The morning buzz of Tokyo draped over the city like a thick quilt—cars honking in frustration, distant announcements from station platforms, and the ever-reliable click-click of countless leather shoes against concrete. For Kaito Nakamura, it was just another Monday. His tie was straight, his blazer crisp, and his briefcase carried the scent of old papers and cheap convenience store cologne.

He stood among a crowd at the Shibuya Crossing, eyes half-lidded behind thin-rimmed glasses, waiting for the light to turn green. His phone buzzed.

Manager Takeda:
“Don’t forget the client meeting at 9. Bring the revised pitch deck. We need them impressed.”

He typed a quick reply.
Understood. Already on my way.

Lies. The presentation was still half-done, buried under reports from last week. But he couldn’t afford another mistake—not after working late three nights in a row.

The light changed. Bodies surged forward like a school of fish, weaving and dipping across the famous intersection. Kaito kept his head down. Left foot, right foot. Office. Desk. Reports. Sleep. Repeat.

He wasn’t looking when he collided into someone.

Hard.

Kaito stumbled back a step, his phone slipping from his hand and landing with a clack against the pavement.

"Shit," the other person muttered, grabbing Kaito’s elbow to steady him.

Their eyes met.

Kaito blinked.

Messy, shaggy hair the color of roasted chestnuts. Sharp eyes, unshaven jawline, and a hoodie far too casual for Shibuya at 8:47 a.m. A camera hung around his neck, and his backpack looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Reiwa era began.

Definitely not a salaryman.

“Sorry,” the stranger said, voice laced with a soft Korean accent. “Didn’t see you.”

Kaito bent to pick up his phone. Cracked screen. Perfect. “No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I was trying to take a shot of the crowd,” the man said, holding up the camera. “Guess I got too into it.”

Kaito nodded politely. The crosswalk timer was ticking. He didn’t have time for this.

“Thanks,” he said stiffly and stepped past him.

“Wait.”

Kaito turned.

“You work around here?”

“…Yes?”

The man grinned. “You always look that serious?”

Kaito raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” the man said, slinging the camera around his neck and walking beside him now, “you looked like your soul had left your body. Like your tie was strangling your dreams.”

Kaito frowned. “What’s your point?”

“No point. Just... don’t let the job eat you alive.”

Kaito stared at him. “Do you always speak so freely to strangers?”

“Only the ones who look like they need it.”

The man winked, then veered off down a side street, leaving Kaito standing on the sidewalk, late, flustered, and completely confused.

—

Kaito made it to the office five minutes before the meeting. He gave his presentation. He remembered the key stats. He smiled at the client. He bowed deeply. He nodded when Takeda praised him afterward, even though the compliment was clearly a passive-aggressive jab about “finally not screwing up.”

But the stranger’s words stuck with him.

"Don’t let the job eat you alive."

Kaito looked at the cracked screen of his phone. Then he shook his head.

Ridiculous.

—

Meanwhile…

In a cluttered Airbnb apartment not far from Harajuku, Minjae flopped onto the futon, face buried in a sketchpad.

He hadn’t drawn anything decent in days.

The Tokyo air was different. Too clean. Too structured. He missed the chaotic warmth of Seoul—the messy cafés, the street food stalls, his grandma’s nagging. Here, he felt like a ghost drifting through alleys no one cared to remember.

He picked up his camera and flipped through the shots he’d taken that morning. Most were garbage—crowd shots, blurry outlines, overexposed angles.

Then he saw him.

In one of the photos, just off-center, the salaryman he bumped into was caught mid-step. Serious face, black suit, stiff shoulders. Like he was walking through life on autopilot.

But even in the blur, there was something…

Minjae zoomed in.

Yeah. Those eyes. He’d looked surprised. Like no one had spoken to him like that in years.

Minjae chewed on his lip.

Maybe he’d go back to Shibuya tomorrow.

Not to photograph.

Just to see.

—

A Week Later

Kaito saw him again. Same place. Same camera. This time, leaning against a vending machine, sipping Pocari Sweat and looking like he’d never heard of the word “deadline.”

“You,” Kaito said, unsure why he was even speaking.

The man looked up and grinned. “Hey. Serious Salaryman.”

Kaito bristled. “That’s not my name.”

“I didn’t get your name last time,” the man said with a lazy shrug.

“…Kaito.”

“Nice. I’m Minjae.”

There was a pause. Kaito looked at his watch.

“You're late again,” Minjae noted.

“You’re observant.”

“I freelance,” Minjae said with a smirk. “Being observant is part of the job.”

“What do you even do?”

“Photos. Art. Sometimes video. I quit my job last year.”

“…Why?”

Minjae shrugged. “Didn’t know what I wanted. Still don’t.”

Kaito stared. That concept was foreign to him. Not knowing. Not doing. Just existing. Wandering.

It sounded terrifying.

It also sounded like freedom.

—

They kept meeting.

By accident at first.

Then less so.

Café conversations. Park benches. Minjae showing Kaito how to use a real camera. Kaito bringing him instant ramen because Minjae forgot to eat again. Minjae laughing at how stiff Kaito was when he walked. Kaito pretending not to be annoyed.

There were glances.

Moments that lingered longer than they should have.

A brush of fingers when handing over a cup of coffee.

The way Minjae’s gaze would flick to Kaito’s lips when he wasn’t looking.

And Kaito… found himself checking his phone, hoping for a message that never came.

Until one night, it did.

—

Minjae:
“I found a spot I want to shoot tomorrow morning. Want to come with?”

Kaito stared at the message for ten whole minutes before replying.

Sure.

—

To be continued...