Gorou

September turned out to be sticky and nasty. The air was thick as jelly, and even the smell of wilting leaves couldn't help—it mixed with the hot asphalt and exhaust fumes, turning into a thick, stifling syrup.

Goro walked, slightly hunched under the weight of his own backpack and someone else's status. His cadet uniform, navy blue and immaculate, clung to his back, and his polished shoes seemed to shout out loud whose son he was. He hated those shoes. And that tie. And especially those damn wired headphones, which he was helplessly twirling in his fingers for the umpteenth time.

"Just turn it on," he barked, plugging the phone in with the force of a hammer.

He wanted to shut himself off from this city. From the drivers honking at the intersection, from the old women at the entrance who knew him by sight, from the annoying hum of the store air conditioners. He just wanted to hear music. Loud, choppy, enough to drown out his own thought: "The mayor's son. "

The headphones were silent. A hissing sound in one ear, dead silence in the other.

He paused on the corner, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and began concentrating on rewinding the wire, searching for the notorious bend that was breaking everything. The sun was blinding, he squinted, and, taking a step forward without looking, he bumped shoulder-first into someone walking toward him.

"Careful!" he said out of habit. And then stopped himself. It wasn't very polite...