My name is James, and in many ways, I was just like any other eighteen-year-old trying to make sense of the world—uncertain about the future, drifting from one day to the next, and doing everything I could to delay the inevitable steps into adulthood. But my story wasn't exactly typical. I had been in the foster care system for as long as I could remember—bounced from home to home, in and out, never staying long enough to grow roots or form any real connections. People came and went, but books, anime, and television were the constants in my life. They became my escape, my comfort zone. I guess you could say I was your typical introvert—quiet, withdrawn, living more in my head than in the world around me.
Except for one thing.
I was considered… attractive. Striking, even. Every time I stepped outside, I could feel the attention—heads would turn, eyes would linger. From single girls to married women, I always seemed to catch a glance. It never meant much to me, but it was there, part of the strange duality of my life: invisible in the system, but impossible to ignore on the street.
When I aged out of foster care at sixteen, they handed me a small check, gave me a half-hearted "good luck," and sent me on my way. That was two years ago now. Since then, I've been on my own, trying to figure out who I am, what I want, and where—if anywhere—I belong in this world.
Today wasn't supposed to be anything special.
I was just walking down the street, heading to the corner store to grab some ramen and maybe a soda. I had been binge-watching One Piece all night and totally forgot to eat. In my rush, I didn't even grab my hoodie. Some might ask why I wear a hoodie in ninety-five-degree weather, but when I don't—well, things like this happen.
Blond hair that brushes just past my shoulders, skin smooth enough that girls have literally asked what moisturizer I use, and my eyes—those are the real curse. A deep yellow-gold, sharp and piercing, like something out of a fantasy novel. I hated them as a kid. They made me different. Now I just live with them. They draw people in, even when I don't want them to. Especially when I don't want them to.
"Hello," a woman said, interrupting my train of thought.
I stopped, blinking against the sunlight as I turned to face her. She wasn't stunning, not in the way magazines or Instagram filters define beauty, but she wasn't unattractive either. There was something else about her—something in her posture or the way she looked at me. Not like the others. Not with lust or admiration.
More like… recognition.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked, her tone friendly but edged with something deeper—curiosity, maybe even caution.
I narrowed my eyes slightly. "What gave it away?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You carry yourself differently. Like someone who's waiting for something to happen… or someone who already knows it will."
That threw me off for a second.
Before I could respond, she stepped closer. "James, right?"
Now that was a red flag. "How do you know my name?"
She glanced around, then lowered her voice. "You're not crazy. You're not imagining it. The stares, the strange energy, the sense that you don't belong here—not just in this city, but this world. You feel it, don't you?"
My breath caught in my throat.
I didn't answer.
She reached into her pocket and held out a small, silver coin. It shimmered unnaturally in the sunlight—too bright, too perfect.
"If you want answers," she said, pressing it into my palm, "meet me at the library basement. Midnight. And come alone."
Then, just like that, she turned and walked away.
I looked down at the coin in my hand. There was a symbol etched into it—an eye, matching my owe enchanting gold eyes the only difference was this eye had wings on either side and a crack running through the center. It pulsed faintly against my skin, almost like it was alive.
Suddenly, One Piece didn't seem all that important anymore.
As I stumbled back to my apartment—if you could even call it that—I felt like I was walking in a daze. The building was a crumbling relic, barely held together by peeling paint and stubborn concrete. Every time I climbed the stairs, I half-expected them to give out beneath me. The place creaked like it had secrets, like it wanted to collapse just to be put out of its misery.
I'd completely forgotten the reason I left in the first place. Food? Ramen? None of it mattered anymore. My thoughts were consumed by that woman—her words, the way she looked at me like she knew something I didn't. Something I'd been afraid to even ask.
I dropped onto the couch, the springs groaning beneath me, and stared at the TV. The screen glowed softly in the darkness, but I wasn't watching. Not really. Just sitting there, eyes unfocused, hands limp in my lap, wondering if what she said was true.
"You don't belong here."
I'd heard those words before. From foster parents who didn't want to deal with me. From teachers who couldn't reach me. From kids who couldn't understand me. But when she said it… it didn't sound like rejection.
It sounded like revelation.
And for the first time in a long time, I wondered—could she tell me why I've always felt so empty?
Why every day felt like waiting for something that never came?
Why, even in a crowd, I felt like a ghost?
I didn't have the answers.
But something told me she did.