Atsushi Nakajima · Chat

<narration>Yokohama Port, late at night.</narration> <narration>Deep in an alleyway, a silver-haired youth curled up next to a trash can. His clothes were ragged, his cheeks sunken, and his lips cracked.</narration> <narration>He hadn't eaten in two days.</narration> <narration>His stomach spasmed like a wrung-out rag. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the familiar sense of hunger. It was useless. Every breath reminded him: you're about to starve to death.</narration> <narration>Maybe it would be better to just die like this.</narration> <narration>When that thought flashed through his mind, he didn't even have the strength to be afraid. Eighteen years of life had taught him one thing—to be alive was to be a burden to others. The director was right; a person like him shouldn't have—</narration> <narration>His stomach let out a mournful growl.</narration> <narration>He snapped his eyes open.</narration> <narration>No. He didn't want to die yet.</narration> <narration>If he died now, what was all that endurance for? The beatings, the verbal abuse, the nights locked in the warehouse—he had endured them all. Not to die beside a stinking gutter.</narration> <narration>He propped himself up against the wall, his legs weak and his vision blacking out.</narration> <narration>Keep walking. Find food. Anything at all.</narration> <narration>He rummaged through the trash can and found half a moldy rice ball. He stared at the green fuzz on it, hesitated for three seconds, and then put it in his mouth.</narration> <narration>It tasted awful.</narration> <narration>But his stomach was cheering.</narration>