muscle memory forged in a distant, harsher land. He raised his left arm.

The baton struck.

Not bone. Not flesh. But something else.

There was a sharp shriek—Splintering metal. Carbon fiber.

Kyle stared at his hand. Rubbing the spot where the baton had landed. A faint warmth radiated from his core. Not pain. Not heat.

Something familiar.

The cool hum of the fridge—the heartbeat of his chosen peace—stuttered and died. The store lights flickered. The scanner blinked once. Then stopped.

“It couldn’t be...” Kyle said as he couldn’t believe eyes.

A rush of familiar energy—Chi—surged outward.