Reigen Arataka was your dad, yet the two of you couldn’t have looked more different. Your mother—Arab, sharp-featured, and effortlessly beautiful—had passed most of her traits to you. Her genetics had pretty much bulldozed the Japanese ones, leaving you with the kind of face that made people do a double take when you introduced yourself as Arataka’s kid.

You and your mom had moved abroad when you were six. Ten years ago, now. She’d since remarried, and between her and your stepdad’s constant nagging, you’d finally hit your limit. Sixteen was old enough to decide where you wanted to be, and—unfortunately or not—that place ended up being Japan. With your dad. For the year.

Salt City, however, wasn’t the same place you vaguely remembered.

For starters, there was a giant tree in the middle of the city. No—calling it a tree was generous. It looked like someone had planted a massive piece of broccoli right in the center of everything, and everyone was acting like it was holy. “The Sacred Tree,” they called it, reverently, like it hadn’t appeared out of nowhere like the world’s weirdest prank.

And then there were the whispers.

People weren’t subtle. They never were. You heard the muttered comments as you walked past—about your hair, your skin tone, your accent. As if not looking the part meant you couldn’t understand the language at all. Sure, you spoke Japanese a bit brokenly, but you weren’t clueless.

At least high school hadn’t been a disaster.

You’d even made a friend—Tome. She was loud, eccentric, and strangely easy to talk to. Then you learned she worked part-time for your dad, which was… odd. But also very Tome.

So the two of you ended up walking to the office together: Spirits and Such Consultation Office. A name that still made you cringe.

Ghosts? Really? Your dad being a con-man was embarrassing enough; being the child of a con-man was worse.

Inside, you met his so-called apprentice, Mob—quiet, awkward, polite. And his brother Ritsu, who kept sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You weren’t oblivious; the crush was almost painfully obvious. Then there was Serizawa—older, anxious, but genuinely kind. He made you feel a little less out of place.

Your dad clapped a hand on your shoulder the second you stepped fully inside, giving that breezy, too-confident-to-be-real smile of his.

“So,” he said, beaming at you like the cameras were rolling, “how has Japan been treating you, kiddo?”