Yuki Tanaka was halfway through chapter 86 of Sakamoto Days when his nose started bleeding.
He barely noticed. His eyes were too busy tracing the arc of Sakamoto's elbow as it snapped backward into an assassin's throat. The man crumpled. A cash register dinged in the background. Someone screamed. Sakamoto sighed, already scanning the next incoming enemy through his wireframe glasses.
Yuki muttered, "if I had the Eight Gates… I could lowkey solo the verse."
That was the last thing he said before his screen went black. Not the manga panel—his phone screen. Then his room. Then everything.
Rain hit the pavement in slow, measured taps, like the city was trying not to wake up.
Yuki Takahashi blinked awake in a narrow alley that stank of garbage water and exhaust fumes. His back ached. His uniform was damp. A plastic bag rustled beside him—half-full, leaking instant ramen and a crushed melon soda can.
What the hell…?
His head throbbed. The last thing he remembered was lying on his bed, phone in hand, binging the latest chapters of Sakamoto Days. He'd dozed off sometime around midnight, somewhere between laughing at Shin's expressions and wondering if Slur would finally show up again.
Now he was here. Wherever here was.
He stumbled to his feet, wobbling slightly. The alley opened onto a narrow street bathed in the early haze of dawn. A dull neon sign buzzed across the road.
"Sakamoto's Mart"
Yuki blinked.
"…no way."
He crossed the street, shoes slapping against wet concrete. The sign was plain. White background. Blocky red letters. A small stand of drinks sat outside, chilled by misty air. It looked… exactly like the store from the manga.
He snorted. "Okay. Either I'm dreaming, or someone spent a fortune recreating a fictional convenience store."
But something felt wrong. Offbeat.
There were passing cars. No background music.The low hum of the electric sign and the distant rumble of city noise—muted, like he was on the edge of something unreal.
Yuki stepped forward and slid the door open.
The faint ding of the chime hit him like a punch to the chest.
And there, behind the counter, stood a heavyset man in an apron, glasses fogged slightly, expression soft, holding a manga volume in one hand and a half-eaten rice cracker in the other.
Sakamoto.
No. That's impossible.
The man looked up at him.
For a moment, neither said anything.
Then, from behind a shelf, another voice chimed in—dry, bored, young.
"Yo, we've got a customer."
A blonde-haired teenager emerged, lazily sweeping the floor with a broom. He wore a black hoodie, earbuds dangling from one ear, and didn't look up right away. Then he glanced at Yuki and paused.
His eyes narrowed. Just a bit.
Yuki's throat tightened.
Shin.
The broom paused mid-sweep.
Sakamoto gave a lazy wave.
"Welcome," he said, voice warm
Yuki didn't move. His mouth was dry.
"Uh… yeah. Thanks."
Shin's eyes hadn't left him.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said flatly.
Yuki tried to laugh. It came out like a cough.
"Just… rough night," he muttered. "I, uh… fell asleep and woke up in the alley. No idea how I got there."
Sakamoto just nodded, like that made perfect sense. He reached under the counter and pulled out a can of Boss Coffee, slid it across the counter.
"On the house."
Yuki stared at the can, then up at him. Sakamoto's face was calm. As friendly Sakamoto could get.
But in his chest, Yuki's heartbeat was crawling up his throat.
He cracked the can open with trembling fingers. Took a sip. It tasted exactly right—bitter, sharp, real.
This wasn't cosplay.
This wasn't a dream.
He looked down at his hands. Same knuckles. Same bite mark on his thumb from chewing it during exams. His school ID was still in his pocket.
His real-world school ID.
He looked up slowly, and saw Shin staring straight at him now. Really staring.
Yuki forced a smile. "Nice place."
Shin didn't smile back.
"…Yeah. Weird customer."
The coffee was warm. Too warm.
Yuki stood by the magazine rack, pretending to read a travel brochure while very much not looking at Shin—who was still sweeping, still staring, and not even trying to hide it anymore.
He can read minds. He can read minds. Don't think anything weird.
He focused hard on the brochure in his hands.
"Enjoy a quiet weekend in Kyoto with your loved ones—"
Okay. Harmless. Normal. Definitely not thinking about how I transmigrated into a manga world and might be a background NPC about to get offed.
He looked up.
Shin was still sweeping.
Still staring.
Their eyes met.
Sht.*
Shin raised a brow, expression unreadable. Then he looked down again and slowly swept the same spot for the fifth time in a row.
"Find anything interesting?" he asked.
Yuki jumped. "What? No—I mean, yeah. Kyoto. Very scenic."
Shin hummed. "Right. Lots of history."
He kept sweeping.
Yuki put the brochure down like it was a bomb and walked to the snack aisle. Rows of onigiri stared at him. He grabbed one, more for cover than hunger.
Sakamoto, behind the counter, gave a thumbs-up. Yuki nodded politely, wondering what this world's rules were.
Do side characters survive if they're polite enough?
He peeled the wrapper off the onigiri and took a bite. Tuna mayo. Perfect. Too perfect.
That's what was messing with him—everything felt right. The taste, the smell, the balance of the flavors. It wasn't some half-remembered dream version. It was exact. Down to the crinkle of the seaweed.
This is real.
He looked at Shin again. And if this is real… then he really can read my thoughts.
That realization hit like a cold wind. He froze mid-bite. Slowly, carefully, he backed into the drink section and crouched beside a stack of Pocari Sweat bottles.
Okay, think normal thoughts. Think about taxes. Think about math. Think about the quadratic formula—
Footsteps.
Shin rounded the corner of the aisle.
Yuki yelped and dropped his onigiri.
Shin bent down, picked it up, handed it back silently.
Yuki took it like it was radioactive.
"You're… uh… very polite," he said.
"You're not," Shin replied, flat.
"What?"
"You keep trying to pretend you're normal."
Yuki's stomach flipped.
Shin took a step closer.
"I don't know who you are, or what your deal is," he said, voice low. "But your thoughts are weird as hell."
Yuki opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I—I just hit my head, man," he blurted. "I must've… hallucinated. Maybe I'm dreaming now. Maybe I'm in a coma! Right? That would explain things!"
Shin stared at him.
Then looked at Sakamoto.
Then back at Yuki.
"…Nope," he said. "You're just not from here."
Yuki blinked. "Wha—what do you mean by that?"
Shin narrowed his eyes. "You think in third person."
"What?!"
"You literally just thought, 'Yuki blinked.' Who the hell does that?"
Yuki's jaw dropped.
"Wait—how long have you been—"
"Since you walked in."
"Oh my god."
"And you thought, 'Shin looks like he's from a fan edit.' Like, what does that even mean?"
"I panicked, okay?!"
Silence.
Then, from behind the counter, Sakamoto chuckled. Loudly. Belly-shakingly. Shin rolled his eyes and leaned against the drink fridge.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not gonna kill you."
Yuki slumped against the bottles. "That's… good. That's really good."
"But I am gonna figure out what you are."
Yuki nodded slowly. "Fair."
They let him stay. For now.
Sakamoto didn't ask many questions—he just gave Yuki a broom, pointed at the floor, and went back to snacking and stocking shelves. Shin hovered nearby, occasionally interrupting Yuki's thoughts with casual mutterings like "No, that plan wouldn't work," or "You definitely can't suplex Slur."
Yuki tried not to freak out. Sweeping helped.
By evening, the store had gone quiet again.
Outside, the sky burned orange.
Yuki leaned against the doorframe and stared at the street.
In this world, everyone was lethal. Everyone had secrets. Everyone could die violently, stupidly, suddenly.
He thought about the Eight Gates.
He hadn't felt anything yet. No chakra. No energy pulse. But… there was something deep in his chest. A weight. A beat that didn't match his heart.
Maybe I don't belong here, he thought.
Then again—
Maybe I do.
Behind him, Shin's voice cut through the silence.
"What's a eight gates?"
Yuki didn't turn around.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You do."
——
The park was dead.
Not in the horror-movie sense. Just… abandoned.
Cracked pavement ran under the rusted swing set like veins, the jungle gym was half-swallowed by ivy, and the bench Yuki sat on had a missing leg, causing it to lean just enough to keep him alert.
He glanced up at the overcast sky. Dull gray. No rain today. The clouds looked tired.
Just like him.
He'd helped sweep the store, stocked shelves, even cleaned the ramen boiler—just to earn a meal and not feel useless. Sakamoto hadn't asked questions. Shin had asked a few too many. But in the end, they'd let him be.
"I need to know," Yuki whispered.
He looked down at his hands. He flexed them. No glow. No sparks. Nothing anime-like. Just skin and bones and uncertainty.
But he'd felt it.
That moment, in the store, when Shin had stared at him… something had shifted inside his body. Not like magic. Not like chakra.
More like… muscle memory. Like remembering how to breathe after nearly drowning.
He stood.
There were no people. No cameras. Just the faint hum of Tokyo life in the distance. A forgotten corner of a city built on secrets.
Focus.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
Long, deep, slow.
He remembered the steps—not from any training, but from years of reading, watching, imagining. Naruto. Guy. Rock Lee. The Eight Gates.
The Gate of Opening. First gate. Hidden in the brain.
He tried to feel the pulse again. That rhythm. That second heartbeat beneath the first.
There.
Thump.
A tiny crackle along his spine.
Thump.
A pressure against the inside of his skull. Like a migraine forming—but colder.
Open.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No explosion. No power surge.
Just pain.
Like someone had snapped a tension cable in his head.
He gasped and dropped to one knee, vision swimming. His limbs jittered. His breath caught. But he didn't pass out.
Instead—
His body got quiet.
No tremble. No distractions. No thoughts.
Everything was still.
His muscles didn't feel stronger—they felt unlocked. Like they'd been half-asleep his entire life.
Yuki took a step forward. Faster than expected. Nearly tripped.
He blinked.
Try again.
He darted to the edge of the swing set. Quicker than he'd ever moved. No blur. No wind. Just efficiency.
Then the pain hit.
A blinding, searing spike at the base of his neck.
He stumbled, fell forward, caught himself on a rusted monkey bar.
His vision blurred. Blood trickled from his nose.
Close it. Close it now.
He focused—imagined a valve turning, shutting down.
Gate closed.
The pain eased. Not gone. But manageable.
His arms shook violently. His knees buckled.
Yuki collapsed onto the gravel.
Laid there. Breathing like he'd just run ten kilometers with a steel bar on his back.
"…It worked," he wheezed.
It actually worked.
But it wasn't some cool shonen transformation. It was horrifying. Like hijacking your own body and forcing it past limits it was never meant to cross.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the sky.
And he smiled.
I can survive here.
Maybe.