KONOHAMARU SHIPPUDEN

The rain poured in a relentless sheet, blurring Tokyo into a watercolor of muted grays and washed-out neon. The city's sharp edges, softened by the downpour, felt distant and surreal. But for Bob Kimura, it was just another Tuesday in October 2014.

Sixteen years old, skinny as a stray cat, and perpetually exhausted, Bob was a fourth-year high school student trying to survive adolescence in the heart of Japan. His backpack hung heavy against his narrow frame, crammed with textbooks and the unrelenting weight of exams. Huddled under the school gate's meager awning, he watched the rain drum against the metal, the rhythm a monotonous backdrop to his impatience.

Bob, like so many of his peers, was a product of the digital age—more fluent in the lore of virtual worlds than the nuances of the real one. Anime was his sanctuary, a realm where conflicts were resolved in 24 minutes and characters lived with clear purpose.

A buzz from his pocket broke through the drumming rain. He pulled out his phone to see a text from Tomo, his closest friend and fellow anime devotee.

"Don't forget Parasyte tonight!"

Bob smiled, the warmth of their shared obsession cutting through the damp chill. He quickly replied:

"Already downloaded Episode 2! You bringing the Pocky?"

Tomo's reply came almost instantly.

"Duh! Chocolate flavor. My mom even made onigiri. Full-on anime night!"

Bob chuckled, typing back,

 "Sweet. Just gotta survive math class first. Sensei's been on a rampage lately."

The bus arrived, its metallic bulk gleaming with rain. Bob lingered, letting the crowd shuffle aboard before climbing in last. His soaked sneakers squeaked against the rubber floor as he made his way to an empty seat near the back. The cold vinyl pressed against his jeans as he sat down with a sigh of relief.

He slid on his earphones, letting the synth-pop of Perfume wash over him, a comforting shield against the muffled conversations and the engine's low rumble. Outside, the rain-streaked world blurred into a moving canvas of light and shadow.

Scrolling through social media, Bob dismissed a fleeting thought of the looming math test. Instead, he dove into a thread on anime conventions, already envisioning elaborate cosplay outfits. He sent Tomo a picture of a ridiculously intricate mecha pilot costume with glowing LED panels. Tomo replied with a string of laughing emojis.

And then the world tilted.

It wasn't a gentle sway, the kind you'd expect on a sharp turn. This was violent—a sickening wrench that sent him sideways into the seat in front of him. A collective gasp swept through the bus, followed by a high, panicked cry.

Tires screeched, the sound clawing at the air. Bob's headphones yanked free as he was thrown forward. His head snapped up just in time to see the face of the woman across the aisle—her features contorted in terror, her hand flying to her mouth.

Then came the impact.

The world erupted in a symphony of shattering glass, twisted metal, and screams swallowed by an almost oppressive silence.

Bob's life had been shaped by the stories he adored—worlds filled with heroics, daring escapes, and the comforting promise of resolution. But here, in the cold reality of a Tokyo street, there were no heroes, no second chances. Only the brutal finality of metal meeting flesh.

The screech of tires was the last coherent sound he heard before the crash's force flung him like a rag doll. His body collided with something unyielding, pain radiating through him in sharp, electric bursts.

Textbooks and papers spilled from his bag, scattered across the wet asphalt, their ink bleeding into the rain. The familiar weight of his daily life—his studies, his dreams—lay ruined and forgotten, mingling with something darker on the ground.

For a moment, the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of pain and disjointed sensations. A burning ache spread through his chest, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. The rain, or perhaps something colder, soaked his skin.

Then, the colors bled away. The searing pain dulled into a cold, numbing void. Sounds became distant, muted echoes of shouts and frantic movement. His vision tunneled, the blurred faces of strangers looming over him like specters.

And then, amidst the growing silence, he heard it: a whisper.

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"Not like this."

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The voice wasn't familiar, but its clarity cut through the fog of his senses. It wasn't loud; it was soft, almost inside his mind, resonating in a way that felt uncomfortably intimate.

Bob's fading consciousness flared briefly in confusion. He strained to see the speaker, but the faces above him remained indistinct, smears of light and shadow. His throat tightened as he tried to respond, but only a weak, gurgling sound escaped.

The whisper came again, closer this time.

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"There was supposed to be more."

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The words struck something deep within him. More what? he wondered dimly. More anime? More nights laughing with Tomo? More time to figure out this chaotic, overwhelming thing called life?

The cold intensified, a crushing weight that stole his breath and extinguished his remaining warmth. The rain needled his skin, though even that sensation was fading.

The whisper lingered, the final tether to his unraveling existence.

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"A glitch…"

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The word echoed, sharp and alien, filling the vast emptiness inside him.

And then, nothing.

The rain continued to fall, relentless and indifferent. The city's lights blurred into streaks, and the world moved on, uncaring. Somewhere, a phone buzzed with another message from Tomo. Somewhere, a second episode of Parasyte waited to be watched.

But for Bob Kimura, there was only silence. The infinite, unyielding silence of non-existence.