Life in The New District.. Sucks

The midday sun blazed over the neighborhood, heat shimmering above the streets as people went about their day. In a modest plaza between the stores sat a small, casual eatery with neatly arranged booths. It wasn’t busy, though a few regulars came and went. At a table in the far corner, Kenzo sat alone on one side, facing Kota and Mizuki.

“So, is the great urban explorer finally retiring his channel?” he asked, his calm voice edged with playful teasing as he sipped his blackberry lemonade. “No more sneaking into creepy places at night to talk to ghosts or whatever?”

Kota sank into his seat, arms crossed. “Don’t make fun of me right now, man. I’m still recovering emotionally.”

Mizuki rolled her eyes, slowly stirring her drink. “You should’ve seen him, Kenzo. The second she came toward us, he screamed like a little kid.” After a sip, she glanced sideways at Kota. “And there I was thinking, great, we’re about to die, and I can’t even count on Kota to protect me.”

Kota shot Mizuki a wounded look. “Excuse me, I didn’t see you standing your ground either! You grabbed my arm so hard I still have nail marks!”

“What else was a girl supposed to do?!” Mizuki shot back while Kenzo stirred his drink and watched them argue. Kota stood a few inches taller than Kenzo and had an average build, messy black hair, and black-framed glasses. He wore a blue ghost-print shirt, jeans, and brown sandals.

Beside him, Mizuki wore black canvas sneakers, thigh-length black shorts, and a white T-shirt with neat slashes along the sides. Silver bracelets circled her wrist, complementing her sharp style. Her purple eyes narrowed slightly at Kota’s brown ones as her long blonde hair swayed.

Kenzo set down his glass and leaned back as they traded jabs. “So, neither of you actually did anything,” he said flatly. “You both just screamed and ran. Honestly, that was probably the smart move. But seriously, stop with the exploring. Maybe this was a one-off, but you never know who might be inside those places before you go in.”

Kota snorted at Kenzo’s comment. “Ha, no way. It’s about the thrill, man. Plus, I can’t let my viewers down.”

Both Kenzo and Mizuki face-palmed at the comment. “You can’t be serious.” Kenzo exhaled. “I swear it’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes.”

Mizuki turned to Kota, staring in open disbelief. “Kota, you have forty-three subscribers. Thirty of them are bots.”

“Thirty-one,” Kota corrected, sitting up straighter. “And they’re loyal.”

Kenzo lifted his head. “How the hell do you have loyal bots?” He took another sip of his drink. “Isn’t that, like, I don’t know, what they’re designed to do?”

Kota opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it. Silence lingered for a moment. “You know what, I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Mizuki let out a small laugh, and Kenzo soon joined her, leaning forward as he gathered himself.

“Okay, but can we at least agree that the mental ward is off limits? I would think getting chased by a girl with an axe is pretty much a deal breaker.”

Kota sat with his arms crossed again, stewing quietly for a second before he finally let out a long breath. “…Fine. Yeah. Deal breaker.” He uncrossed his arms and picked up his drink. “I’ll stick to abandoned malls and factories.”

“I’m—thinking about taking factories off your list too.” Kenzo took a sip of his drink. “Last time you went to a factory, you said the machines turned on by themselves and you heard music playing from the second floor.”

Kota pointed at him. “That was genuinely unexplained, and I stand by everything I said!”

“The machines turned on because you tripped the emergency generator panel on your way in,” Mizuki said flatly, not even looking up from her drink. “I was there. I watched you do it.”

“The music, Mizuki. Explain the music!”

Mizuki finally looked up. “A homeless man was living on the second floor. He had a radio.”

Kota stared at her.

Kenzo stared at Kota.

A long silence stretched across the table.

“He said good morning to us on our way out,” Mizuki added, completely deadpan, and took a sip of her drink.

Kota’s mouth dropped instantly as he kept staring at her, his mouth trembling. “No…No, that’s not right. He was walking weird. I saw it! You saw it!”

“He had a limp, Kota,” Mizuki said, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. “From a bad knee. He told us that, too. While you kept pushing that stupid ghost recorder in his face.”

Kenzo pressed his lips tight, trying to hold the laugh in, but it slipped out anyway—soft at first, then louder as his shoulders shook and he leaned forward, covering his mouth with his fist.

‘Kota…” He wheezed. “You ghost-recorded a man with a bad knee.”

“I didn’t know!” Kota sputtered, flinging up his hands. “He moved so slowly, it was dark, and the ambiance was perfect!”

“The ambiance,” Mizuki repeated.

“Yes! The ambiance!” Kota insisted, pointing at her. “You can’t discount the ambiance, Mizuki.”

Kenzo was still laughing, dragging a hand across his face as he tried to pull himself together. “Did the ghost recorder… did it pick anything up? On the man with the bad knee?”

Kota went very still.

“Kota.”

“…It picked up him saying, ‘Get that thing out of my face, kid.”

Kenzo broke. His arms dropped onto the table as helpless, breathless laughter burst from him. A few nearby customers glanced over. Mizuki propped her chin on one hand and watched Kota with the weary patience of someone finally free to share a story she had carried alone for far too long.

“Wa—Wait! The orbs! Mizuki, tell him about the orbs!”

A crash of glass and sudden shouting shattered the moment. Kenzo, Mizuki, and Kota turned toward the commotion as a young man tore his hand from the grasp of a woman who looked like the store manager.

“Get your hands off of me, Lady!” He took a few steps back.

“Trying to steal from the register? When will you lowlifes ever learn?” the woman snapped as the young man turned and ran. She chased him to the door, then stopped there, shouting after him, “If I ever see your face around here again, you’re going to jail! You hear me?!” She stood there for a moment, catching her breath, then sighed and walked back inside.

The noise faded, and customer chatter gradually resumed as the manager straightened her shirt and slipped behind the counter.

Kota let out a low whistle. “Bold move, trying to steal from the register in broad daylight.”

“More like desperate,” Kenzo added as he quietly scanned the rest of the small restaurant before returning his gaze to his table. “Got to be pretty stupid to try something like that in broad daylight.”

“That’s the District for you, I guess,” Mizuki said, still resting her cheek in her palm. She glanced around the shop. “If you can even call it that.”

Kenzo raised an eyebrow at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mizuki shrugged, swirling the last of her drink. “Look around. Half the businesses on this block have changed owners three times in two years, and the rest are probably fronts for something worse.” She nodded toward the window, her eyes drifting to the street beyond. “The New District’s only been a city for, what, twelve years? But it already feels like it’s rotting from the inside.” She set her glass down. “Some cities take decades to fall apart. This place did it in just over one.” A tired sigh slipped out. “Last week, my neighbor’s car got stripped in a parking garage—broad daylight, three floors up.” She paused. “It wasn’t like this two years ago, before they forced this disaster of a melting pot on everyone.”

Kota nodded slowly, the humor fading from his face. “My uncle’s shop got hit twice this summer. Two different gangs were shaking him down over the same block.”

Kenzo said nothing, fingers resting loosely around his glass.

“Everyone keeps calling The New District a place where everyone gets a chance, like saying it makes it true,” Mizuki continued quietly. “But throwing people from different backgrounds together doesn’t magically stop their personalities or cultures from clashing.” She drew in a slow breath. “And it’s not just that. They still separate us by who has money and who doesn’t. Nothing’s really changed.” She finally looked up. “And it’s only getting worse, and nobody in charge seems to care enough to actually fix it.”

Kenzo turned his glass slowly on the table, watching the condensation trail it left behind.

“They care,” he said after a moment. “Just not about the parts you mean.” He glanced toward the window. “The development side of The New District is thriving—new towers by the waterfront, luxury hotels in the works, and that transit corridor they broke ground on last spring.” He paused. “Money’s flowing through this district. Just not into the places where people live.”

Kota leaned on the table. “So, what, they’re just gonna let it keep sliding?”

“Probably,” Kenzo said plainly. “Places like this are useful when they’re broken just enough—cheap, overlooked, and easy to move people through without asking too many questions.” He tapped the glass once. “When the neglect stops being profitable, they’ll dress it up, force everyone out, and call it revitalization.” He finally looked up. “Either way, the people who already live here lose.”

Mizuki watched him for a moment. “…You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

Kenzo gave a quiet half-shrug. “I live here. Hard not to notice.”

A brief silence settled over the table, softer than the ones before it. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled past the window, and the manager behind the counter exchanged quiet words with a staff member.

“Ever thought about moving?” Kota said, looking around at his two friends.

Mizuki was the first to answer, her gaze drifting back toward the window. “All the time,” she said. “But where would I go? Anywhere decent enough to matter is expensive enough to stay out of reach.” A small, humorless smile. “And the places I could actually afford aren’t much better than here.”

Kota leaned back and scratched the back of his neck. “My family’s lived here since before it became The District. My uncle keeps urging me to save up and move somewhere quieter. But every time I look into it—” He shook his head. “It’s like the numbers just don’t work no matter how you run them.”

Outside, a fogged-window bus rolled by, packed with afternoon riders. Around them, the food shop murmured on—forks clinking against plates, low voices drifting through the room, and a ceiling fan wheezing helplessly against the heat.

Kenzo didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced the rim of his glass.

“Probably not anytime soon,” he said at last, his voice even. “Mom’s still… You know. And I can’t afford another place anyway. My job barely pays enough to cover bills, let alone help me finish this damn degree.” He exhaled quietly. “Guess we’re all stuck here, huh?”

Kota tapped two fingers on the table in a slow, restless rhythm. “Story of our lives.”

Mizuki said nothing for a moment. She turned her glass in a slow circle, watching the motion rather than anything else. Then, quietly—“How’s your mom doing? Any changes?”

Kenzo’s thumb paused on the rim of his glass.

“About the same,” he said. “I have my good days and bad days.” A short breath. “Mostly she’s okay. —sleeping, I guess. Probably the most peaceful I’ve ever seen her sleep.” He lowered his gaze towards the table. “It takes up a lot of space in my head, you know. More than I let on. “I just wish she’d wake up and be okay.” He finished solemnly, trying to hold back whatever dam of emotions he’d been holding onto since his whole situation started.

Mizuki set her glass down and said nothing for a moment. She just looked at him—not with pity, but with the quiet, steady kind of attention that doesn’t require words to land.

Kota stopped tapping.

The ceiling fan turned overhead, slow and uneven, casting a lazy shadow across the table.

“She will,” Mizuki said at last. Not loudly, not for show—just with the quiet certainty of someone choosing to believe it for him. “And when she wakes up, she’s going to be furious about all the time she missed.” A small, careful smile touched her lips. “Knowing your mom, the first thing she’ll ask is whether your grades are okay or if you passed that test you were worried about.”

Kota let out a quiet breath through his nose—half laugh, half Something more careful. “That sounds about right.” He glanced at Kenzo with the kind of look that didn’t push but stayed close. “Your mom’s got serious energy, though, man. She’ll wake up and immediately start fixing everything in arm’s reach. That’s just who she is.”

Kenzo let out a soft laugh. “Yeah.” He looked up, his shoulders easing a little. “That sounds just like her.” He fell quiet for a moment, then added, “She’d probably yell at me first. Before anything else. She’d walk in, take one look around the apartment, go straight into lecture mode… and then pull me into one of those tight hugs.” His gaze drifted between Kota and Mizuki as he sighed. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”

Mizuki reached across the table and rested her hand over his briefly—then pulled back and clasped her hands. “That’s not wishful thinking.” She said quietly. “That’s just knowing your mom.”

Kota leaned forward on both arms. “When she does wake up, the first round is on me. We’ll take her somewhere nice, not this place.” He gestured around the shop with a loose wave. “Somewhere nice. She doesn’t deserve to sit under a ceiling fan that sounds like it’s having a stroke.”

The fan chose that exact moment to emit a loud, grinding shudder—then settled back into its slow, uneven rhythm.

All three of them looked up.

Mizuki closed her eyes. “I’m not even going to comment on that.”

Kota pointed at the ceiling. “A prayer and a stripped screw are holding that thing up.”

A corner of Kenzo’s mouth lifted. “And the homeless ghost guy with the bad knee,” he added, making both him and Mizuki giggle as Kota’s face flushed a faint red.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” Kota muttered, slumping back in his seat.

“No.” Kenzo and Mizuki said at the same time.

Kota pointed between them. “Okay, so now it’s just you two ganging up on me.”

“We’re not ganging up on you,” Mizuki said, the smile still sitting on her face. “You just made it very easy.”

Kota groaned, dragged a hand down his face, then leaned forward and waved dismissively. “Well, screw that place. I’ve got something better planned for the next video.”

Kenzo leaned back. “I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” Mizuki said, without hesitation.

Kota straightened in his seat, the flush fading as the familiar spark returned to his face—the look he got right before he said something that made everyone around him quietly reconsider the friendship. He pressed both palms flat on the table.”

“Okay, so hear me out, Haruki Elementary School. The old, abandoned school that burned down in 2002.” Kota smiled.

Kenzo stared at him.

Mizuki stared at him.

The ceiling fan wheezed above.

“Kota,” Kenzo called out blandly, crossing his arms. “That’s a fire site.”

“A historic fire site,” Kota corrected, holding up one finger.

“Four kids died in that fire,” Mizuki said flatly, her smile completely gone now. “I’m not going in there.”

“That’s exactly why it’s perfect!” Kota leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he were pitching something to investors. “The residual energy alone—”

“Kota.”

“—would be off the charts on the recorder—”

“Kota.”

“—and the views would absolutely break my previous record of two hundred and twelve—”

“Kota.” Kenzo’s level voice cut through the pitch. He waited for Kota to fall silent. “Two hundred and twelve views is not a record worth chasing into a condemned building where children died.” He held his friend’s gaze, then sighed. “Jeez, I swear every idea you come up with is crazier than the last.”

“Oh, come on, man, you’re not even given it a chance.” Kota fought back.

“I gave it a chance,” Kenzo said. “For about four seconds. Then you said, ‘residual energy,’ and I gave up.” He said, putting both hands up in mock surrender. “You know me, I’m not good with ghosts or ‘residual energy’ stuff.”

Mizuki lifted her glass, found it empty, and set it down with a soft clink. “I want it on record that I said no immediately. Before the four seconds.”

“Noted,” Kenzo responded.

Kota looked between them, wounded, as if lesser minds were holding him back. “You two have absolutely zero sense of adventure.”

“I have a sense of adventure,” Kenzo said. “It just doesn’t involve trespassing at a fire site and waving a recorder at the memory of dead children for two hundred and twelve—” A flicker at the edge of his vision cut him off. He turned toward the window and froze. She was walking past in broad daylight, her expression unreadable—the same woman from the casino, the one who had ridden in on a bike and crushed the masked man’s head beneath its wheel without hesitation. Now she moved down the street like any ordinary passerby, speaking to no one. Quinoa.