XCEL

“The sign outside says smoking isn’t allowed.”

“I know.”

“You’re lighting up a cigarette.”

“Want one?”

“For the last time, I’m underage.” A blasé sigh, and a pale hand flipped locks of ashen hair over the shoulder of his school uniform jacket, the velvet so deep and dark it nearly blended into the leather upholstery. A much younger Hideyori Hakana adjusted the white-rimmed collar against the skin, tight and snug around his neck to the point where you might think it uncomfortable, but he seemed at ease. The boy’s voice hadn’t yet been rasped down to a growl, the detached youthful naivete of a teenager who thinks he knows the world. Folding both arms over his chest, he tilted his head up, haughty, gazing down the bridge of his nose at the woman sat opposite with both eyes, eerily blue. “You keep asking as though my answer’s going to change.”

“Don’t be so boring, kid. It’s very unattractive, you know.” Voice half-muffled by the stick between her lips, a woman sat across the table, fiddling with a golden flick lighter. She sat by the window, tilted with her back to the corner she had nestled into. The open pack of Seven Stars lay on the table, the final two cigarettes sticking an inch beyond the cardboard.

Abject, enshrouding darkness blanketing the outside snowstorm meant the café’s soft overhead lighting reflected inwards off grimy glass that had seen far more fingerprints than cleaners. The occasional clink of china meant they weren’t alone, but such was so seldom they might as well have been.

The woman grinned a paper-cut smile, and winked. Tousled, wavy hair, a faded shade of khaki, fell to her shoulders in waves too casual to be accidental. She brought two fingers to her face and held the cigarette in place, showing off the chipped black polish, as though it were the newest fashion.

A flicker of metal caught the light—train-track braces, glinting through that smile of hers, an odd touch. Rings—silver, of course, because gold was too obvious—clicked softly as she adjusted the lighter in her grip. After another few fruitless strikes of flint, the gold in her hand finally caught alight. The flame licked gingerly at the instrument of vice. The air around her shifted. She drew in a long breath through the filter. Her eyes fluttered. She straightened her back, tilting her head a few degrees upward. The ringlets cascading down both ears jingled like windchimes with the slightest motion. Then, she let it drift from the corners of her mouth in slight silver spirals like dragon’s breath.

“If you truly thought me boring, you wouldn’t be here.” Hakana’s terse remark accompanied a twitch in his eye.

“I know.”

“Not that I care, mind,” he added with a huff. “Besides, that’ll be a nice choice of last words with one foot in the grave. Those things are bad for you, you know.”

“I know.” She took another puff, and blew it in his face.

Hakana spluttered and waved the smoke away. “And they cost a fortune,” he made out with a gasp. “You’d know better than most just how much they’re taxed.”

“I know.” She tapped away the ash on a brass tray to her left.

“Miss Miren, I don’t get you.” Hakana sunk his chin into his throat and sat back, letting the plush leather swallow his shoulders. “You say you know, and your face tells the same story.” He brushed a finger to his cheek, pointing upward. “The acceptance and peace in your eyes, I can see as clear as day—not that there’s much to be seen…” He cast a rueful side-eye to the night through the glass. “My question is why.”

Cigarette inches away from her lips, Masayuki Miren paused, and pursed them. “Why what?”

“Why persist?” His brow furrowed. “Is the addiction really that strong?”

“I’m not addicted.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“No, really.” Despite the fact over half the cigarette remained, Miren ground it into the ashtray. A waste. “I can stop anytime I like.” Her fingers were perfectly still. Her eyes, a soothing chestnut, didn’t even track to the ashtray. Hakana watched her face for even the slightest twitch. There was none.

“Then why persist?”

“I enjoy it—the choice, that is.” Miren grinned. “I don’t get a rush from the nicotine. The rush comes from making the choice to engage in something that goes against my survival. It’s like how people choose to jump out of planes or off cliffs for fun. It reminds me that I won’t be here forever, to cherish what I hold dear. In that moment, I feel truly alive. These moments are what inspire me to keep living.”

Hakana frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Not everything has to.” She shook her head, running her fingers along the brim of her black fedora. “Spend too long trying to find the meaning and sense in everything, and you miss the beauty right in front of you.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with the simple raise of one finger. Pure silence elapsed inside the café for five blissful seconds. “Listen,” she whispered, “the beauty of this moment won’t be here much longer.”

A stray snowflake from the flurry outside became curious, and drifted over to latch itself on the window. Hakana watched it settle on the glass, its pristine form intact. His eyes widened, his gaze focused. The closer he looked, the further the contours of its edge spiralled into infinity. He extended a hand, touching the centre with one finger. The snowflake shimmered in the glow of the streetlamp, then melted and streaked down the windowpane like all the rest. His eyes fluttered shut. One solitary tear tore a thin track down Hakana’s cheek. He looked back. Yuki stared at him, hunched forward, balancing her chin in the crook of her palm. Her other hand twirled the hat around her finger. An easy smile graced black-tinted lips. She reached for the penultimate cigarette, but paused, before offering him the pack.

Hakana looked from it, back to her, then took one. “They’re bad for you, you know,” he repeated. “You’ll die.”

She tilted her head to one side. “If I die in fear of death, how will I know I’ve ever lived?”

* * *

The stray snowflake drifted from the flurry and strayed on the darkened window by Hideyori Hakana’s bedside. It melted, and his remaining eye flickered open. Everything was leaden, from his fingers to his face. Everything was raw, and it hurt. Blinking took surprising effort. He needed to brush the dust that had settled on the meniscus of his eye, which now itched. His soul had been cast into a wax figurine left out in the sun just long enough for everything to have softened and slightly deformed into the uncanny valley. If someone poked a finger into his cheek, he swore the skin would stay that way. That wasn’t how he looked, but how he felt. A shuddering intake of breath left him wincing. The air ricocheted down lungful cavities blown open by dynamite and still rumbling with the aftershocks. He looked up to the ceiling, but his vision spun counterclockwise.

And so, he lay still. His breathing still hurt, though that was nothing new. The air rasped his lungs like iron filings.

His perception eventually stopped misbehaving, and sensation returned somewhat to frigid fingers. Hakana shuffled upright on the hospital bed, and raised a knee to his chest. A scratchy blanket lay over the threadbare hospital sheets. He threw it to one side, then regretted it as the clinical draught pricked at the skin beneath the loose-fitting gown. His hair was bunched and splayed in equal measure all over the place. He ran fingers gingerly through whatever strands didn’t tug so hard on his scalp, a desperate bid to achieve a little flow, but soon abandoned the activity. He’d be here all day otherwise.

Though, from the void beyond his window, it seemed that today had already come and gone. How many moments had he missed?

Straining his ears for the slightest sound, he couldn’t hear a peep above the perpetual wheeze in his chest, and rhythmic throb at the base of his skull. Only three beds lined his ward, separated by curtains. All three, now including his, were empty. Strange. Hospitals are usually more full in winter. He had no data to hand, but it seemed a reasonable assertion. His clothes hung from a flimsy metal coat-rack, arranged with the care of a professional in a rush. He clenched his heart, summoning just enough strength to lift himself from supine. Dressing himself was such a practised motion, he didn’t recall a single thing about the process itself, only peripheral details. His shirt still bore traces of wet that seeped into his skin. His coat, also damp, was spattered with city grime. The inside of his hat was sodden. Still, it found its rightful place on his head once more. A trickle of displaced water percolated onto his scalp.

Hakana drifted silently across the darkened hospital floor, eye roving around yet finding no trace of life. A heavy fog prevented any conscious thought. He glid aimlessly out of the ward towards a brighter lit corridor. On the cusp of turning the corner, he nearly collided with a stout young nurse, distracted by her clipboard.

Once hasty apologies and dismissals were out of the way, she shooed him back towards his sect. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

The man opted to neither move or even look her way. “Where am I?”

“Yotsumachi Clinic. You’ve been unresponsive since yesterday morning.”

Hakana checked his watch. The evening hours ticked on.

“What happened to me?” He winced and held his forehead. The nurse looked concerned. She made to hold his arm, a first instinct being to guide him towards somewhere safe to sit, but the way he bristled made her think twice.

“Someone found you collapsed a few streets away. They brought you here.”

His eyes narrowed. “No name?”

“A good Samaritan, sir. I hope you don’t mind, we found your identification in your coat: Mr. Hideyori Hakana, is that correct?”

He grunted.

“We weren’t able to find any medical records on our system, nor any emergency contacts on your person. Which doctor are you registered with?”

“I’m not. I haven’t needed to—” Another fit of violent coughing cut his sentence short. Every spasm from his diaphragm rang around the clinic like gunshot. Flecks of blood spattered the white walls, a gruesome aftermath. Hakana doubled over, clutching at a nearby railing.

The nurse calmly wiped blood from her cheek, and approached with gentle arms. “Please, Mr. Hakana. Let’s get you to bed.”

The moment she came close, a heavy hand shoved her away. She gasped and stumbled back against the wall. He straightened, and adjusted his hat. “I’m fine.”

“Sir.” A new voice drew both their gazes. A middle-aged doctor, kind-faced with a salt-and-pepper combover was framed in the light of the corridor. “A moment of your time, please. I’d like to speak with you in my office.”

Hakana fixed him with a deep glare. The doctor didn’t buckle, but gummed his lips tight and gestured into the brightly lit room behind.

* * *

“It’s cancer.”

The words rung hollow in Hakana’s head. The doctor had insisted he sit down. He didn’t have the strength to resist, and nearly collapsed into the stout metal-backed chair by the man’s desk. He fought to remain upright, to wrestle back a single vestige of composure, but it was all he could do to support his upper body, both forearms balanced on his thighs.

“What.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “You presented several symptoms on arrival, but weren’t conscious to confirm anything. I didn’t know how long you’d be out, so we took an MRI and biopsy to err on the side of caution. The results came back from the lab half an hour ago. It’s cancer, Mr. Hakana.”

The blood had drained from every part of him, dribbling through the gaps between his toes into a warm, congealed pool on the floor. He stared down. “Verdict?”

“Stage IV lung carcinoma.” He pulled on his computer monitor, pointing to a collage of scans. His body was outlined in gratuitous detail, layers upon layers of tissue, with several obtuse bulges distending certain parts. His divine form had been digitally sliced, filleted like fish. Bile welled in the back of his throat, scorching his tongue. Beads of cold sweat ran down his forehead and into his eye.

“It’s long since gone metastatic. You can see here—” the doctor pointed— “subsidiary tumours have formed in both lungs, spread through your lymph nodes to your adrenal gland and, unfortunately, your brainstem.”

Hakana nodded numbly. The bile in his mouth gave way to iron. His head began to throb. His fingers and eye twitched. “How long?”

The doctor didn’t meet his gaze. “Without extensive treatment, a month, maybe less.” He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I understand this may be difficult news to receive but we can—where are you going?”

Hakana was halfway out of the door when the doctor slid it shut inches in front of his nose. He, however, regretted such dire action almost immediately, withering under the piercing force of the executive’s blue eyed stare.

“Mr. Hakana,” he garbled. “I implore you, please sit back down.”

“Fuck off.” The executive fumbled around in his coat pocket for something familiar, and growled when his fingers closed on empty. “Cigarette,” he mumbled, jaw tightening. “I need…”

“I was just about to mention that.” The doctor puffed out his chest. “It’s no good, no good at all.” He extracted three jumbo packs of Seven Stars from the pocket of his labcoat, and brandished one in front of the man’s face. “Tumour notwithstanding, your lungs showed heavy tar buildup, chronic emphysema, absolutely decimated alveoli.” He shook his head, exasperated. “How you’ve managed to survive even this long is a miracle. You’re living on borrowed time, Hideyori Hakana!”

“Give them back.” He made a pitiful lunge, but the doctor stepped away.

“Now you listen to me.” He pointed a stern finger. “These are what have caused your cancer to begin with. Cigarettes are the best known carcinogen there is. Surely you must’ve long since been aware of that? Furthermore, your sheer rate of consumption? My goodness.” He sighed, shaky. “No matter, no matter, you’re still relatively young, your body is still fit.” He seized Hakana’s arm and started guiding him back towards the chair. “We can start your treatment right away, transfer you to emergency care, but I’m afraid I can’t allow you to—”

Bang.

The rest of his sentence painted the sterile wall of the office behind him with a thick coat of red, an artful scattering of atomised bone and forty-five ounces of shredded grey matter. The shot echoed through the clinic’s thin walls. In a fraction of a second, Hakana had summoned a handgun from thin air, whipped around and put a nine millimetre bullet right between the man’s eyes. The aftershocks from the recoil rippled down weary bones. Hakana’s gun arm trembled, but his breathing began to still. The doctor’s head had exploded on impact, defiling everything in reach. Papers, scattered and drenched in red, didn’t so much as flutter. The cool liquid crystals on the computer monitor glared ahead, apathetic. The ceiling fan spun on its axis without a care in the world. The body remained upright one moment longer, before Hakana nudged it with his finger. The corpse gave a sickening splat. An actual pool of blood spread outwards over the polished linoleum, ruptured arteries squirting against the filing cabinet.

The cigarette packets, all three of them, landed wetly in the blood. Hakana shook his wrist and vanished the gun into an orb. He retrieved all three, wiped the blood from the cardboard with his sleeve, and set them methodically down one by one, on another disgraced countertop. A hand darted to the wall, switching off the lights. He didn’t need another headache. Plucking one cigarette from each packet, he placed the sticks between his lips and fumbled with that same golden flick lighter. The mournful flame cast an eerie flicker over the clinical white walls. Hakana took a drag from all three, and the dreadful itching in his trigger finger ceased. His shoulders sank, before three acrid plumes coalesced into a single pyre.

“In that moment, I feel truly alive.”

And he did.

Sliding open the door to the office, he stared blankly down at the poor nurse, her face contorted beyond belief: eyes boggled, jaw unhinged, cheeks sunk into hollow recesses. Her limp hair framed a face that couldn’t scream. Stepping out of the office, Hakana slid the door shut behind him and left her standing there. Tipping the brim of his fedora low over his eye, he strode with purpose through the clinic’s front door, scouring viscera from the front of his coat.

The embrace of the cold welcomed him henceforth, congratulations for a job well done.