Then there are the weird symptoms. A young man — a university student, perhaps — comes along in poofy pink pants, a red beret tilted to the side of his face, and real wooden clogs that echo off the granite sidewalk, even in all this noise. A cocky mishmash of European stereotypes that make one wonder what part of his own culture he is trying to disguise. He looks like he is on his way to a very hoity-toity art class. He passes a gaggle of girls — no, full-grown women who look ten years younger than they truly are — all dressed in matching floral mori outfits, carrying matching wicker baskets in the crooks of their right arms, running to an unseen destination, as if late to an afternoon picnic in a British forest. Not ten minutes later a teenager sports baggy jeans that sag to his bottom and a brown baseball hat turned to the side that bears the name “Marcus Garvey” in calligraphic letters. As he walks, he turns his head at the last second, showing what is written on the back of his hat in the same font: GANJA. Quite the ensemble: he must be on his way to jail.

The yokai named Akki chuckles at his own cruel joke. A flush-faced, muscle-bound giant taking up half of the expansive sidewalk with his enormous size, the nightmare demon squats in front of a convenience store ablaze with fluorescents. The frightening creature poses as a human dressed head to toe in midnight: a black haori jacket stretches over his broad shoulders, humongous matching hakama pants brush the pavement and black waraji straw sandals wrap around his massive feet. He dangles a relit cigarette in one large hand and a tiny empty rainbow-coloured pop-top coffee can in the other. His eyes are closed beneath two furrowed eyebrows that look more like black flames sweeping across his expansive forehead into a sleek, sumo-style chonmage topknot. He stands out far more than the night owls that flock around him, and everyone finds him terrifying, in spite of the friendly tune he murmurs under his breath:

“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …” Nothing happens.

Pedestrians who notice him cross the street, or circle so far and wide around him they would rather risk bumping into one another than come within three feet of him. Some mistake him for a lost samurai cosplayer but dare not disturb him to take a picture. They do not notice his chubby fingers are decked with several gold rings that do not match his outfit. Those that dare do anything risk tiny glares over their shoulders but keep their thoughts to themselves, unaware that he can see and hear them all. Another dangerous thug, some think with a shake of their heads. A couple of aggressive-looking obaachans think, This city has gone to hell. Police cruisers slow down, their drivers pretend not to look at him, but they do not stop. Good, Akki thinks to himself. Cops make him sick with rage.