It looks like the women have established a plan when someone passes the yokai from behind, oblivious to his size and dangerous demeanour. If anyone in the nightlife crowds sticks out like a sore thumb, it is the waiflike, shades-sporting high school student who is, of course, not on her way to or from school but not a working hostess, either. She seems the right size, the right age to be a teenage girl; face and skin like a doll, like porcelain but not as pale, extremely long black flowing hair in a perfect hime cut. Her uniform is genuine, complete with the insignia above her right breast, red ribbon, red bow tie, and black jacket designed for autumn weather. As if to confuse people even more, her seifuku skirt is hiked up as high as a seifuku skirt can go. Her bleach-white fluffy socks billow over blood-red Chuck Taylors, exposing her smooth calves and fleshy thighs to the night breeze. By some unseen power she walks without the dread of cold or fear of night.

She now stands at a crosswalk leading toward a shoutengai shopping street that leads deeper into the heart of downtown to where all the bars, nightclubs, and arcades lie, where things get lower down and dirty. She knows her beauty and does not care; her concerns lie far beyond the opinions of those staring in suspicion and awe.

Fuckin’ nice legs, too. Real nice. The yokai would recognize them anywhere. Damn.

Now the yokai must choose, for the crosswalk lights are about to change. If he waits, he may spend his evening in the company of several women, but he risks losing sight of the teenage-looking girl. The gyaru brigade is still in reconnaissance, pushing each other inside the Lawson and swatting each other away. He hears every word: “No, no, I can’t! You go talk to him!” He looks back at the girl waiting for the crosswalk, then peeks over his shoulder at the women in the conbini, stirring up another round of squealing. He groans out loud, his giant head dunking backward to curse the night sky. He has no choice; no one else is coming. And these matchstick-legged bitches take too long. “Immortal” don’t mean I got all fuckin’ day.

A red flashing hand on the crosswalk cuts off the last electronic notes of a melancholic tune. The yokai’s arms pump back and forth as he runs; people clear out of his way to avoid his unintentional haymakers, unaware that they would do no harm.

“Phew! Made it.” He stops right beside the girl and looks her up and down. “Hey there. Hisa-bisa, na? Haven’t seen you in a while. You hungry? You look hungry.”