Present 2017:
Takemichi's fingers fumbled for the remote, his heart sinking as the screen flickered between channels before settling on the evening news. Anchored in a plush armchair that had become his after-work sanctuary, he froze, eyes widening in disbelief at the grim scene unfolding. The anchor's voice, usually a monotone drone, cut sharply through the room: "In a tragic turn of events, siblings Hinata and Naoto Tachibana were pronounced dead at the scene following a catastrophic collision with a runaway truck..."
The memories cascaded over him like a relentless tide—Hinata's laughter, Naoto's earnest face—and in a blink, years peeled away, revealing the raw ache of a past love lost to time. He slumped deeper into the chair, a hollow void expanding within his chest.
"In other news," the anchor continued, her voice a somber echo in Takemichi's numb mind, "Ayame Sano, wife of Tokyo Manji gang leader Manjiro Sano, was found fatally shot in their upscale penthouse."
Ayame's image flashed on screen, a still from better times—a smile bright enough to outshine the sun. Memory struck again; Ayame and Hinata, side by side, bubbling with the joy of youth in the hallways of their high school. She had been kind, an unexpected warmth amidst the chaos of teenage life.
He shivered, unable to shake the iciness that crept up his spine. Three lives gone, two a memory, the other one a specter of what could have been.
Takemichi heaved himself up, the weight of the news anchoring him no longer; he needed air, space, reality. His sluggish steps carried him through the dim hallway and out into the world, a world that suddenly felt too sharp, too real.
As he trudged back home, the city's heartbeat thrummed beneath his feet, indifferent to his turmoil. He approached the train station, his mind a tangled mess of grief and shock, when chaos erupted. An unseen force barreled into his back, sending him stumbling forward, arms flailing for something that wasn't there.
Concrete rushed up to meet him, and then—darkness.
•• •••• •••• ••••
Past: 2005
Light seeped into Takemichi's consciousness, and with it came the sting of asphalt against his cheek. His eyelids fluttered open, confusion clawing at his senses. This wasn't the cold, hard edge of a train platform. Instead, he found himself sprawled on familiar ground—the worn path they used to take after school.
"Hey, Takemichi! You took a pretty nasty spill there. You okay, man?" A voice pulled him further from the fog. He knew that voice.
Takemichi lifted his head, his gaze locking onto the concerned faces of his middle school friends, unchanged by the cruel hands of time. Their uniforms, their backpacks, even their youthful grins—it was all too vivid, too detailed for a dream.
"Wha—" His voice cracked. Desperate for answers, he reached for his phone, the device appearing alien in its outdated design. The date on the screen screamed at him—years in reverse, mocking his understanding of reality.
"Is this... high school?" he muttered to himself, disbelief etching furrows in his brow.
His friends exchanged glances, a mix of amusement and worry playing across their features. "Dude, you seriously hit your head or something?"
Takemichi's heart thundered against his ribcage. No collision, no chilling news broadcast—just the pulse of adolescence coursing around him. He had been thrust backward in time, back to a life where tragedy had yet to strike, where futures were still bright and unmarred by loss.
"Let's get you up, Takemichi," one friend offered, extending a hand. Shakily, he accepted, rising to stand among ghosts of a simpler past, his mind grappling with the impossible truth.
•• •••• •••• ••••
Takemichi trudged through the crowded halls of his high school, his mind still reeling from the surreal sensation of being flung back in time. His friends chattered beside him, oblivious to the storm of confusion brewing within him. As they rounded a corner, a familiar laughter pierced through the murmur of students, anchoring him to the moment.
Takemichi's gaze was inevitably drawn to the familiar laughter ringing through the classroom. There, amidst a flutter of loose papers and the scrawl of notes on the blackboard, were Ayame and Hina, their heads bowed together in shared amusement. A pang of nostalgia hit him as he watched them, the memory of their faces on the news still fresh and painful in his mind.
"Man, they're both so beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself, the words slipping out in a wistful sigh.
"Right?" Takuya leaned in, following his stare. "Especially Ayame Keisuke," Atsushi mused aloud.
"Hey, Takemichi," a voice snapped him from his reverie. "Did you hear? Rumor has it Hinata Tachibana's got a thing for you." A girl from his class approached them, her eyes alight with gossip.
Takemichi felt his face heat up at the mention of Hina's name, but before he could stammer out a response, His friends leaned in, interest piqued, their teenage curiosity sparked like dry tinder to flame.
"Really?" Akkun asked, glancing between Takemichi and Hina. "What about Ayame? Anyone know who she's into?"
His friends nudged him teasingly. "Third year and all that mystery. Bet she's into someone cool."
"Definitely hot," Takuya agreed with a nod, eliciting a round of chuckles.
"Third years are out of our league, man," Kazushi chimed in, eyes following Ayame with an appreciative nod. "But yeah, she's hot."
A girl from the next row piped up, her voice tinged with the buzz of high school gossip.
"Ayame? Yeah, she's totally cool. But I think she's already got someone."
"Someone?" Akkun chimed in; curiosity piqued.
"Uh-huh," the girl shrugged nonchalantly, adjusting her uniform, and flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Not sure, but I think she has a boyfriend in a gang. Always picks her up after school."
The bell rang, cutting the conversation short, and the class poured out into the corridors, all chatter, and the shuffling of feet. Takemichi shouldered his bag, his mind racing with what he'd just learned.
•• •••• •••• ••••
As the afternoon sun began its descent, splashing orange hues across the cityscape, Ayame strode down the sidewalk from cram school, her steps determined and swift. Her focus shifted when a commotion broke the rhythm of her walk—a violent scene unfolding by the roadside. Kiyomizu, recognizable by his swagger and affiliation with Mikey's gang, was wielding a bat against a crumpled figure.
"Hey!" Ayame's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Why are you hitting him with that?"
Kiyomizu turned, his smirk spreading like an oil slick. He prowled closer, the threat in his body language unmistakable as he cornered her. "And what's it to you, Ayame-chan?"
She stood her ground, her chin lifted defiantly. "I don't think Manjiro would be happy knowing you're harassing students."
At the mention of Mikey's name, Kiyomizu's eyes narrowed, and he backed away, irritation etched onto his features. "Stay out of things you don't understand," he spat, his ego bruised. "That kid there wanted to meet Manjiro. Big mistake."
"Ta... Takemichi Hanagaki?" Ayame's voice trembled as she called out, hoping for a response.
"Here..." came the weak reply from the ground.
Rushing to his side, Ayame helped Takemichi to his feet, her hands gentle but firm. Kiyomizu sneered one last time as he retreated. "Tell Sano Manjiro I said hello—and Takemichi, if I ever hear you've mentioned Manjiro's name again, your dead meat."
Once Kiyomizu and his gang had vanished into the growing shadows, Ayame turned to Takemichi, her expression softening. "Listen, you need to stay clear of these guys. They'll do much worse next time."
"Thanks," Takemichi winced, pain lancing through him. "Do you know Sano Manjiro personally?"
Ayame avoided his gaze, her expression unreadable.
"Just... take care of yourself, okay? Go home and get better. I'll see you at school." With those parting words, she walked off, leaving Takemichi with more questions than answers and a resolve to change the future that felt as heavy as the setting sun.