The Calm Before

Nine Lives in Neon Lights

Chapter 2: The Calm Before

The morning sunlight, filtered through the thin curtains of her cramped bedroom, felt unusually bright. Akira groaned, burying her face deeper into her pillow. Saturday. Normally, the thought of a weekend filled with absolutely nothing would be a blessing, but after yesterday's academic debacle, even her precious free time felt tainted by the looming threat of "academic intervention." The subtle, low thrum she'd felt under her skin last night was still there, a faint, almost imperceptible buzz, like a phone vibrating silently inside her. She chalked it up to stress.

"Akira? Are you awake yet, sleepyhead?" Her mother's voice, warm and laced with a familiar weariness, drifted from the kitchen. The clatter of ceramic cups and the comforting scent of instant coffee followed.

Akira finally peeled herself from the futon, the phantom pins and needles at the base of her spine a little more noticeable in the quiet morning. She stretched, her limbs feeling strangely limber.

"I'm up, Mom," she called back, padding into the tiny kitchen. Her mother, Yoko, was already hunched over the low table, a stack of bills fanned out like a bad hand of cards. Lines of worry were etched around her eyes, deeper than usual.

"Good morning," Yoko said, managing a smile as she pushed a mug of weak coffee towards Akira. "Sleep well?"

"Like a log," Akira lied, swirling the lukewarm liquid. "Except for the part where I dreamt I was being chased by an angry haiku."

Her mother chuckled, a soft, tired sound. "Well, that's certainly more exciting than my dreams of balancing the accounts." She gestured to the bills. "Sakura Academy tuition is due next week. With your... recent academic performance, they might reconsider your scholarship." The words were gentle, but the underlying anxiety was clear.

Akira's gut twisted. "It won't happen, Mom. I'll… I'll fix it. I'm going to crush those intervention sessions. You won't have to pay a single extra yen." The lie felt hollow, but the conviction in her tone, a strange, newfound certainty, surprised even herself.

Yoko gave her a long look, a mix of hope and weariness. "You always say that, sweetie. Just... try. Please." She paused, then pushed a small, slightly crumpled twenty-dollar bill across the table. "Here. Go get yourself something nice. Or, you know, a very large coffee."

"Mom, no, you need that for—"

"I insist," Yoko cut in, her voice firm. "And maybe... think about what you really want to do. Is Sakura Academy truly the right place for you?"

Akira looked at the crumpled bill, then at her mother's tired face. The guilt was a heavy weight. "I'll think about it. And I'm keeping this for the tuition. You work too hard." She pocketed the money, knowing she'd find a way to slip it back into her mother's purse later. "Now, what are we doing for lunch? My treat, with all my nonexistent riches."

They spent the morning at a small, bustling market near their apartment, picking up fresh vegetables and cheap cuts of meat. Akira found herself noticing every scent, every sound—the distant wail of a siren, the pungent aroma of pickled ginger, the cacophony of vendors shouting their wares. It was all so vivid, almost overwhelming, but in a way that made her feel intensely alive. She even spotted a tiny, almost invisible tear in her mother's favorite apron that she'd never seen before. Her senses felt sharper, more attuned.

---

Later that afternoon, Akira met Hiroshi at their usual café, a cozy, slightly dilapidated spot tucked away on a side street. He was already there, nursing an iced coffee, a textbook open but clearly forgotten.

"Took you long enough," he teased, though his eyes softened when he saw her. "Rough morning with Nakamura-sensei's 'intervention' plans?"

Akira slid into the booth opposite him. "You have no idea. My mother almost cried. It was heartbreaking. I tried to tell her I'm just playing the long game, building a compelling underdog narrative."

Hiroshi snorted. "Your narrative is currently 'dropout seeks minimum-wage employment.'"

"Hey! FamilyMart is a reputable establishment! And my customer service skills are unparalleled." She leaned in conspiratorially. "I once convinced a tourist to buy instant ramen instead of fresh sushi. It was a masterpiece of persuasion."

He shook his head, a fond exasperation on his face. "Akira, seriously. What are we going to do? College applications are coming up. You can't just… fail your way through life."

"Why not?" she countered, sipping her own absurdly sweet iced tea. "It's certainly less effort than succeeding. Besides, I have a very niche skillset for the apocalypse. I can survive on instant noodles and my biting sarcasm will deter zombies."

Hiroshi sighed, but there was a faint smile playing on his lips. "You know, you've been... different lately."

Akira raised an eyebrow. "Different how? Have I suddenly acquired a penchant for classical literature? Because I assure you, the answer is still no."

"No, not that," he mused, studying her. "You just seem... sharper. And weirder. I caught you staring into space in class yesterday like you were deciphering ancient alien texts, not just avoiding eye contact with Nakamura-sensei."

Akira waved a dismissive hand. "Just existential angst. It's a stage. Besides, if I'm weirder, you're just more boring than usual. Did you even leave your room this week, or did you spontaneously generate that perfect score by osmosis?"

They talked for hours, the easy rhythm of their friendship a comforting balm against the underlying anxieties of her life. Hiroshi's unwavering support, even for her strangeness, was a lifeline. He was the most normal thing she had, her anchor in a world that felt like it was subtly vibrating just beneath her feet.

As the sun began to dip below the Tokyo skyline, casting long, bruised shadows, Akira felt the familiar dread of her evening shift at FamilyMart. But underneath it, the faint, persistent hum of energy she'd felt all day seemed to grow, a low thrum that made her feel strangely invigorated.

---

The night shift started just like any other. Sato-san grumbled his usual pre-shift warnings, and Akira slipped into the mundane rhythm of scanning barcodes. The fluorescent lights seemed even brighter tonight, almost painfully so, and the faint, earthy scent from last night was back, stronger now, mingling with the metallic tang of money.

Around ten PM, during what Sato-san called "weird customer hours," the chime above the door sang its tune. A man in a dark hoodie entered.

Something about him immediately set her on edge. He avoided eye contact, moved through the store like he was looking for something specific, lingering near the front while glancing repeatedly toward the register. The strange hum beneath her skin intensified, making her whole body feel acutely aware.

When he approached the counter and reached into his hoodie pocket, Akira's heart stopped. The gun was small and black, gleaming dully in the artificial light, real enough to make her mouth go dry.

"Empty the register," he said. "Now." His voice was a low growl, distorted, as if he were trying to hide his identity.

Akira's complete lack of training kicked in. Instead of complying, the sass simply took over. "Are you serious right now?"

The gunman seemed as surprised as she was. "What?"

"There's maybe eight thousand yen in here," she continued, a strange, electric certainty coursing through her veins. "You're risking armed robbery charges for less than seventy dollars American. And you literally walked past a police box to get here. Do you know how many cameras are pointing at this intersection?"

"Just—just give me the money!" he snarled, clearly flustered.

"You know, you're not very good at this," Akira observed, almost conversational. "Have you considered a different line of work? Maybe something that doesn't involve endangering minimum-wage workers for the price of a fancy dinner?"

That's when his composure snapped. His eyes, visible through the shadow of his hood, flashed with raw frustration. He jerked the gun up, pointing it directly at her chest.

The sound was louder than expected—a sharp crack that echoed off the walls. Pain bloomed across her chest like fire, and she looked down to see red spreading across her white uniform shirt.

Oh, she thought with odd detachment. I've been shot.

The magazines scattered from her hands as she stumbled backward. The fluorescent lights seemed to surge, blindingly bright, and the familiar hum of refrigerators swelled into a deafening roar. Her whole body flared with that internal electric thrum, now overwhelming, almost painfully intense.

This is how I die, she realized. Shot by an incompetent convenience store robber for eight thousand yen and a lecture on criminal technique. What a perfectly dull, embarrassing end.

The last thing she saw was the gunman's panicked face as her vision blurred, the roaring in her ears consumed everything, and darkness claimed her.