Afternoon

Blue Ash City moved at its usual weekday rhythm, shoes clattering across pavement, vendors calling over the thrum of traffic, neon signs glowing stubbornly against the strong midday sun. Apricot drifted with the current down Iwai Street. The air brimmed with food smoke: chicken skewers crackling over open coals, takoyaki batter crisping golden in round iron molds. The scents wrapped around her like a tug from childhood, reminding her of summer stalls at Castor’s street fairs. She could almost hear her friends laughing as they dared each other to eat scalding-hot dumplings fresh from the pan, their mouths full of steam and spice. Her stomach growled now, bringing her back to the present. She pressed a hand over it and smiled faintly.

Shops crowded close on either side, each one spilling its own color. Old cartridges stacked like treasure in a game store window made her think of afternoons spent crowded around a flickering CRT, passing controllers back and forth until the sun dipped. Trinkets gleamed under cheap LED strips—cybernetic rings, chrome pendants—so like the charms she used to trade at school, when life had seemed simpler, the world smaller.

She kicked a pebble down the lane, frustration nipping at the edge of her good mood. “Stupid detour,” she muttered. “Would’ve been on time if not for that. Just my luck.”

Still, the irritation softened as she slowed before a fashion boutique. Behind the glass, mechanical mannequins posed in bright new outfits, their movements smooth, almost graceful. Apricot remembered watching department store windows with her mother as a girl, tugging on her sleeve and begging for a pair of shoes she’d never get. Her mother’s laugh, warm, tired but never unkind, still lingered in her ears.

The nostalgia thinned when one mannequin tilted its head with a quiet servo whine, eyes staring too flat, too empty. Apricot’s smile faltered. The sweetness of the memory slipped away, leaving her with a faint chill. She turned her gaze down the street, chasing after friendlier sights.

A discordant cascade of chiptune spilled from the next storefront, jolting her mood upward like a sugar rush. Apricot knew that melody—Queen of Dragons, the old hack-and-slash she used to burn quarters on. Her steps quickened, drawn to the sound until Nebu Arcade loomed ahead, its flickering neon penguin twitching through static light. The doorway exhaled a welcome blast of cold air when she slipped inside.

Darkness wrapped the arcade like a cave, fractured by strobing screens and LED veins crawling across ceiling and floor. Retro and modern cabinets screamed pixel violence, their speakers spitting explosions and sword clashes. A handful of gamers hunched over controls, hammering buttons with the fury of addicts feeding the machine.

Apricot breathed deep. The owners had tried to drown the place in artificial watermelon, but the musk of sweat, cigarette ghosts, and overheated circuitry seeped through. To anyone else it might have stunk. To her, it smelled like childhood afternoons—half freedom, half escape.

She spotted the Queen of Dragons cabinet waiting at the back, screen pulsing with a start menu of pixelated warriors: barbarian, cleric, archer, sorceress, wizard. The glow made her pulse quicken. She fished a coin from her pocket and slid it home. Clink. The machine came alive in a heroic march of 16-bit sound.

Apricot cracked her knuckles, grinning. “Alright. Let’s slay some dragons.” Her hands flew. The barbarian cleaved through mobs in a blur, her combos firing like second nature. Noise and memory folded into rhythm—button strikes, music, the flicker of sprites. The morning’s weight thinned until it vanished entirely.

Level one cleared. Treasure poured over her screen as the ogre boss collapsed. Apricot let out a breathless laugh, teeth flashing in a triumphant smile. For the moment, the world outside didn’t matter. Only the dragons.

The overhead lights convulsed, sputtering like flies trapped in a bug-zapper. Her screen dulled to gray, the console wheezing as though something had gutted its insides. The cheerful game music twisted into a warped moan before choking silent.

Apricot smacked the cabinet hard enough to sting her palm. “Really? Now? Of course.” She leaned in, expecting the usual arcade glitch. But then the whole room folded into darkness—every cabinet snuffed out at once, pixels shriveling into dying stars before vanishing. Only the dim exit lights lingered, jaundiced halos that barely touched the gloom.

Patrons muttered, voices brittle with irritation. A coin tray spilled with a sharp clatter. None of that explained the crawling static that needled up Apricot’s arms, lifting every hair on her skin. The muggy summer heat of Okabe should’ve been stifling, but instead the air knifed cold, freezer-burn sharp.

She gasped. A plume of white mist billowed from her mouth. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Ice breath in summer. Totally normal.”

The chill tunneled into her bones, slowing the arcade into syrup. Her reflection ghosted in the black glass of the dead screen. Behind her, a shape—too tall, edges smeared, a lean head tilted as if it studied her.

Her chest clamped. She spun, pulse hammering.

Nothing. Just silhouettes of kids kicking cabinets, faces soured in the weak light.

And then it was gone. The cold, the weight, like someone slammed the freezer shut. Heat rushed back, sticky and loud.

The machines screamed to life at once, neon vomiting color across the arcade. Apricot sagged against the cabinet and rubbed her arms, forcing out a laugh that broke halfway. “Yeah. Totally fine. Nothing weird at all. This day is killing it.”

One of the attendants shouted apologies about a building-wide surge. The crowd grumbled—refunds, broken streaks, wasted tokens. Nobody else looked shaken. Just annoyed.

But Apricot’s heart refused to settle. That cold hadn’t been a glitch. It hadn’t belonged to Okabe’s swamp-thick summer. It had felt deliberate.

Her screen blinked awake, pixel dragons dancing again. She stared, lips twisting. “Great. Nothing says ‘epic boss fight’ like frost demons haunting the arcade.”

And still, that weight lingered. Watching.

Apricot shoved through the arcade door and stepped outside. Daylight slapped her across the face. She blinked hard, lids watering, her vision stinging until the brightness settled. For a moment she thought about going back in, hiding in the hum of machines where the light was artificial and predictable. But her feet kept moving.

She walked without aim, thoughts drifting, until she realized the streets around her no longer looked familiar. The bright carts with their cheerful shouts were gone. The storefronts had lost their polish, replaced by squat buildings with grime between their bricks and bars on the windows. Signs dangled on rusted chains, their paint peeling, their promises of pawned goods and cut-rate electronics looking as tired as the neighborhood itself.

Her pace slowed. How far did I wander? She couldn’t remember when the city had changed around her, only that it had. The air smelled stale, like burnt wires, dust, and damp stone, and it carried the uneasy stillness of a place long neglected.

A half-dead neon strip clung to the corner of a hardware store. It buzzed faintly, coughing out HARDW RE in an anemic blue sputter. She found herself staring, waiting for it to fail entirely, and wondered if anyone would even bother to fix it. Probably not. Places like this didn’t get fixed, they just rotted slower.

The unease pressed heavier on her chest with each step. A few people lingered on the sidewalks, their movements unhurried but their eyes quick. When their gazes slid toward her, they didn’t look away fast enough. She felt them measuring her, and the prickle along her skin told her she didn’t like what they saw.

Two men stood outside a shuttered billiards hall. They barely shifted as she passed, but their eyes did, tracing her uniform up and down, slow and deliberate. Heat crawled up her neck. Don’t look at them. Just keep walking. But the thought did little to steady her pulse. The uniform suddenly felt childish, thin, like a sign pinned to her chest: young, alone, easy.

Her inner voice cut sharp. Idiot. You weren’t paying attention. Now you’ve wandered into the wrong place, dressed like bait.

She picked up her pace. Next corner. Turn there. Get back where it’s busy. Forget shortcuts. Just go.

She rounded the corner with her eyes forward, already planning the way back—when sudden motion caught her at the edge of her vision. Not casual movement. Violent.

Down the side street, four men formed a loose circle. Someone was on the ground in the middle.

Her stomach dropped.

One of them kicked the man hard in the gut. The sound cracked against the walls. The victim folded with a sharp cry, curling tighter as another blow landed.

Apricot froze. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She wanted to look away, but her eyes stayed fixed.

The attackers laughed, their voices harsh and careless, echoing between the buildings. The sound made her throat tighten.

What the hell did I just walk into?

Before her brain caught up, her mouth betrayed her.

“H-hey! Stop it!”

The cry cracked out of her throat, high and raw, ricocheting down brick walls. As soon as it left her lips, regret punched through her chest. What are you doing?

The thugs froze mid-motion, their heads snapping toward her like wolves scenting prey. Apricot’s blood iced over. She stood there—just a schoolgirl in uniform, empty-handed, cutting into business she had no right to see. Foolish didn’t cover it. This was suicide.

The moment stretched until it felt endless. No one moved. Then the tallest brute, a black-haired slab with a jagged skull tattoo carved across his temple, curled his mouth into a sneer. He punctuated it with one last savage kick to the victim’s face. Bone cracked wetly, the man’s groan dying into limp silence.

“Yeah, let’s get outta here,” Tattoo sneered, voice gravel dragging through the alley. He spat on the crumpled man, contempt thick in every syllable. “Remember what we told ya, shithead. Pay the rest, or crawl outta town. Permanently. Your call.”

Apricot realized only then that she’d stopped breathing. Her lungs locked, chest tight, as the four turned and started toward her—shoulder to shoulder, filling the alley’s width. Her legs betrayed her, rooted in the concrete like they’d forgotten how to move. This is it. Her heartbeat pounded high in her throat. I’m next. She saw her father’s face in her mind—receiving the call, broken by the words your daughter was found in an alley. The thought iced her veins.

Every instinct shrieked at her to run, but terror nailed her joints in place. She pressed against the wall, cold seeping through her back, eyes wide as the men closed in. Their faces were still burning from the fight, jaws set, blood-thrill flashing in their eyes. One had flecks of red speckling his boots.

Her throat dried to sand.

That shout had startled them. It startled her too.

Now she had their full attention.

They didn’t stop. One after another, they pushed past her, eyes sliding off her like she wasn’t even worth the trouble. The brute in front smirked, lips twisting as his shoulder clipped hers, the stench of sweat and cheap beer trailing in his wake.

“Out of the way, girl,” one muttered, voice rough as gravel. Then they turned the corner and dissolved into shadow, gone as suddenly as they had arrived—phantoms leaving nothing but the echo of her fear behind.

Her knees buckled. She hadn’t noticed how tight her lungs had cinched until air rushed in, raw and burning. For a heartbeat she thought she might black out.

She squeezed her eyes shut. I’m okay. I’m okay. The words pulsed through her skull, fragile armor against the tremor in her hands. When she forced her gaze open, the alley returned—and with it, the broken body sprawled on the concrete.

He stirred, pushing feebly against the grit-streaked ground. His palms slipped, his body collapsing with a wet cough. The sound dragged her forward, guilt pricking sharp under her ribs. Boots crunching through glass shards, she hurried to him.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Her voice barely carried, hushed like she might shatter him with volume.

He rolled weakly, blood glistening on his lips. His face was a ruin of swelling and split flesh, one eye already sealing shut beneath purple bruising. A jagged cut carved his brow.

Recognition slammed into her. It’s him.

Her breath caught. The guy from the train—no question. His hoodie hung in tatters, his good eye blinking up at her in dazed confusion.

“You,” he rasped, words fractured, thick with pain. “What… what are you doing here?”

Apricot’s throat clenched. “I—I was just passing by,” she stammered, fumbling for her phone with clumsy fingers. “I’ll call an ambulance. Or the cops.”

Cortez’s hand shot out, clamping her wrist like steel. “No!” His voice cracked sharp, more command than plea. Apricot jolted, heart thudding. For a man torn up and bleeding, his grip felt unshakable.

“Don’t,” he rasped, dragging himself upright with a groan. Muscles trembled as he shoved against the alley wall, hauling his weight until he slumped back against the brick. He let her go, but his eyes didn’t soften. “Don’t do something stupid like that. Stay out of it. None of your business, reporter.” The word landed like spit, bitter and edged.

The heat flared in her chest—instinct to argue, to remind him he wouldn’t even be standing without her. But his face, blood crusted along the brow, jaw set hard as stone, warned her off. He’d saved her this morning. Now she saw the cracks beneath the act: the danger wrapped around him, the thugs’ muttered talk of payment. Drugs. Gangs. Worse. If she called the cops and he was tangled in it, she’d be dragged into the mess. Or worse, get him killed for running his mouth.

Her professors’ voices scraped at her memory: sometimes inaction is the choice that keeps you alive. She hated it, but she couldn’t shake the truth buried inside it. His warning wasn’t just for himself. It was for her.

“You should get that looked at,” she murmured, chin angling toward the gash above his eye.

A ragged laugh broke from him, cut short with a wince. “Yeah. I’ll manage.” He staggered forward, arm cinched tight around his ribs. The sound of his boots scuffing against grit echoed too loud in the narrow space.

After a few pained steps he twisted, eyes catching hers. For a breath, his guard slipped. “Listen… thanks. For yelling. Could’ve been worse.” The words rasped out raw, then the wall came back down. “But seriously. Forget you saw this. You don’t want any part of it.”

Her teeth pressed into her lip. She nodded, unable to summon more. “Just… be careful,” she whispered.

He grimaced, something unreadable flickering behind it, then turned. His limp carried him deeper into shadow until the bend swallowed him whole.

Apricot stayed rooted, watching the empty alley breathe him away, heart sinking heavy in her chest.

What was his story? The question clung to her like a burr. Yesterday she’d filed a throwaway column about Blue Ash’s rising crime—dealers, turf wars simmering under the neon skin of the city. Now she was brushing against the very thing she’d written about.

Her fingers twitched, wanting the weight of her notebook, the scratch of pen. She could almost see herself shadowing Cortez, lobbing questions until she wrung out the truth. But instinct pulled harder than curiosity. These weren’t accountants embezzling under fluorescent lights—these were men with knives, fists, and no hesitation. She thought of Cortez’s swollen jaw, the bruise blooming purple across his cheek, and her stomach tightened. The city had a hidden mouth, sharp with teeth, and she’d nearly fed herself to it.

A breath shuddered out of her. Sweat slicked her palms, and she wiped them against her skirt, the fabric already damp. Excitement and fear still rattled in her bones, leaving her hollow. She needed somewhere bright. Somewhere with witnesses, chatter, walls that didn’t lean in with menace.

She risked a glance out of the alley. Across the street, the Utopian Theater slouched beneath its retro marquee. Relief stirred—she knew this stretch. A few blocks down, an old haunt from high school. Hot Shots Café. The name alone conjured steam, warmth, the comfort of ceramic between her hands. A safe harbor.

She quickened her pace, shoes slapping the pavement too loud in her ears. When she pushed through Hot Shots’ door, a bell chimed overhead. The air struck her at once: espresso rich and sugared, like a blanket drawn tight. Chocolate-brown walls, green trim, soft light. The swing of big band music undercut the murmur of voices, private but not isolating.

The city noise died the moment the door sealed shut, smothered by the clink of cups and the rustle of pages. Apricot let herself breathe. For the first time in hours, the place felt like sanctuary.

The café’s neat lines and polished chrome felt like a reprieve, its quiet rhythm smoothing the edges of her day. Then—

“Apricot? Hey, girl!”

The voice carried like a cue line across a stage. Apricot’s head snapped up. Bonni Wilox leaned over the counter, grin bright, framed by the gleam of glass and brass.

The smile that broke across Apricot’s face was instinct. Bonni—bandana tied over a tumble of curls, apron cutting against a blouse patterned in fading dots, blue eyes alive with the same spark they’d had since the day they met. That day still clung sharp in Apricot’s mind: two awkward transfers in the middle of high school, exiles in their own ways. Bonni from Estarius, Apricot from Castor. They’d found each other fast, drawn together by the mutual recognition of not belonging. The city kids had their cliques, their shorthand. Apricot and Bonni had only each other, and from that mismatch grew laughter, pranks, long nights spent inventing trouble that made them feel less like strangers.

“Bonni!” The name spilled out, warm and breathless. Apricot surged forward, catching her across the counter in a hug. Coffee heat mingled with Bonni’s perfume, a note of citrus and something sweet. Bonni chuckled and squeezed her back, milk pitcher still steady in her other hand.

Apricot pulled away, grinning. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Yup.” Bonni tugged at her apron with a flourish. “Barista until stardom comes calling. Can’t just storm a studio and demand the spotlight.” She struck a pose, head tilted, a wink sharp as a stage light. Always the actress. Always playing to the room, even if the room was empty. And always, somehow, managing to tug Apricot’s heart lighter.

Bonni leaned on the counter, eyebrow cocked. “But what about you, missy? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Apricot rolled her eyes. The sigh carried the sting of the morning with it. “Took a wrong turn. By the time I got there, doors were locked.”

“Ouch.” Bonni’s pout was exaggerated, a comic mask she slipped on and off at will, but beneath it her gaze softened. She busied her hands on the espresso machine, wiping the steamer wand, movements clean and precise. “City never misses a chance to make things harder. At least you’re free now. And me? I get company.”

Apricot slid onto a stool, her bag landing heavy against the tiled floor. The café exhaled around her: the low hum of machines, a couple murmuring in the corner, an old man shifting his paper by the window. Normal life, orderly and bright.

Bonni darted a glance around the café before leaning close, eyes glittering with mischief. “So… did you catch that insanity this morning? The newscast everyone’s buzzing about?”

Of course Bonni would be bursting—drama was her oxygen. Apricot had seen her chase rumors with more devotion than paychecks.

She gave a small nod. “My brother had it on. Some robbery turned standoff downtown, right? It looked brutal. They rolled out the SDP.” The images returned sharp: armored trucks, flashing sirens, anchors repeating words like crossfire and fatality. She’d clicked the screen off halfway through.

Bonni’s grin widened like a predator scenting blood. “Awful, yes. But juicy.” She waggled her brows, lowering her voice like a child with a stolen secret. “Two cops came in earlier for coffee. I may have… listened in.”

Typical Bonni—unashamed, brazen. Apricot smirked despite herself. People called her nosy; Apricot thought of it as fearless.

“Go on then,” Apricot said, though she braced for exaggeration. Bonni’s stories always came with flourishes, but behind the sparkle, she caught things. Working service meant overhearing what people assumed you wouldn’t.

Bonni glanced toward the back—manager still buried in orders—then whispered, “They said their boss was pissed the suspect wasn’t taken alive.”

Apricot blinked, unease tightening in her gut. Not taken alive? That wasn’t how the news told it. She pictured muzzle flashes, the sound of metal cracking glass. “The robber? Well… they usually want them alive to question, right?” She tried to make the thought steady, logical, but it rang hollow even in her own ears.

Bonni shook her head hard, curls bouncing. “No. This wasn’t about paperwork. More like… they lost something when she died. Like she was worth more breathing.”

A chill slid up Apricot’s spine, prickling her skin. Worth more alive… to who? The footage had looked like chaos, no chance for negotiation. She’d assumed the woman went down in a storm of bullets, a casualty swallowed by the noise. But if the officers were disappointed… what did that mean?

“Maybe she had info on her gang?” Apricot said. The guess tasted weak. Bonni’s story lodged in her mind like a thorn, snagging on the question she couldn’t shake: what could make one criminal so important that her death felt like a loss, not a victory?

Bonni leaned in so close her perfume brushed Apricot’s nose. Her eyes glowed with the thrill of gossip. “One of the officers said, ‘the boss is gonna chew us out; she wasn’t supposed to die.’” Bonni wiggled her fingers like shadow-puppets across the tabletop. “Weird, right? Who expects a shooter to survive after mowing down a squad of cops? Unless…” Her voice thinned to a hush, “…she wasn’t just a normal criminal.”

The words lodged in Apricot’s chest. Her thoughts spooled out in jagged images: a woman in a black mask, blood slick across her shirt, hands cuffed but her eyes alive with secrets; a police chief looming in some smoke-choked office, slamming a fist into a desk, shouting she was supposed to be breathing. The scenes unfolded like torn film strips, frames jittering one after another, too vivid to ignore.

A terrorist? A spy? Someone needed alive for reasons buried deeper than crime reports? Her pulse ticked faster, every possibility dangerous, intoxicating. The reporter in her inhaled the scent of a headline the way smoke curls into lungs—unhealthy, unstoppable.

She squeezed it shut. Hearsay. Dangerous fantasy. Professor Lasky’s voice broke through the reel, smug and heavy: Your life is not worth a headline. His face bloomed in her mind like a caricature sketch, chalk lines dragged across the theater of her thoughts. Annoying. But maybe right.

Bonni pouted, eyes catching the dull café light. “Oh come on. You’re not even a little intrigued? This could be your scoop.”

Apricot forced a laugh that landed flat, tinny, like a sound effect mismatched to the scene. “It’s interesting,” she said, “but not enough to gamble my neck. I’d rather not get strangled by some psycho mastermind.” She shoved Bonni’s shoulder, trying for playfulness, though unease still whispered behind her eyes. “Sounds more like one of your horror novels—cops unloading on some occult monster.”

Bonni chuckled, rising to her feet, her hair catching neon spill from the street outside. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it—for now.” She plucked up a paper cup with exaggerated flair. “Speaking of monsters, want your usual vanilla latte?”

Apricot’s gaze lingered on the window. Rain streaked the glass, city lights smeared into bleeding colors—like a painting shaken loose from its frame. She blinked hard, trying to steady herself. No matter what she said out loud, curiosity had already clawed open a door inside her.

Apricot’s smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You know me too well.” Gratitude laced her voice, though her fingers kept drumming a restless tattoo on the counter. Bonni fiddled with the espresso machine, all clicks and steam, while Apricot’s thoughts unraveled.

They wanted her alive.

The words stalked her, looping back no matter how she tried to shove them aside. The TV report flashed in her mind—broken glass glittering with raw edges, ambulances bleeding light across the street. If the suspect had died, why issue an order to capture? Unless she hadn’t been alone. Unless she hadn’t even been a robber at all.

A chill rippled under Apricot’s skin. She thought of the arcade—the unnatural cold, the phantom weight of something breathing at her back. Jasper’s retelling surfaced too: blood slicking the tiles, the thunder of a Sachiban mech stomping into the scene. Whatever happened there, it was worse than the news anchors hinted.

Not your business. The mantra came sharp, a self-inflicted slap. She had school deadlines, essays piling like sandbags. Meddling in police work wasn’t just reckless, it was suicidal. And yet, the thought refused to die. Beneath the fear, beneath the pulse quickening in her throat, a small ember burned. Real journalists hunted shadows. Real journalists didn’t look away when mysteries landed in their laps.

The machine hissed, and Bonni slid a mug toward her. Steam curled in vanilla-sweet tendrils, wrapping Apricot’s senses. She cupped the warmth with both hands, savoring the heat seeping into her stiff fingers. One sip—creamy, just shy of too sweet—and the world softened. The café’s quiet hum cocooned her, pushing back the city’s jagged edges.

She closed her eyes and let the latte anchor her. Let it drown the ambulance lights, the phantom chill, the imagined pools of blood. Enough. She had no room for death in her head, not now. There were assignments waiting, a test on Friday, Bonni’s laugh when she got too sarcastic. Safe, ordinary things.

Apricot forced her thoughts there, to warmth, to normalcy, and let the rest sink under the surface where she could pretend it had never brushed her at all.