The Fire Shadow

YUKI

The University of New Tokyo was one of the busiest places in the city. After the war, the government had unified all the universities in old Tokyo into one huge institution, located in the east side of Circle One, an area that had come to be known as the epicenter of entertainment and young nightlife of New Tokyo. During the day, the place brimmed with students and university employees; cafeterias, restaurants, cinemas and shops opened from early in the morning until the sun set. During the night, just after the last ray of sun had disappeared over the horizon, the multicolor lights started their maniacal dance and bars, clubs and other types of nighttime businesses opened their doors to both students and workers of the west side, where the financial area and the ministries were.

Yuki almost jumped when the musical sound of the alarm chimed, signaling the end of the class. She raised her eyes to the hologramic board, trying to make out what the tilted scribbling on it. The History of Communication professor was one of the few who still insisted on using a digital pen to write on the board instead of typing or using the voice to text conversor. He had an awful handwriting, too.

Yuki turned off her graphene laptop, folded it and dropped it into her backpack, which she slung over her left shoulder. Before she could fish her sports bag from under her chair, someone picked it up and offered it to her. Yuki raised a questioning eyebrow at Elijah Nakahara.

"Nguyen," he said, searching her eyes with his blue ones and leaned against her desk.

Yuki leaned slightly backwards. Nakahara had that annoying fixation with space invasion that Yuki had come to associate with Americans. Nakahara's father, she had heard, was of Japanese descent, but he had lived all her life in Los Angeles, where she had met Nakahara's mother when he was there for university. Even if he was not a hundred percent American,  Nakahara Elijah had been educated in the culture of taking before asking and touching without consent.

"Nakahara," she said, grabbing her sports bag.

He sent her a blinding smile, as if her answer had been some kind of personal triumph, and asked, "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing super, thank you," she said. "I see you've changed your hair again."

He touched his newly blond hair and nodded.

"I can't be as faithful as you. How long have you had your hair dyed white?"

"A bit longer than one year," she said, hanging her sports back around her free shoulder. "And more than faithfulness on my part, I'd say it's fickleness on yours."

Nakahara pretended to flinch and said, "That stung."

Yuki rolled her eyes.

"What is it you want, Nakahara?"

He frowned and leaned forward again. Yuki contemplated pushing him back and discarded it grudgingly.

"Will you call me Elijah?"

"You've asked this before," she answered, sighing.

"I'm asking again."

"Then I'm answering again: no, "she said, sidestepping him and directing towards the door. "Is that everything you wanted, or do you have some other question to keep on wasting my time?"

She heard him laugh and follow behind her.

"Wanna do the project together?" he asked, matching her strides.

Yuki frowned and turned her head to look at him.

"What project?"

He raised his left eyebrow.

"The History of Communication project," he said. "You know, the project Prof. Robertson just spent an hour talking about?"

Yuki stopped and, when his half-amused half-confused look told her it was not a joke, sighed.