What the hell…
Why does my head hurt so much?
The thought surfaced before Kabir even opened his eyes.
Pain bloomed behind his forehead—deep, crushing, relentless. It felt as if something heavy had rolled over his skull in the night and decided to stay there. Not a sharp pain, not sudden. This was worse. Slow. Pressing. As if his brain itself was being squeezed.
Kabir groaned softly.
His body reacted before his mind did. His chest rose sharply as he sucked in air, breath uneven, lungs protesting as if he had been underwater for too long. His fingers twitched against the bedsheet, nails scraping lightly against the fabric.
Then his eyes snapped open.
Light flooded in.
Not harsh, not blinding—but persistent. Morning light filtered through the narrow gap between the blackout curtains, cutting the room into soft lines of gold and shadow. For a moment, Kabir couldn't focus. The ceiling above him wavered, bending unnaturally, as if the world itself hadn't finished loading yet.
He pushed himself upright too fast.
The room spun.
A dull throb pulsed behind his temples, synchronized with his heartbeat. His vision blurred again, edges melting together. His eyelids felt heavy, stubborn, like they refused to obey.
"Ah… damn it," he muttered, voice hoarse.
He stayed still, hunched forward on the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. Sweat clung faintly to the back of his neck despite the cool air. His breathing slowly steadied.
After a few seconds, he raised his hands and rubbed his eyes.
Once.
Twice.
The blur receded.
The world snapped back into place.
The room.
His room.
Small. Familiar. Unchanged.
A kotatsu table sat in the center, its wooden surface barely visible beneath the clutter. Empty ramen cups—some crushed, some still half-filled with dried broth stains—were scattered alongside cup noodles stacked lazily in corners. A pair of chopsticks rested diagonally across one cup, forgotten mid-meal.
His laptop lay open, screen dimmed but not shut down, the faint glow revealing unfinished manga panels. Lines half-inked. Speech bubbles empty. Beside it, sketch tools lay scattered—pens without caps, rulers slightly bent, erasers worn down unevenly.
To the right, a wooden shelf leaned ever so slightly, overburdened with manga volumes and reference books. Some were neatly arranged. Most were not. A few spines jutted out at odd angles, as if pulled in a hurry and never returned.
On the left stood his drafting table, tilted at a careful angle to save his back. Manga sheets were taped and clipped across it—some rough sketches, some detailed line art. Above it hung a deadline calendar, dates circled in red, crossed out aggressively, replaced with new ones written in smaller, tighter handwriting.
The trash can near the desk was full.
Not "almost full."
Full.
Overflowing.
Crumpled drafts, torn paper, empty snack wrappers—evidence of a long night that led nowhere.
Kabir stared at it for a few seconds.
"…Figures."
He pressed a palm against his forehead, massaging slowly. The headache was already retreating, like it had accomplished whatever it came for. Only a faint pressure remained.
"Stayed up too late again," he murmured. "Morning headache… classic."
He exhaled, long and tired, then kicked the blanket aside and stood up. His legs felt a little heavy, but steady. Muscle memory took over as he walked toward the bathroom, bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor.
The mirror greeted him with an unflattering truth.
Messy black hair flattened on one side. Dark circles beneath half-open eyes. Skin pale, almost gray under the artificial light. He looked… worn.
Kabir leaned closer, squinting.
"Yeah," he said quietly to his reflection. "You need a doctor. Or sleep. Or both."
He turned on the tap.
Cold water splashed against his face, sharp enough to make him flinch. Droplets ran down his cheeks and chin, dripping into the sink. He cupped more water, rinsed again, then wiped his face with both hands.
When he looked up this time, his vision was clear.
The headache was gone.
Completely.
He blinked once, twice, testing it.
Nothing.
"…Huh."
Maybe it really was just lack of sleep, he told himself. Early mornings, late nights—his body was probably protesting.
He stepped back into the room.
And immediately regretted it.
The mess hit him like a second wave.
He stood there, arms hanging loosely by his sides, eyes scanning the chaos.
Did I seriously go to sleep without cleaning?
If the landlord ever walked in like this… yeah. I'd be dead.
With a tired sigh, Kabir got to work.
Manga drafts he had already rejected went into the trash. Tools returned to their proper holders. Books were shoved back into place—not perfectly, but good enough. He opened the curtains fully, letting morning light spill across the floor, warming the room just enough to make it feel alive again.
The smell of stale noodles lingered faintly, mixing with the scent of paper and ink. Familiar. Comforting, in a strange way.
After straightening the bed and wiping the table, he gathered the trash into bags and slung them over his shoulder.
He stepped out into the hallway.
Silence.
The apartment building was old—three floors, narrow corridors, thin walls—but early mornings were always like this. Peaceful. Almost suspended in time.
Kabir paused for a second, breathing in.
The air smelled faintly of dust, old wood, and morning moisture. Somewhere below, a door opened softly. Footsteps echoed, then faded.
Still early.
Why do I always wake up this early… even after staying up late?
He shook his head and continued downstairs, dumped the trash, then headed back to his room.
Once inside, his routine kicked in automatically.
Bathroom.
Toothbrush.
Cold water.
Towel.
He glanced at his phone.
7:12 AM
Plenty of time.
"Nice," he muttered. "I can actually eat today."
He opened his wardrobe and pulled out clothes without much thought—an oversized gray hoodie, dark green loose cargo pants. Comfortable. Practical. Easy to sit in for hours.
Fashion was the last thing on his mind. Long studio hours made tight or flashy clothes unbearable.
Dressed, he stepped into the kitchen area, fingers already itching to cook something warm.
Eggs, maybe. Rice. Something real.
But the exhaustion caught up to him.
He leaned against the counter, staring at the stove.
"…Tomorrow," he said to no one.
He grabbed his canvas bag instead.
Laptop.
Tablet.
Pens.
Sketchbook.
Paperwork.
Everything slid into place with practiced ease.
As he zipped the bag shut, a thought surfaced—uninvited.
I thought I'd cook Indian food today.
He snorted quietly.
My laziness wins again.
Shoes on. Keys in hand.
Kabir locked the door and stepped outside.
The street was already awake.
Nerima had its own rhythm—calmer than central Tokyo, quieter, but alive. The morning air carried a slight chill, brushing against his skin, carrying the smell of nearby bakeries, coffee, and damp pavement.
Bicycles passed by. Shop shutters rolled open with metallic clacks. A familiar old woman swept the sidewalk outside her building.
"Morning, Kabir-kun," she called.
"Morning," he replied automatically, bowing slightly.
Everyone knew him here.
Two years of the same routine did that.
As he walked toward the convenience store, his thoughts drifted inward, like they always did.
My name is Kabir Bahotra.
January 13.
I'm twenty-six today.
The thought didn't excite him. Didn't sadden him either. It just… existed.
He had come to Japan two years ago, chasing a dream—learning manga, working in a studio, becoming something more than a nameless artist. It hadn't been easy. His Japanese wasn't perfect, despite years of anime and manga exposure. He stumbled over words, misunderstood phrases.
But people helped.
Friends. Coworkers.
Now they worked together in the same studio.
His uncle and aunt lived in Yokohama—that had convinced his parents to let him come here. He lived alone in Nerima, in an old apartment with cheap rent and thin walls.
Kabir entered the convenience store.
The bell chimed softly.
"Good morning!" the clerk said, smiling.
Kabir grabbed a Tamago Sando. A chilled Starbucks cup. Karaage-kun.
He lingered a bit, scanning the shelves, enjoying the quiet hum of refrigerators.
Paid. Bowed.
"Thank you."
Outside again, he headed toward Nerima Station.
People flowed around him—students, office workers, shopkeepers. Familiar faces. Familiar paths.
Nothing new.
At the station, he bought his ticket, boarded the train.
No seat, as usual.
He stood, holding the strap, swaying gently with the motion. The same passengers surrounded him. The same faces buried in phones, newspapers, music.
Kabir stared at his reflection in the window.
Nothing's changed, he thought.
And somehow… that bothered him.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped off the train, walked through narrow streets, and stopped before a four-story building.
A small sign read:
Whole World Studio
Kabir adjusted his bag and stepped inside.
The day had begun.