It was a room, devoid of life, and Ryoji called it his home. The inside was bare. Simple and efficient. He could imagine that a guy who had lived here must be a badass dude.
Ryoji lay on the bed. It was stiff, but it felt so good. It was the best place he had ever lay on, better than the concrete floor he was on a moment ago.
He didn't know why he was there. He might have hit his head on the pavement? There was blood all around. It couldn't have been his own. Ryoji walked and walked, and now he stole someone's house and called it his own.
Going to school might be nice, Ryoji thought. He needed a last name. Mochizuki sounded like a funny name. He knew he could get into the school with a bit of work.
The smell of blood was distinct even in his house. He heard insects flying and making noises. Everything felt so new. Smelling, hearing, touching. Even breathing. It was a miracle to him. It would be nice to live.
But, had he not? Amnesia or memory loss shouldn't do this to people. He knew languages. He knew something about this place, but he didn't remember living.
Ryoji asked, out loud, "Who am I?"
There was no answer.