KONOHAMARU SHIPPUDEN

The rain was a relentless curtain, blurring the already familiar cityscape of Tokyo into a watercolour of greys and muted neon. For Bob Kimura, it was just another Tuesday in October 2014. Sixteen years old, skinny as a stray cat, and perpetually a little too tired, Bob was a fourth-year high school student navigating the familiar currents of adolescence in the heart of Japan.

His backpack, overflowing with the weight of textbooks and the anxieties of upcoming exams, felt heavier than usual against his thin frame. He stood huddled under the inadequate shelter of the school gate awning, the rhythmic drumming of rain on the metal a monotonous soundtrack to his impatience.

Bob Kimura, and like many of he's peers, was a product of the digital age, more versed in the lore of virtual worlds than the intricacies of the real one. Anime was his escape, a place where characters had clear motivations and conflicts resolved within neatly defined episodes.

A familiar buzz vibrated in his pocket. It was Tomo, his closest friend and fellow anime devotee. "Don't forget 'Parasyte' tonight!" the message read. Tomo's enthusiasm was infectious. Bob smiled, a small warmth against the damp chill, and replied, "Already downloaded the second episode! You bringing the Pocky?"

Another message popped up almost instantly. "Duh! Chocolate flavor, your favorite. My mom even made onigiri. We're having a full-on anime night!"

Bob chuckled, typing back, "Sweet! Just gotta survive this math class first. Sensei's been on a rampage lately."

The bus, a lumbering beast of wet metal and weary passengers, finally shuddered to a halt at the stop. Bob, always a little hesitant to push through the crowd, was the last to board. His sneakers, already soaked through, squeaked with each step up the narrow aisle.

He found an empty seat near the back, the vinyl cold against his jeans. With a sigh of relief, he pulled out his earphones, the familiar synth-pop of Perfume washing over him, a shield against the mundane drone of the engine and the muffled conversations around him. The world outside became a blurry impressionistic painting, streaks of light and shadow shimmering through the rain-streaked window.

His fingers danced across his phone, scrolling through social media. A fleeting thought of the upcoming math test flickered and was dismissed. He was lost in a thread about anime conventions, already planning cosplay outfits. He sent Tomo a picture of a ridiculously elaborate costume, a mecha pilot with glowing LED lights. Tomo replied with a string of laughing emojis..

Then, the world tilted.

It wasn't a gentle sway, the kind you'd expect from a bus turning a corner. This was a violent wrench, a sickening lurch that threw him sideways against the hard plastic of the seat in front of him. A collective gasp rippled through the bus, followed by a sharp, frantic cry. Tires shrieked, a high-pitched, desperate sound that seemed to claw at the silence.

Bob's music cut out abruptly as his headphones flew off. He had a fleeting, disoriented glimpse of the passenger across the aisle, her face contorted in a mask of terror, her hand flying to her mouth. Then, a bone-jarring impact. The world exploded in a cacophony of shattering glass, twisted metal, and screams swallowed by the sudden, deafening silence.

The anime worlds he loved were filled with dramatic showdowns, near-death escapes, and the comforting promise of a resolution, even if bittersweet. But here, in the cold, hard reality of a Tokyo, there were no heroes, no dramatic monologues, no second chances. There was only the brutal finality of metal meeting flesh.

The screech of tires, a sound so sharp it felt like a physical blow, was the last coherent thing Bob heard. Not the comforting rhythm of the rain, not the cheerful greetings of his classmates, not even the catchy melody of his favorite anime opening. Just the agonizing shriek that marked the abrupt, senseless end of his existence.

The impact threw him with brutal force. He wasn't aware of the trajectory, the sickening thud as his body met unyielding resistance. His textbooks, his carefully curated world of study and escape, scattered across the wet asphalt, their pages quickly soaking up the rain and mingling with something darker.

The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of pain, a blinding flash of white, followed by a swirling vortex of colours. He felt a crushing weight on his chest, a burning sensation that spread through his limbs. Sounds became muffled, distant. The rain, or was it something else, was a cold wash against his skin.

Then, the kaleidoscope fractured. The colours bled into a smear of grey, the sounds faded to a faint hum, and the burning sensation gave way to a profound, unsettling cold. The weight on his chest intensified, stealing his breath, stealing his life.

He was aware, in a detached, almost clinical way, that this was it. This was the end. There was no dramatic flashback sequence, no montage of happy memories flashing before his eyes. Just a hollow, creeping emptiness.

Strangely, he wasn't afraid. Perhaps the shock was too great, the transition too swift. His last thoughts were fragmented, nonsensical things: Tomo laughing face the Colossal Titan's design, and his grandmother's red bean paste.

The rain continued to fall, a relentless, indifferent witness. Through the blurry haze of his fading vision, he saw distorted shapes looming above him – concerned faces, their expressions a mixture of horror and pity. He heard fragmented words, muffled and indistinct. Someone was shouting. Then, a gentle touch, a hand on his arm, surprisingly warm.

He tried to focus, to make sense of the chaos around him, but his mind was slipping away, like sand through his fingers. The cold was intensifying, seeping into his bones, extinguishing the last embers of warmth.

And then, a strange thing happened. Amidst the fading sounds and the encroaching darkness, he heard a whisper. It wasn't a voice he recognized, but it was clear, distinct, cutting through the fog of his dying senses.

"Not like this," the whisper seemed to say, the words echoing not in his ears, but somewhere deeper, within his very being. It was a voice devoid of emotion, yet carrying a strange weight, a sense of profound unease.

The whisper startled him, jolting him momentarily out of the encroaching oblivion. He strained his eyes, trying to see who had spoken, but the figures above him remained blurry, indistinct. He tried to speak, to ask what they meant, but his throat was tight, his lungs refusing to cooperate. Only a choked gurgle escaped his lips.

The whisper came again, closer this time, almost inside his head. "There was supposed to be more."

A flicker of confusion pierced through the numbness. More what? More anime? More time with Tomo? More of this confusing, overwhelming thing called life?

The cold was all-consuming now, a vast, empty expanse swallowing him whole. The rain on his face felt like tiny needles, but even that sensation was fading. The shapes above him were dissolving into the grey.

The whisper lingered, a final, unsettling echo in the encroaching darkness. "A glitch…"

Then, silence. The complete, absolute silence of non-existence.