Tanuki Arcade

Ryoji pulled out a coin and slid it into the slot like he’d done it a hundred times.

“You ever win anything from these?” I asked.

He leaned in, eyes narrowed at a small stuffed tanuki trapped behind a plastic ridge. “Three out of ten on average.”

“Only three?”

He pressed the button. The claw lurched forward.

My words froze somewhere mid-curiosity. Because for the first time, he looked… peaceful.

Still.

I wasn’t sure what part of this was making my stomach flip—the claw, the tanuki, or the fact that this leather-clad mystery man had once burned afternoons on a machine designed for eight-year-olds and salarymen avoiding rush hour.

I leaned on the side of the glass case, watching him.

“So. You dragged me here for distraction?”

“No,” he said, jaw set. “I dragged you here because you were about to cry in front of a FamilyMart.”

“Same difference.”

“Not really.”

And then—miracle of miracles—the claw gripped the tanuki by one stubby ear and dragged it, with painful slowness, over the edge and into the chute.

He bent, picked it up, and held it out.

“For stability,” he said.

I stared.

Then I took it.

And if I squeezed it just a little too tight, he didn’t say a word.

The tanuki sat smugly in my arms, its beady eyes somehow judging the chaos of the arcade with more calm than I felt.

Ryoji shifted suddenly—head tilted, shoulders angling like he’d caught a frequency I couldn’t hear.

“What is it?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just moved. Smooth, like a shark sliding through current. I followed, half-dragged by instinct, half by curiosity.

The crowd was clustered around a Street Legend II Turbo machine. Neon light flashed on a sweaty pack of teens and bored salarymen. And there, hunched forward with fierce focus, was a girl in pink headphones, black punk attire, fingers dancing over the controls like lightning.

“Oh wow,” I breathed. “I remember this one. Kyoshi used to—”

I stopped. Bit the inside of my cheek.

Ryoji said nothing, but he was already scanning the scene like it was a battlefield.

The girl KO’d another challenger, then leaned back with a satisfied smirk.

“Anyone else?” she challenged.

Ryoji stepped forward.

A few in the crowd murmured. “Whoa. He’s not Japanese, is he?”

“Look at that jawline—military, for sure.”

“Or some embassy guy trying to unwind.”

The headphone girl gave Ryoji a once-over and laughed. “Oookay, tall and mysterious. You sure about this, gaijin-san?”

He didn’t blink. “Yes. Just one. I’m in a hurry”

“God, your Japanese is too clean. Creepy clean.”

Then her eyes slid sideways—and landed on me.

“Wait a sec…” She squinted, pulling off her headphones. “Don’t I know you?”

My stomach sank a little. “I don’t think so.”

“No, no—I do. You used to hang around that transfer kid, right? Shizuka’s crew. The girl with the keyboard and the mood swings?”

I froze. ”…Yeah. We were friends.”

She smiled, sharp and insincere. “Thought so. Wild crowd. Shizuka was famous for driving like a demon in middle school. Heard she once took out a streetlight on purpose just to ditch the cops.”

“That’s not true.”

“I mean, she said it wasn’t, but y’know. People say stuff. That girl had more drama orbiting her than a scandal-plagued idol.”

I clutched the tanuki tighter. “She had a rough time. People exaggerate.”

The girl shrugged, then shot Ryoji a look. “Hope your sharper than your friend.”

Before I could fire back, he calmly slid his jacket off and handed it to me. Then sat.

The girl snapped her gum and chose the pink ninja again. “Let’s go, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Foreign.”

He picked the black-gi fighter. No hesitation.

The round started. She came at him aggressive, flashy, cocky. The crowd loved it.

I didn’t.

“Wipe the floor with her,” I muttered.

Ryoji didn’t speak. But something in his shoulders tightened.

Round two: he adapted. Clean blocks. Surgical counters.

By round three, it wasn’t even close. His moves weren’t stylish—they were efficient, brutal. The crowd shifted, murmuring. Some of them were even starting to root for him.

KO.

You win. Perfect!

The girl stared at the screen like it betrayed her.

“You’ve definitely played this before,” she snapped.

Ryoji stood. “Only once.”

I bit my lip to stop from smiling.

She scowled, clearly humiliated. “Figures. Only a gaijin would take a game that seriously.”

Ryoji took his jacket back without a word. His silence hit harder than any insult.

We stepped away from the machine. The crowd parted with a mix of awe and awkwardness.

Outside, the Tokyo night buzzed with vending machine lights and muffled cicadas. I still clutched the tanuki.

“Thanks,” I said softly.

He didn’t answer.

But when I looked at him—really looked—I caught something in his expression. Not quite pride.

Just the quiet assurance of someone who saw the insult coming, and intercepted it anyway.

And at that moment, Tokyo didn’t feel quite so haunted.