Humanos - Emerald Moon

The cold can of coffee pressed against my palm. Condensation crept between my fingers, leaving my skin damp. I took a small sip—earthy and bitter, with a faint fruity aftertaste lingering on my tongue—then turned my attention back to the view from my seat at the far end of the cafeteria. Beyond the window were an empty parking lot and the administration building, which looked like a giant cardboard box. Farther off, Mount Takao rose in a blur, its peak veiled by a thin layer of mist. Hachioji was a long way from the chaos of Shinjuku, but this small city on the outskirts of Tokyo still had a rhythm of its own: buses every twenty minutes, students coming and going. From here, I could track human patterns—who came in, who left, who pretended to be busy when they were really just waiting for their crush.

On the table, my notebook lay open. The tip of my pencil had stopped at the final line.

Alina Hamish’s assignment—brochure design—done.

Plus one backup. Just in case the committee asked for “younger but still eye-catching” again.

A smile tugged at my lips. My pencil crossed out “eye-catching” twice. If they came back asking for colors that were “calmer but still screaming,” I would hit them with a graveyard-gray palette.

While I was straightening my notes, my phone buzzed.

Marina: Sorry, Lin, class is running late. The professor’s going through a breakup and has been crying this whole time.

Me: Wait, what? How does that even happen? What are you doing?

Marina: Crying along, obviously. It’s drama class.

A laugh almost escaped, but I choked it back into a snort.

That was Marina. If the world was falling apart, she would find the funny angle first. In my head, her drama class instantly turned into an improvised stage production: the professor as the tragic lead, Marina as a comedian in the wrong costume.

Me: Fine. I’m heading to the hall first.

Marina: Okay, just don’t make us both late. Sean will go full werewolf.

Me: Easy. Throw him a stick. Let him play fetch.

Marina: So he’s a dog now?

A row of laughing emojis followed.

Before my smile could get any wider, I closed the chat. If I let it keep going, I might laugh out loud, and everyone around me would assume I’d finally lost it.

The meeting started in fifteen minutes. Normally, Marina and I walked there together—same time, same place, a neat little routine. Without her, though, the short walk to the hall felt longer than it should have.

The university plaza was packed. Freshmen scattered everywhere like lost chicks. Rather than let their current sweep me along, I took the shortcut—right, then left—slipping through the corners of campus most people ignored.

A roar exploded from the basketball court after only a few steps. Reflexively, my head turned.

The bleachers were full. Clapping, stomping, shouting—it all made the air vibrate. In the middle of all that noise, my gaze snagged on one figure like a magnet.

Alan Bernard.

An engineering major in his junior year. Tall in a blue T-shirt, he still moved lightly on his feet. The ball bounced beneath his hand in a quick rhythm, as if the midday heat and normal human lungs didn’t apply to him.

From beyond the three-point line, he jumped. For one second, the world went silent. The ball went in.

The crowd erupted again, but my ears were late catching up—because his gaze, dark blue and sharp, had already caught mine. The corner of his mouth lifted, barely there, like he knew exactly that I had been watching.

My heart kicked. Tearing my gaze away, I quickened my steps.

But my fingers were sweating so badly my phone nearly slipped from my hand.

“What the hell was that?”

Looking had been a mistake. Reacting had been worse. Giving anything like that an opening? Absolutely not. A meeting still waited. Responsibilities needed handling. And my life didn’t need a migraine-inducing love story.

By the time I reached the hall, my breathing had almost steadied. The door hinges creaked as I slipped inside.

Festival posters from previous years covered the walls. This year’s theme was “Fusion”—a blend of Japanese and international culture. The music stage, bazaar, food stalls—everything had to come together without collapsing into chaos. In reality, the room in front of me was already a mess: the smell of markers, tables and chairs in disarray, sweat mingling with the scent of food. Voices cut over one another—loud, fast—like a night market forced to wear the label of a formal meeting.

At the front stood Sean, the Steering Committee representative, arms crossed. His white shirtsleeves were rolled above his elbows. Stiff shoulders and a fixed gaze made him look carved in place as he listened to the committee chair explain something in hushed tones to the secretary.

Five minutes later, the chairs were finally filled. The committee chair stood at the podium while Sean sat nearby.

“Okay,” the Committee Chair said, his voice a little unsteady. “Is everyone here? Let’s start. Reports from each division.”

One by one, the reports came out—and immediately dissolved into noise. The sponsorship team complained. The student organizations team fought over performance slots. The logistics team wanted more money. The catering team panicked because their vendor had disappeared.

A breath caught in my throat. Watching them felt like a reality-show fight over a microphone, minus the funny background music.

“Enough.”

At the word, Sean stood and stepped forward.

The room froze. His black folder opened, then landed gently on the front table. Somehow, that was enough to silence everyone.

“Chair. Marker.”

The Committee Chair hurriedly handed him a marker like a student who had forgotten his homework. Four columns appeared beneath Sean’s hand: Problem. Owner. Deadline. Risk.

“The festival is less than three months away,” he said flatly. “And your progress still looks like it did at the first meeting. So from now on, one person speaks at a time. If you don’t have data, stay quiet. If all you have is panic, breathe.”

Several people immediately looked down. The catering team member who had looked close to tears even stopped crumpling the invoice in her hand.

“Sponsorship.” Sean pointed without hesitation. “Problem?”

“Their logo isn’t in the stage design yet. They want a revision—”

“Send the final logo tonight. If it comes in after eight, use the standard size. Don’t give sponsors permission to change the layout after the deadline.” His marker moved quickly. “Owner: Hendrik Brouwer. Risk: sponsor complaint. Solution: written email.”

A stiff nod came from Hendrik. By then, Sean had already moved to the next row. “Student organizations.”

“The performance schedule overlaps. The dance club wants prime time, and so does the band—”

“Prime time isn’t a prize. Order it by setup needs: whoever takes the longest goes before the break. Everyone else gets whatever slots are left.” His gaze swept the room. “If anyone complains, tell them to read the rundown. Not their own ego.”

“Logistics.”

“We’re short on budget for the backdrop and extension cords.”

“Reuse last year’s frame for the backdrop. Borrow extension cords from the engineering lab; the chair will sign the request after the meeting.” The marker moved again. “Only buy new ones if inventory is damaged. Send photo proof to the group.”

The logistics team immediately checked their phones, maybe only then remembering the inventory did, in fact, exist.

“Catering.”

“We can’t get ahold of the vendor.”

“Use the campus cafeteria. Simple bento sets. Bottled water from the student co-op. The price can’t exceed the most expensive item on the menu.” Sean capped the marker, then looked across the room as if calculating who was most likely to fail. “Tomorrow at ten a.m., every person in charge sends a progress update. Not plans. Progress. No update means your task gets reassigned and your name comes off the committee certificate.”

The AC hummed overhead. The remaining murmurs died little by little, not only out of fear, but because everyone suddenly knew what to do. Half a step back from the board, Sean returned the marker to the table.

The Committee Chair cleared his throat. Though still pale, he was already opening the agenda again.

“Okay… moving on,” he said, trying to sound like a leader again. “Publications team. Alina.”

A tiny reflex lifted my chin, making me look ready even though my head was still full of static.

“The brochures are done,” I said. “If they’re approved today, we can distribute them tomorrow.”

“Good. Tomorrow, you’ll handle documentation.”

Before I could stop myself, I blinked. That wasn’t the job we had discussed yesterday.

“Hey, wait—that’s my part,” someone protested from the back.

My gaze stayed forward. Nothing new there. Every committee had someone who wanted to grab the tasks that looked easy.

The Committee Chair immediately shrank. “Right. Alina will handle roaming documentation. Booths, visitors, committee members. Archives. You stay on stage duty. Understood?”

A small nod was all I gave.

Relief had barely started to settle when the hall door opened. Marina rushed in, her hair tie loose, her bag nearly slipping off her shoulder, her breath coming hard—and without anyone signaling, everyone turned to look. Including Sean.

“Ma-ri-na.”

Slowly and coldly, he pronounced each syllable. Like an unsharpened knife—too dull to cut, but still sharp enough to make my skin prickle.

“Late. Eighteen minutes.”

Somehow, Marina still managed to grin—that stupid reflex only she had. “Sorry, I was—”

“I don’t need an excuse,” Sean cut in. Then he turned to me. “Alina, send me the brochure file. I’ll forward it to the printer.”

Then his eyes returned to Marina. “Both of you will hand out the brochures and put them up tomorrow. Finish everything the same day.”

“What?” Marina almost choked. “That’s impossible! There are hundreds of brochures. The area covers almost the entire city!”

“Putting up and handing out brochures only takes four hours,” Sean said, still flat. “That is, if you don’t take too many breaks or stand around on the sidewalk.”

“We still need to rest. This isn’t forced labor.”

“Forced labor sounds like a good idea. Tomorrow’s deadline is ten p.m.”

A tiny shake of my head warned Marina.

Don’t argue, or he’ll add more.

At last, Marina backed down and sat beside me.

Fine. We were doomed.

Three hours later, the meeting was finally over. But stepping out of the hall didn’t feel like relief. It felt more like I’d been pulled in every direction until my joints went loose.

A few steps behind the group, Marina and I trailed along. Our shoes dragged over the floor.

“That meeting was still a disaster,” Marina whispered. “The chair doesn’t know who handles what. He changes decisions like he’s changing his phone wallpaper.”

“Worse, sometimes the chair says A and Sean says B,” I answered, my shoulders sinking. “The committee gets confused about who to follow. If we follow the chair, the work goes in circles and nothing gets done. If we follow Sean, it feels like we’re stepping over the official structure.”

“Exactly.” Marina pointed at the floor with her water bottle. “We’re not just tired from the work. We’re tired of guessing who’s actually in charge.”

“The administration chose him, right?” I said. “That’s why Sean keeps taking over.”

“Yeah. But now our chair looks like a premium puppet,” Marina said. “His batteries run on panic, and Sean’s holding the remote.”

We almost laughed at the same time.

This year’s festival really was special—the administration had tripled the budget to boost the university’s ranking. In practice? Every committee member worked like a pack mule while being yanked back and forth between official orders and orders that actually made sense.

“But seriously,” Marina went on, “Sean talks like we’re screws inside a copy machine. If we jam, he just smacks us.”

“At least he could stop hitting us with ten p.m. deadlines.”

A finger shot toward me. “Exactly! What’s wrong with giving us a little breathing room? The festival is still three months away.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have another choice,” I said. “If he’s not strict, this whole event collapses.”

“Sure, but he could at least stop treating committee members like misprinted brochures he can toss in the trash.”

“You have a point.”

With a sigh, Marina said, “Good thing I’ve got you. If I had to hand them out alone, I’d drop dead at the thirty-second utility pole. National tragedy: literature girl buried under brochures.”

“I’ll bring flowers. And put a brochure on your grave.”

Marina glared at me. “Excuse me? What kind of best friend are you?”

“The kind who got dragged into this because of you.”

The conversation carried us to the intersection, where the stream of people began to split. Only then did I realize how thirsty I’d gotten.

“I’m going to grab a drink,” I said.

“Don’t take too long. We still need to map out the areas,” Marina called.

“Yeah. Want anything?”

“No. My stomach’s still bloated from too many iced drinks.”

A wave answered.

“Okay. Meet you at the bus stop.”

The vending machine waited down the corridor, so I turned toward it. Behind me, Marina’s voice and the chatter of the others grew fainter, swallowed by concrete walls and the hum of the AC. At the far end, the literature and arts building still glowed dimly, though at this hour only a few students pulling late nights were likely left inside. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, yet somehow failed to reach the dingy corners along the hall.

No wonder the campus’s west corridor was known for being deserted. There had even been a rumor once about a student getting abducted in a hallway like this. Just a rumor. Still, the hair on the back of my neck rose.

A press of the button selected green tea.

The machine hummed.

The bottle dropped with a metallic clang, too loud in the silence.

The cold soaked straight into my palm as I picked it up.

When I turned around—

Both feet stopped.

At the far end of the corridor, a figure stood upright.

Too tall.

Too still.

Dryness seized my throat.

Not someone waiting for the elevator.

Not a janitor.

The AC hummed, but the sound suddenly felt far away. The smell of damp carpet needled my nose.

“Hello?”

The word came out thin, barely above a whisper.

No answer.

No movement.

But the air changed.

Narrowing my eyes, I forced myself to focus.

The shadow vanished.

Air finally returned to my lungs.

Great. Apparently, my brain was glitching before the work had even started.

Without another thought, I hurried away.

At the bus stop, Marina was still ranting about a professor who had moved one of her classes. I answered halfheartedly. Every so often, my gaze drifted back toward the corridor, though all I could see from there were lights and empty walls.

Once I got back to my room, instead of preparing for tomorrow afternoon’s class, I reconstructed the encounter like a disciplinary report. First: the figure was tall. Second: he had stood still for far too long to be someone merely passing through. Third: the moment I focused on him, he disappeared without a sound. If he had really been human, there should have been footsteps, a moving door, or at least some tiny noise.

Unless he was used to moving fast. An athlete, maybe.

Then the final detail returned—something round in his hand. A ball? The soccer team wasn’t practicing today. The volleyball club used the court off campus. Of everyone I’d seen with a ball that afternoon, anywhere near my route, there had only been one. The basketball team.

Alan?

I shook my head hard. Ridiculous. Suspecting someone just because he was tall, quick, and often near a ball was a humiliating level of paranoia. But every time I closed my eyes, the corridor came back—the fluorescent lights, the smell of damp carpet, and the feeling of being watched from behind. Sleep finally came in shallow fragments, and it didn’t help at all.

The next day, the uneasiness still hadn’t faded. But Sean’s assignment didn’t care about bad feelings. From five in the afternoon until well after dark, Marina and I rode our electric bikes, stopped, pasted up brochures, and rode on again until my palms were sticky with glue and my fingertips ached.

By nine o’clock, my legs had gone numb. We’d circled half the city—bus stops, campus gates, bookstores, the station—and we were down to the last quarter of the brochures.

“Let’s take a break. My body feels like overcooked noodles.”

A weak nod was all I could manage. We sat on the curb and shared the last of the bottled water.

Phone in hand, Marina asked, “Hey, did you see the photo of Alan with Sakura?”

“Who?” I asked, pretending not to care.

“Sakura Harrington. Literature major. Slender, long hair, a face straight off a magazine cover.”

Marina held out her screen. On it, Alan stood beside Sakura, relaxed. No smile, but no attempt to pull away either.

My heart skipped.

“They look great together, right?” Marina grinned. “A lot of people are already calling them couple goals.”

“Oh. Good for them. At least he’s not posing with a trash can.”

A confused blink followed. “Uh… are you okay?”

“Just tired.” I stood and got back on my bike. “Come on. Sean will turn into an actual wolf if we’re late.”

My fingers trembled as I twisted the throttle. Bitterness coated my tongue—even though I’d only had water.

Nobody. Not a friend. Not anything. To me, Alan was just a former disciplinary case I’d once handled. So why did it feel like… I’d lost?

The next brochure went up upside down. Damn it.

“Alina, are you sure you’re still okay?” Marina asked.

“Yeah. I’m hanging in there.”

“Do you like Alan?” Marina asked suddenly.

“What?” Of course I glared at her. “There’s no way I like a troublemaker like him.”

“But he’s handsome, and he goes to the same university. You get free eye candy every time he walks by.”

“Looks don’t matter. Attitude does. Liking a guy who causes trouble would ruin my image as a former discipline committee member. Think logically.”

“Okay, hypothetically, what if he turned over a new leaf? Then would you?”

“Him? Good? Impossible. Fighting and doing whatever he wants are basically his way of life. I checked the disciplinary log—he was number one. He caused some kind of trouble almost every month.”

“But what if you could get Alan back on the right path? Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Get close to him, give him advice, guide him—with love. Sometimes bad boys just need the right person to steady them.”

My mouth snapped shut. Marina might have been right, or it might have been nothing more than a romantic theory with no evidence behind it. In all the time I’d known Alan on campus, no one had ever truly dared to reprimand him except the dean. Even the dean’s lectures never lasted; trouble always found Alan again. Advice clearly wasn’t enough—and whatever he actually needed, I wasn’t the person to give it to him. Getting close to him would make all my hard work at being the good girl go to waste.

“Forget it. What’s the point of talking about him? I’m exhausted. I feel like getting a massage at a spa. Or sleeping in a grave. Either one works.”

Unconvinced or not, Marina laughed anyway. “Yeah, honestly. Now I want a spa day. It’s been ages. Once we’re done putting these up, let’s make Sean treat us.”

“Deal. Let’s shake Sean down.”

“You got this.”

The subject of Alan finally disappeared beneath the hum of electric motors and the flutter of brochures in the wind. We cut through alleys, stopped, accelerated, stopped, accelerated, until we finally reached the last intersection. At the corner, Marina stopped short.

“Road’s closed. Renovations.”

The time read quarter past nine. Going around by the main road would add another half hour. We still had dozens of brochures left to put up.

“Let’s go through Akatsukicho,” Marina suggested, already pulling her bike left. “It’s faster.”

Hesitation tugged at me. “Isn’t that where all the bars are?”

“Yeah, but we’re just passing through. It’s still busy.”

A knot tightened in my stomach. Not hunger. Instinct. With no other choice, I followed.

The moment we turned in, the air changed. Narrower. Darker.

This area was the heart of Hachioji’s izakaya and bar scene. Students were banned from going in without supervision, but that rule was mostly for show. Neon lights flickered—red, blue, purple—reflected in puddles on the asphalt. The smell of yakitori mixed with cigarette smoke poured from every doorway. Bass thudded from inside the bars like the heartbeat of a drunk giant.

People standing outside the bars stared at us too long. Too hard. Some were still in their work clothes—construction workers or office employees coming off overtime. But others were faces I often saw hanging around campus; rumor had it they sometimes got paid to work as illegal “security” for nightclubs.

Then—

CRASH!

Glass shattered. A chair flew. A rough shout exploded from inside a bar.

A small crowd formed on the sidewalk. In the middle of it, a young man stood unsteadily. His university jacket was torn. Blood smeared his face. Three grown men surrounded him—large bodies, rough movements.

Recognition hit immediately.

Alan.

Marina tugged my arm. “Holy crap! Alan really is trouble on two legs. He’s definitely getting expelled this time. Let’s keep going, okay? Just ignore it.”

But my feet wouldn’t move. His university jacket—dirty, worn, torn—was supposed to be something to be proud of. Not something worn while being humiliated in public.

“Come on, Alina!” Marina’s voice shook. “We don’t have time to get involved in his mess!”

The warning made sense. Around him, people only watched. Some recorded. Some laughed. Like this was free entertainment.

The risk was stupid; that much was obvious. But how could I let a gang beating happen right in front of me while doing nothing?

Turning to Marina, I said, “I have to step in.”

“Huh? Are you insane? Look at them! You could get beaten up too!”

“If someone records this, it becomes a stain on the university.”

“Screw the university! This is about you! And we still have work to do.” Her voice cracked—worried, not angry.

A shake of my head cut her off. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll handle this first. You keep going. Put up the rest, then report to Sean when you’re done.”

“What? No. I know you’re a former member of the discipline committee, Alina. But this isn’t your responsibility.”

“I know. This is about making a choice. Act now or regret it later.”

“But—”

“Marina.” I looked at her seriously. “I can’t leave him. I don’t have the heart to walk away.”

Silence hung between us for a long moment. Then Marina exhaled. “Ugh! Fine… but be careful. Seriously.”

After a small nod, I handed her the bag of remaining brochures.

My heart pounded, screaming, Run! Even so, my feet stepped forward.

Toward the crowd. Toward Alan. Toward something I couldn’t predict.

One more second.

And my neat, quiet, orderly life—

would shatter into pieces.