Amerikamura Punks

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We stepped out of the staff corridor like two punks who didn’t care what anyone thought — slouched, slow, all attitude and no eye contact. Grimy, loud, and not worth a second glance.

“Act the part,” Ryoji murmured, his breath grazing my temple. “You’re not a ballerina right now. You’re trouble.”

I adjusted the crooked ribbon I’d tied around my head, feeling every imperfection in it. “I’ve been to concerts,” I muttered. “Never been trouble.”

He snorted. “Just follow my lead. We look Western enough. They’ll chalk it up to tourist weird.”

The mall’s main concourse opened around us like a stage—overhead lights buzzing, families drifting between shop windows. I spotted the sunlit exit up ahead, glass doors yawning wide.

“There.” I pointed, barely audible, to a side fire door.

Ryoji’s arm slipped around my back. “Too narrow. Too easy to box in.” He leaned in, voice lower. “Main exit. Stay loose.”

I tried. I really did.

But the closer we got, the tighter my chest pulled, each heartbeat slamming higher in my throat. Eyes. I could feel them. Somewhere.

Then I saw them.

Two police officers by a pillar. Not watching us, not exactly. Just there. Still. One flicked his thumb across something in his palm. The other swept the crowd with slow, deliberate passes.

I stiffened.

Ryoji’s hand, warm and grounding, moved from my waist to my wrist. Not a tug. A squeeze. Just enough to snap me back.

He released my wrist.

Instead, Ryoji slipped a hand into his coat and drew out a soft pack of Seven Stars, the movement unhurried, liquid. He thumbed one free and tucked it behind his ear—casual, practiced—but under the harsh mall lights his scuffed knuckles caught, flashing sharp as a warning flare.

Then he looked at me.

No words. Just a glance tilted upward—you want in on this?

That was the cue.

I rolled my eyes in theatrical annoyance, muttered something low and indistinct, and let my hand brush the pack. Didn’t even take a cigarette. Just made contact. Like I didn’t care. Like I’d done this a hundred times, and none of it impressed me anymore.

My spine itched.

We kept moving—drifting slow and slack through the concourse, another pair of burnouts killing time. Neon buzzed above us. A child squealed somewhere behind. My heartbeat tapped against my ribs like a warning bell.

Ryoji pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, struck a match on the metal zipper of his jeans—

—and lit it with his mouth.

I almost broke.

It was so absurd, so unnecessary, I wanted to scream at him. But no one around us flinched. A group of teens near the magazine stand laughed, unfazed. The smoke curled like punctuation as he flicked the match away.

We passed the first column.

Then the second.

Twenty steps to freedom. Maybe fifteen.

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I saw the cops again. Closer now. Still just talking. But one of them scanned the crowd with a rhythm that felt too sharp. Too intentional.

My legs slowed, stupid with instinct. Fight or freeze.

Ryoji’s hand slipped from his cigarette to my shoulder. Not soft. Grounding.

A warning.

Don’t run.

He brought the cigarette to his lips again, dragged once—never inhaled—and turned his face sideways to blow the smoke away from me, lazy and theatrical.

Then, without looking down, he hooked his arm around my shoulders like I was his anchor, his girl, his whole damn reason for existing, and murmured:

“Now.”

I stepped forward.

The doors opened on their own.

Glass slid aside with a hiss like a held breath being released.

And the light hit me.

Hot, blinding, exposing.

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t breathe.

I didn’t blink until we’d taken ten full steps into the outside world.

No shouting. No alarms. No footsteps behind us.

Just wind.

Just crowd.

Just the blur of traffic and shop signs and sandals hitting pavement.

We were two more weirdos spilling into Amerikamura, all fringe and smoke and forgotten things.

And I was still shaking.

But we were out.

We were clear.

At least… for now.

Twenty minutes later, we were deep into Amerikamura, cutting past boutiques and crepe stands, our reflections warping in shop windows.

The adrenaline had mostly worn off, replaced by something floatier—tired feet and half-digested tension.

Still dressed like punks, still walking like we owned the street.

Ryoji leaned in slightly, voice low near my ear.

“Play the part,” he murmured. “But relax. We’re clear.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I exhaled. The kind of breath that had been locked somewhere under my ribs since the mall. Then—

”…Can I ask something now?”

He glanced sideways, not stopping.

“Not outside, we’ll speak details once there are less ears around”

I still need answers.

I shook it off and caught up, bumping him with my elbow.

Then I laughed.

Sharp, incredulous, a little breathless.

“What,” I said, nudging him again, “was that match stunt?”

He didn’t smile. Just kept walking, tone matter-of-fact.

“You were about to crack at the exit. It took your mind off the danger just enough to let you breathe.”

I stopped. Only for half a step. But something caught in my throat.

It had worked. While I’d been seconds from freezing, he’d distracted and dragged me through it like it was choreographed.

I looked at him sideways.

I didn’t say thank you. Not out loud. But I carried the words in my mouth for the next block and a half, tasting them, unsure if I’d ever get the timing right to speak them.

Ryoji bought us yakisoba from a stall tucked under the edge of a record shop, the kind with plastic stools and a faded awning that still smelled like cigarette ash from the ’80s.

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He didn’t ask—just handed me the steaming tray, dragged us into a narrow back alley with a flick of his head. Two crates became our seats. The alley buzzed with the muffled heartbeat of Amerikamura, but here, in the spill of shadow and graffiti, it felt like a backstage.

We ate in silence, chopsticks tapping.

It took me a moment to notice just how hungry I was— I was starving.

Halfway through, I spoke.

“So. We can’t take the train.”

Ryoji shook his head, chewing. “Right. They’ll be watching terminals. Shinkansen gates. Taxi lines too.”

I glanced over. “Then your office? The Osaka one you mentioned?”

“First place they’d look,” he said without blinking. “I haven’t set foot there in a year. My stash isn’t there though.”

That made me pause. I tapped my chopsticks against the plastic. “So where is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then:

“Yamada Building.”

I blinked.

Of course it was.

“Reika Yamada,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. Mostly. “That Yamada?”

His silence was the answer.

I turned back to my noodles.

It didn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it still settled in my chest like an old ache—one I couldn’t name and didn’t want to admit to.

We finished eating without another word.

Then we stood. And that’s when I felt it—the shift.

The act was over.

No more fingers at the small of my back. No whispers at my ear. No touch, no heat. Ryoji walked beside me. Like a bodyguard and only that.

Not like a boy clinging to a made-up love story.

And I hated how I noticed.

How I missed it.

A small, sharp sadness pricked at the corners of me, uninvited, and I hated it even more. Anger flared—hot, protective, a fire to smother the ache before it could settle.

So I stabbed instead.

“So,” I said, forcing a smirk, “how many times have you pulled the ‘pretend couple’ routine before? You were really enjoying it.”

He glanced at me, unreadable. “It worked.”

“You didn’t answer.”

A beat.

He almost smiled. “Yeah, I am not going to.”

I rolled my eyes and gave him a light nudge. “Whatever. It’s over. Let’s go, darling.”

I didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out, light and teasing.

But Ryoji stopped walking.

Not suddenly. Just… slowed. Enough to feel it.

I couldn’t see his face right away.

When I did, it was already gone. Whatever had passed through him, it had vanished. But there’d been something—his mouth had curved, barely, not into his usual smirk, but something quieter. Warmer.

A memory flickering across his face like a candle.

He didn’t call it out.

Didn’t ask.

Just smiled, almost to himself, and kept walking.

And I followed, stunned.

Because that word meant something to me.

And, I realized now, it meant something to him too.

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