The night hung heavy over Tokyo, vast, tentacular, an urban tide ready to swallow him whole. Neon signs flickered weakly, casting a hazy glow over the wet streets that seemed to stretch endlessly, like a shifting labyrinth with no escape. The oppressive buildings loomed around him like silent giants, crushing him under their austere presence. Ryoga trudged forward, small and insignificant against the suffocating immensity, dragging his worn-out backpack behind him like an inevitable burden. He had lost track of time—how long had he been walking? Where even was he? It had become a routine: wandering in circles, hoping to recognize a sign, an alley, anything familiar... but nothing. The city sprawled, indifferent and unfathomable, a metallic and concrete beast swallowing him without a glance, as if mocking his miserable aimlessness.
His stomach rumbled with the force of an earthquake. Hunger gnawed at him so intensely that he was convinced—if life wanted to kill him, it would start with his stomach. He stopped for a moment under a bridge, staring at the luminous chaos of the city with the expression of a man who had abandoned all hope. The blaring horns sounded like cries of despair, shadows drifted past him, oblivious to his plight, as if Tokyo itself took pleasure in watching him suffer.
He sighed dramatically, lifting his gaze to the sky. "Why must I be so cursed... and so hungry?"
There, on a cold and uncomfortable metal bench, he decided to rest for a moment. His eyelids grew heavy, his back burned from carrying his belongings without respite. A few minutes of sleep wouldn't hurt... except that his body, in a final act of betrayal, slowly slid off the bench. With a resigned sigh, he toppled over, landing flat on his back on the wet ground in a position vaguely resembling a ridiculous combat stance. A passerby stopped for a moment, raised an eyebrow, then walked away, seemingly convinced he had just witnessed a man who had given up on life. Ryoga, meanwhile, closed his eyes, murmuring a pathetic, "Everything is against me..." before drifting into an embarrassing half-consciousness.
Then, he woke up with a start, his back painfully pressed against a surface even harder than the bench. The acrid smell of sweat, cheap alcohol, and stale air assaulted his nose. He struggled to open his eyes and, with a creeping sense of dread, realized he was locked in a cell. Around him, sleeping silhouettes—a mix of loud homeless men and drunkards digesting their latest binge. He tried to get up but immediately got his feet tangled in his own backpack, collapsing against the iron bars in an unceremonious heap.
He squinted, the small bump on his head not helping his focus. And that was when all his senses were assaulted at once. His back was pressed against a frozen, unwelcoming floor. The thick stench of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies attacked his nostrils, forcing a grimace.
Around him, an improbable cast of colorful characters. To his left, an old man with disheveled hair snored loudly, clutching an empty bottle like a precious treasure. To the right, a shirtless giant, covered in poorly drawn kanji tattoos, seemed to be in deep meditation... or perhaps he was sleeping with his eyes open—it was hard to tell. Further away, a man in a three-piece suit, clearly out of his element, muttered repeatedly, "Everything is fine, I'm in control... everything is fine."
Ryoga attempted to rise with dignity, but his backpack, still hooked around his ankle, yanked him forward, sending his head crashing against the bars with a dull thud. He lay there for a moment, utterly stunned, then slowly closed his eyes and let out a long groan—a mixture of pain, despair, and the silent acceptance of his miserable fate.
As he barely began to recover from his disastrous landing, a raspy voice rose beside him: "Ah... falling, the most honest of truths! We all fall, young man—some into misery, others into oblivion... and you, evidently, into the bars!"
Ryoga slowly lifted his head to discover an old man with twinkling eyes, a toothless grin splitting his time-worn face. He wore a coat far too large for him and gestured grandly, as if delivering a Shakespearean monologue.
"You must understand, boy... The cell is but a metaphor! We are all trapped in invisible cages! Some in routine, others in debt... You, well, in an actual cage, but it's the same!"
Ryoga blinked, stunned. This was not the conversation he had expected to have upon waking up.
But before he could react, a deep growl emerged from the other end of the cell. A massive figure slowly rose, wobbling under the weight of alcohol and general discontent. His unshaven face, marked by far too many long nights, twisted into uncontrolled rage as he caught sight of Ryoga.
"You!" he bellowed, pointing an uncertain finger in his direction. "It's YOUR fault I'm here, isn't it?! You've got the look of a troublemaker! I don't trust you!"
Ryoga, who had not uttered a word, opened his mouth to protest but immediately shut it upon seeing the man lurch toward him, fists clenched. He cast a desperate glance at the eccentric philosopher, who, instead of helping, merely nodded gravely. "Fate has decided, young man. The time has come for you to dance with the inevitable."
Ryoga closed his eyes. This night would never end.
Before the old man could finish his poetic commentary, a powerful hand grabbed Ryoga by the collar. In an instant, he was lifted and slammed against the cold wall of the cell. The drunkard who had taken a sudden dislike to him stared into his eyes, his breath reeking of alcohol and misplaced resentment.
Around them, the other inmates had sat up—some watching with morbid curiosity, others feigning indifference but casting wary glances. The eccentric philosopher nodded solemnly, as if witnessing an inevitable demonstration of human chaos.
"You think I'm gonna endure another night in this rat hole without taking it out on someone, kid?!" growled the drunkard, tightening his grip on Ryoga's collar.
In a movement as fluid as it was casual, Ryoga pivoted, dragging the drunkard into an improbable whirlwind. The man, caught off guard, found himself momentarily airborne, his legs flailing like a broken marionette. For a brief moment, he seemed to hover in an absurd dance, before Ryoga gently placed him back in his original spot, as if nothing had happened.
A heavy silence fell over the cell. Every inmate stared at Ryoga, half in awe, half in worry, trying to make sense of what they had just witnessed. The eccentric philosopher broke the silence in an inspired tone: "And thus, like the wind caressing a leaf, he dissipates violence through movement!"
The drunkard, too stunned to respond, blinked several times and gazed at Ryoga with bleary eyes. A thick tension settled—a moment where anything seemed possible. Then, without warning, he puffed out his cheeks, his skin taking on a distinctly sickly hue.
Ryoga, sensing disaster, opened his mouth to protest, but it was already too late. With a disgusting gurgle, the drunkard lurched forward and vomited noisily onto Ryoga's shoes.
A silence heavier than any before settled over the cell. The other inmates, previously frozen, slowly averted their gazes, caught between discomfort and barely concealed amusement. The eccentric philosopher, ever true to his role, declared gravely: "The cycle of suffering continues, my friend."
Ryoga closed his eyes slowly, searching within his soul for a shred of peace that was undoubtedly beyond reach.
At that moment, the sound of heavy boots echoed against the cell floor. The rattling of keys followed. A burly officer with a weary face approached the bars, tapping his baton against them with deliberate impatience.
"Hibiki Ryoga?" the officer said in a neutral yet impatient tone.
Ryoga slowly lifted his head, still numb from the absurd turn of his night. The eccentric philosopher closed his eyes, as if engraving this moment into his memory.
"You're expected." The officer motioned for him to follow, but before Ryoga could move, the man slowly looked him up and down. What he saw made him grimace in a way that defied definition.
Ryoga was a walking paradox: the physique of an athlete honed through years of training, muscles visible even under his wrinkled clothes, a stature that naturally inspired respect—and yet, there he stood, dressed like an unfortunate vagabond, his hair a mess, and, most strikingly, his shoes covered in an unidentifiable, thoroughly unappetizing substance.
A heavy silence settled. The officer looked up from Ryoga's shoes, then back to his face, and let out a deep sigh, as if he had just lost another shred of faith in humanity. He hesitated, as though about to ask a deep existential question, then thought better of it, preferring to preserve what little sanity he had left.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he muttered, "Alright, cut the Shakespearean tragedy. That's enough for tonight. And don't walk too close to me."
The other detainees watched Ryoga leave, each bidding him farewell in their own way.
The drunk, teetering precariously on his bench, slurred out a faint "Good luck..." before sinking back into his alcoholic stupor. The tattooed colossus, without opening his eyes, raised a silent fist in respect. The man in the three-piece suit solemnly placed a hand on his heart and declared in a dramatic tone, "Walk with pride, for few leave this hell with their dignity intact."
As for the toothless old man, he slowly raised his arms like a priest blessing a martyr and murmured, "May the wind guide your wandering... and may it at least not bring you back here."
Ryoga, for his part, let himself be led through the cold hallways of the police station, utterly unaware of the bureaucratic storm that awaited him.
After passing through a few doors pushed open with administrative fatigue, they arrived at an office labeled: Minor Protection – Officer Nakamura. The officer escorting Ryoga knocked once and entered without waiting.
Behind a desk cluttered with dog-eared files, a man in a wrinkled shirt barely lifted his eyes. His face, marked by deep circles and a neglected mustache, bore the expression of someone who had seen too many hopeless cases to feel anything about them anymore.
"Hibiki Ryoga," the officer announced before dropping a thick file onto the desk. "Here's the kid. We found some weird things in his belongings, including an umbrella that must weigh a hundred kilos and other oddities. I'll let you figure it out."
Officer Nakamura raised an eyebrow, adjusted his glasses, and gave Ryoga a slow, evaluating look. He took in the wrinkled clothes, the slightly confused posture, and most notably... the vomit-stained shoes.
Nakamura slowly put down his pen and stared at Ryoga with the expression of a man trying to solve an absurd equation. His gaze lingered a bit too long on the soiled shoes before rising, ever so gradually, to the young man's weary face. Then, hesitantly, he opened the file before him and pulled out a list of confiscated items.
He frowned. "So... we found on you an umbrella that..." He paused, squinted at the paper, and reread it. "Weighs a hundred kilos?!"
He looked up at Ryoga again, as if hoping to find some rational explanation in his expression. He found only sincere confusion.
"A hundred-kilo umbrella," he repeated slowly, as if testing the solidity of reality itself. He rubbed his temples. "Alright... Have a seat. And tell me, young man, what exactly were you doing wandering the streets of Tokyo at this hour?"
Ryoga opened his mouth, took a breath, and, with complete sincerity, declared:
"I was trying to go home. But I got lost."
Officer Nakamura raised an eyebrow and jotted a note on his pad. "Lost... Where exactly do you live?"
Ryoga blinked. "I'm not really sure. Actually, I've been trying to find it for a while."
Nakamura stopped writing, raising his head slowly. "What do you mean, you don't know where you live?"
"Let's just say I start from one place, I walk, and then... I end up somewhere else. Sometimes, I find myself in another city, even another region. Once, I ended up in Hokkaido while looking for Furinkan High School."
Nakamura let his pen roll off his desk. He stared at it, as if hoping that focusing on a simple object would prevent his patience from completely unraveling.
"Wait... Are you telling me that you travel all over Japan without knowing how?"
Ryoga nodded, completely serious. "It's a real problem. My sense of direction is... let's say, unreliable. Once, I walked into a convenience store in Shinjuku and when I walked out, I was in Kyoto."
Nakamura blinked several times. He turned his gaze slowly toward the officer beside him, whose expression had shifted from boredom to a blend of shock and profound confusion. At first, the man merely raised an eyebrow. Then, as Ryoga's answers continued to defy all known logic, his mouth fell slightly open, incapable of forming an appropriate reaction. His gaze flickered between Nakamura and Ryoga as if checking whether this conversation was, in fact, real.
When Ryoga mentioned walking into a store in Shinjuku and exiting in Kyoto, the officer beside Nakamura slowly placed a hand on the desk, as if he needed an anchor to keep himself from tipping over. Nakamura frowned and, after a long silence, asked in a measured voice:
"Alright... Let's set that aside for now. Have you ever tried taking a taxi?"
Ryoga nodded solemnly. "Yes, but it didn't really help. I told the driver I wanted to go home, and he drove for a long while. Then he stopped in the middle of a rice field and told me he couldn't go any farther. I paid the fare and got out."
Nakamura froze. The officer beside him, who had so far been merely skeptical, slowly opened his mouth before closing it again, at a total loss for words. He blinked multiple times, as if his brain refused to process the information.
"Wait..." Nakamura planted his hands on the desk, desperately trying to make sense of this. "Are you telling me a taxi driver willingly abandoned you in a rice field? Why didn't you ask him to take you somewhere else?"
Ryoga lowered his gaze, visibly embarrassed. "I tried. But when I asked him if Furinkan was south, he looked at me like I was a ghost and refused to answer. Then he sped off."
The officer beside Nakamura, completely flabbergasted, ran a hand over his face, shook his head, and, in a hushed voice, muttered, "This... this has to be a prank, right?"
Ryoga, without the slightest hesitation and with absolute sincerity, responded, "No."
A crushing silence fell over the room. Nakamura, in a contained burst of frustration, clenched his fists before abruptly crumpling the papers before him. Bits of paper flew into the air as he pressed his fingers to his temples, mumbling something between a prayer and a curse.
Meanwhile, his colleague—a younger, slightly hunched man wearing a badge that read "Officer Tanaka"—seemed to be lost in a different thought. Slowly, he approached Ryoga, narrowed his eyes, then, without warning, grabbed his wrist and began taking his pulse.
Ryoga looked at him, perplexed. "Uh... What are you doing?"
Tanaka did not respond immediately, focused on the task he had just invented to make sense of this surreal conversation. After a few seconds, he stated in a grave tone, "He's perfectly calm… His heartbeat is steady... This guy isn't lying."
Nakamura, who had been pressing his fingers into his skull in utter despair, slowly lifted his head toward his colleague. "Tanaka… Why. Are. You. Doing. This?"
Tanaka shrugged. "I just wanted to be sure he wasn't delirious."
Nakamura took a deep breath, fixed his gaze on an invisible point ahead, and murmured, "I'm going to lose it..."
He ran a clammy hand over his sweat-covered forehead, taking a second to straighten up, trying to gather the last remnants of his patience. His breathing was slightly erratic, his gaze a mixture of exhaustion and desperate determination. Slowly, he tightened his fingers around his pen, clinging to it like a castaway to a life raft, and in a tense but controlled voice, he continued:
"Alright… Is there someone who can confirm your identity? A relative, a friend, someone we can contact?"
Ryoga's demeanor shifted. His gaze became distant, a small dreamy smile appearing on his face.
"Akane Tendo..."
Nakamura raised an eyebrow. His colleague stiffened.
"Akane... She's magnificent. A gaze so fierce and unyielding, an incredible strength of character… A true ray of sunshine, yet a tempest all the same..."
Nakamura slammed his hand violently on the table.
"STOP!"
Ryoga flinched.
"WHO IS THIS AKANE TENDO?!" Nakamura inhaled deeply, attempting to maintain his composure, but his voice trembled with sheer exhaustion and frustration. He locked eyes with Ryoga, hoping—begging—for a clear and concise answer.
"Just... just tell me. Who is she to you? A friend? A sister? A rival? A fiancée? A collective hallucination? Is she even real?! I WANT ONE WORD! JUST ONE WORD!"
Ryoga lifted his eyes toward Nakamura, an almost melancholic smile floating on his lips. His voice, barely above a whisper, carried a disarming sincerity.
"A dream..."
For a moment, Nakamura did not move. Then, in a mechanical gesture, he violently shoved his chair back, making the metal legs screech against the floor. His face turned red with suppressed rage, and in an irrepressible outburst, he lunged forward, hands outstretched as if ready to strangle Ryoga on the spot.
Tanaka, until now a horrified spectator of this bureaucratic nightmare, barely had time to place a restraining hand on Nakamura's shoulder. "Chief, wait, wait! Maybe he has… another contact?!" he suggested, his voice urgent.
Nakamura froze, fists clenched, breathing heavily from the adrenaline surge. His crazed eyes remained locked on Ryoga, as if he had never encountered a human being as infuriating in his entire career.
"ANOTHER. PERSON. HIBIKI," he growled through gritted teeth.
Ryoga lifted his head, this time with an entirely different energy. His features tensed, his brows furrowed, and a nervous determination replaced his previous dreamy expression.
"Ranma Saotome."
Tanaka blinked, confused. "And… who is that?"
Ryoga gritted his teeth, his voice growing more rigid. "The man I must defeat. My sworn enemy, the one who constantly blocks my path. He is my curse, my cross to bear, the embodiment of everything that keeps me locked in this endless quest! And on top of that… he… he…" Ryoga clenched his fists, his gaze burning with suppressed rage.
Nakamura, still struggling to breathe normally, tried to follow. "He… what?"
Ryoga clenched his jaw before reluctantly admitting, "He turns into a girl when it rains…"
A deep silence followed.
Tanaka opened his mouth, then closed it. Nakamura, on the other hand, placed both hands on the desk, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly as he looked up at the ceiling.
"Of course he turns into a girl when it rains," he muttered, his eyes hollow, as if resigning himself to his fate. "Obviously. Why not…"
In a mechanical gesture, his arm slowly descended toward his holster, his fingers fumbling for his service weapon. Tanaka, noticing just in time, grabbed his wrist and pushed it away immediately.
"Nakamura, no. Not yet," he murmured, using the tone of a man who had defused similar situations before.
Officer Nakamura, still breathing heavily, shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. He closed his eyes for a second, then clenched his jaw as he slowly withdrew his hand from the holster, regaining some semblance of control.
Tanaka, desperately trying to restore a thread of logic to this absurd interrogation, tapped Ryoga's file with his fingers.
"Chief, he mentioned a high school, right? Furinkan. Maybe we could just… call them?"
Nakamura reopened his eyes, his gaze empty, as if his soul had just left his body. "Yes. Yes. Let's call a school. That has to be less absurd than what just happened…"
He sighed, grabbing the office phone in a robotic motion. "With any luck, they won't tell me he turns into a giant umbrella when it snows…"
He dialed Furinkan High School's number and put the call on speaker. After a few rings, an exaggeratedly cheerful voice rang out in the room:
"ALOHA~! You've reached Furinkan High School, paradise of discipline and tropical education! This is Principal Kuno speaking! What can I do for you, dear friends of order and respect?"
Nakamura and Tanaka froze.
Tanaka blinked several times, staring at the phone as if he had just heard an alien transmission. Nakamura, on the other hand, slowly opened his mouth, then closed it, unable to form a coherent thought.
"…What?" Nakamura finally managed to utter, his expression vacant.
On the other end of the line, the principal's voice continued, undisturbed. "Oh? Is there a problem in our little paradise? Do you need an expulsion, a free haircut, or perhaps A HULA-HOOP CLASS?"
Nakamura buried his face in his hands. "I… I can't. I just can't."
Tanaka, realizing that Nakamura was one step away from completely losing his mind, took a deep breath and cleared his throat before taking over.
"Uh… Principal Kuno? This is Officer Tanaka from the central precinct. We have a student here who claims to be enrolled at Furinkan, one Ryoga Hibiki."
A silence. Then, on the other end of the line, an explosive, booming laugh.
"OHOHOHOHOHOHO! RYOGA HIBIKI?! THE WANDERING VAGRANT?! AH, WHAT A WONDERFUL DAY!"
Tanaka exchanged an uneasy glance with Nakamura, who appeared increasingly drained of all will to live. The latter slowly shook his head and murmured:
"I knew this was a mistake…"
Dawn slowly stretched over Tokyo, casting a pale, ghostly light onto the empty streets. In a police car rolling at an uncertain pace, the atmosphere was as tense as it was absurd.
Nakamura, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, stared straight ahead with an alarming intensity. He was silent. His left eye twitched slightly, and his breath was short, almost ragged. The only thing betraying a sliver of human will in him was the fact that he hadn't yet crashed into a wall. But that, too, seemed imminent.
Beside him, Tanaka was desperately trying to make sense of their trajectory. He unfolded an enormous road map across his lap, struggling to hold it steady. The creased folds rendered some of the names illegible, and the entire document looked as if it had been used more as a picnic cloth than a reliable guide. His fingers trembled slightly around his coffee thermos, and his voice had become a fearful whisper.
"This is impossible... We took the right road... We followed the signs... Chief, tell me we're not driving in circles."
Ryoga, seated in the back, observed the city with complete indifference, as if all of this were perfectly normal. He even seemed somewhat relaxed, enjoying the ride like a simple passenger at the mercy of fate.
Then, Nakamura slowed down.
"Chief? Why are we slowing down?" Tanaka asked, worried.
The concrete wall at the edge of the road seemed to call him. Nakamura stared at it like a shipwrecked sailor gazing at a raging sea. Then, in a tragic act of resolution, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
"CHIEF?!"
A long silence. But before the car could rush headlong into its grim destiny, Tanaka, in a panicked reflex, yanked violently on the handbrake. The vehicle let out a high-pitched screech and came to an abrupt halt, throwing all its occupants forward.
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CHIEF, ARE YOU INSANE?!" Tanaka shouted, his breath ragged.
Nakamura blinked, his expression still frozen in absolute exhaustion. He slowly turned his head toward Tanaka, his eyes hollow, as if he no longer understood the fundamental laws of the universe. Then, without warning, he snatched the map from Tanaka's hands and, in a mechanical gesture, folded it in half before beginning to chew on it.
Tanaka stared at him in horror. "CHIEF, NO! THAT'S OUR ONLY CHANCE TO GET OUT OF HERE!"
He grabbed at the map, trying to pry it from Nakamura's mouth. But the chief, in an absurd act of sheer determination, clenched his jaws shut, refusing to let go. Thus began a silent and grotesque struggle, with Tanaka pulling on one end while Nakamura held onto the precious document with all his might, chewing with slow, deliberate intent.
After a Herculean effort, Tanaka managed to rip the map free with a loud, wet plop, half of it drenched in saliva and crumpled beyond all use.
For a moment, they remained frozen, panting.
Nakamura sighed and muttered, "It was an honorable way out..."
Then he restarted the car and continued driving in silence. Ryoga, still seated in the back, had not moved a muscle. He had watched the entire scene from the corner of his eye, without the slightest reaction, as if this were just another peculiarity in his already absurd existence. A policeman trying to eat a map before having it wrestled from his mouth by his colleague? Nothing out of the ordinary. After all, he had seen worse. He yawned slightly and watched the scenery pass by, simply waiting for them to finally arrive at their destination.
Arriving at Furinkan High School was a spectacle in itself. It was six in the morning. Not a soul in sight. Not a sound. Just a cold breeze that lifted abandoned papers across the pavement.
The gate stood slightly ajar, offering an invitation both discreet and ominous. The sky was a dull gray, and the buildings looked empty, like a backdrop from a post-apocalyptic movie.
Nakamura killed the engine. He stared at the gate. He said nothing. Tanaka looked at him, then turned his gaze to the gate as well.
"We drop the package. We leave. We forget," Nakamura muttered in a dull tone.
They stepped out slowly. Ryoga followed suit, silently. He paused for a moment to look around. There was a certain solemnity in his gaze, as if he were considering this moment a new beginning.
Nakamura gave him a rough pat on the shoulder. "Out of my car. Now." Ryoga said nothing. He simply walked toward the gate. And that's when everything changed.
A strange wind rose, stirring the dust on the ground. Then, without a single human hand intervening, the gate creaked open with a chilling sound.
Somewhere in the school, a hidden speaker suddenly crackled to life, blasting a ukulele rendition of "La Marseillaise."
A cloud of smoke billowed up from seemingly nowhere.
And then, he appeared.
Principal Kuno.
A towering figure, shirtless beneath a tropical sarong, a massive lei of flowers draped around his neck. He sipped a cocktail from a coconut, a bright pink straw sticking out of the unknown liquid. He strode forward slowly, majestically, his sunglasses reflecting the pale morning light.
He stopped before them and raised his arms skyward.
"NOBLE HERALDS OF JUSTICE, WELCOME TO THE KINGDOM OF EDUCATIONAL PALMS! ALOHA, MY FRIENDS!"
Nakamura and Tanaka remained frozen. Tanaka blinked, incredulous. "This... this is a nightmare..."
Then, in a movement disturbingly swift, Principal Kuno dashed forward and, with a gesture so fluid it seemed almost supernatural, placed a flower lei around each of their necks before retreating just as quickly, beaming at them with radiant enthusiasm.
Nakamura did not react. He slowly lowered his eyes to the lei, as if it were a hangman's noose.
Then, in a measured, deliberate motion, he removed it and dropped it to the ground. Kuno raised an eyebrow, scandalized. "ARE YOU INSULTING THE SACRED RITUAL OF THE TROPICAL WELCOME?!" Tanaka, panicking, murmured, "Chief, put it on, put it on, I'm begging you!" But Nakamura crushed the lei under his shoe.
The silence that followed seemed to stretch for eternity.
Then Nakamura turned on his heel.
"We're leaving."
Tanaka didn't wait a second longer. He leapt into the car, Nakamura started the engine with a screech, and they sped toward the parking lot exit at full throttle.
But as they drove, Tanaka noticed something strange. "Chief... is it just me or... are we still in front of the school?"
Nakamura did not respond. They kept driving, taking a different exit. Ten minutes on the road. Everything seemed normal. Then they saw the sign.
FURINKAN HIGH SCHOOL.
Their car was once again parked in front of the gate. The gate, which opened on its own once more.
Nakamura slowly cut the engine.
Tanaka opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Nakamura stepped out of the car.
He walked toward the gate.
He placed a trembling hand on it.
Then, in a howl of despair, he began shaking the iron bars violently.
"LET ME OUT OF THIS DAMN PLACE!"
Principal Kuno continued sipping his cocktail, watching him with exaggerated benevolence.
"Noble officer, Furinkan High School welcomes ALL who lose their way on the path of discipline."
Tanaka tried to calm Nakamura, who was breathing heavily, his hands still gripping the bars of the gate. Through them, his pale face and eyes emptied of hope gave the eerie impression that he was a prisoner, trapped behind these gates like an inmate resigned to his fate.
"Chief, it's okay, it's okay, just breathe, breathe!"
Nakamura slowly turned his head toward him, his gaze hollow, his voice broken.
"We're going to die here, Tanaka. This is a parallel dimension."
And for the first time, Tanaka couldn't help but think... maybe he was right.