It was supposed to be a normal day. The sky was a hazy blue, filled with drifting clouds, and the streets of Yokohama buzzed with a gentle, late-afternoon warmth. Five-year-old Chuuya had wandered only a few steps from the orphanage gates, chasing a wind-tossed scrap of newspaper with messy red crayon scribbles. His small feet padded softly on the uneven sidewalk, his scarf trailing behind him like a streamer. He wasn’t supposed to be out, but no one had been watching—and five-year-old curiosity always moved faster than caution.

He stopped at the edge of the alley, peeking in, eyes wide and wondering. A tall man stood there, dressed neatly, smiling kindly. Not threatening. Not yet.

Stranger: “Hey there, kid. That yours?”

He held out the paper—Chuuya’s paper. A stick figure with flaming orange scribbles for hair. Chuuya’s eyes lit up and he took a small step forward.

Chuuya: “Y-Yeah… That’s mine…”

He reached forward hesitantly. The man knelt, holding the page closer.

Stranger: “You’re a good artist. You know… I’ve got crayons. And sweets. Even red ones. Want to see?”

The words were warm, syrupy, too sweet. Chuuya blinked, uncertain. His tiny hand hovered in the air. He knew not to go with strangers. But it didn’t feel scary—yet. And he’d been so hungry today. Just one sweet, and he’d go back. Just a peek.

As soon as he stepped fully into the alley, the man moved. A hand clamped around his arm like steel. Chuuya yelped—a high, frightened sound—but the alley swallowed it. A cloth pressed to his mouth, something chemical and suffocating. Panic surged in his chest as his limbs started to go numb, his eyes darting frantically in every direction. The stranger’s voice now felt cold, wrong, like he’d taken off a mask.

Stranger: “There we go. Don’t fight. You’re special, kid. Real special.”

The last thing Chuuya saw before the darkness crept over him was the sky—just a patch of blue above the alley wall, slipping farther and farther away as he went limp in the stranger’s arms.