Tokyo Ghoul: You're a ghoul!? What am I supposed to do now???

The university library smelled like old paper and anxiety—probably from all the students cramming for midterms. I'd claimed a table near the art history section, surrounding myself with books about fabric in classical paintings. Tanaka wanted a comparison essay by Monday, and I'd learned not to underestimate his assignments.

"Hey, transfer student—Sota, right?"

I looked up. A guy from class stood there with an armful of books, looking lost.

"Yeah. Kenji?"

"Thank god someone remembers names." He dropped into the opposite chair. "Listen, I'm drowning here. Tanaka wants five historical examples, but all these books might as well be in ancient Greek. You seem to get this stuff—any tips?"

I glanced at his stack. All dense theory texts. "Try the Renaissance section instead. Practical examples are easier to analyze than philosophy."

"You're a lifesaver." He started scribbling notes. "How are you so calm about this? Everyone else is panicking."

"I've dealt with worse deadlines." Like counting seconds between ghoul attacks, but that wasn't exactly shareable. "Just break it into smaller tasks."

We worked in companionable silence for an hour. Kenji occasionally asked questions, and I pointed him toward useful chapters. I could finally enjoy some normal study buddy stuff. No life-or-death stakes.

"Lunch?" he asked eventually. "The usual group is meeting at the cafeteria."

"Sure."

The cafeteria buzzed with Thursday energy—weekend close enough to taste but far enough to require suffering through more classes. Our usual table had expanded to include a few more art students.

"Sota!" Yui waved us over. "We're planning a karaoke thing Saturday. You in?"

"Maybe. I've got some work stuff that might come up." Patrols were light, but Yamamoto mentioned possible weekend shifts.

"Government job, right?" Mai poked at her rice. "Must be nice having actual income. I'm living on convenience store wages and instant ramen."

"It pays for art supplies," I admitted.

"Speaking of which," another girl—Hiroko—leaned forward. "I saw you at that coffee place near the bookstore yesterday. Anteiku? Their coffee's supposed to be amazing."

"It is. Best I've found in the ward."

"Maybe we should have a study group there sometime," Kenji suggested. "Better than fighting for library tables."

"It's pretty quiet in the afternoons," I said while nodding. "Good for working in peace."

The conversation drifted to weekend plans, professor complaints, and whether anyone understood the reading for tomorrow's art theory class. Normal topics flowing naturally, nobody analyzing deeper meanings or hidden lives. Just students being students.

After lunch, I headed to Anteiku. The afternoon sun painted golden stripes across the sidewalk, and I found myself looking forward to the coffee almost as much as the quiet atmosphere. Three weeks in Ward 20, and I'd already developed routines. Comfortable ones.

The bell chimed familiarly as I entered.

Touka's POV

The afternoon shift always dragged when it was quiet. Only two customers sat in the whole shop—an old man reading his newspaper and a woman typing on her laptop. I wiped down tables that didn't need it, refilled sugar dispensers that were barely touched, anything to keep busy.

The bell chimed. 3:15, right on schedule.

Sota walked in, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like every other university student except for how he actually showed up when he said he would. Most customers were random, unpredictable. He'd become clockwork—Tuesday through Friday, always after classes.

"Coffee and turkey sandwich?" I asked as he settled into his usual corner spot.

"You remembered."

"You've ordered the same thing six times." I poured his coffee, careful not to spill. Manager's training stuck even with regular customers. "How's the university thing going?"

"Essay about fabric in Renaissance paintings. Thrilling stuff." He pulled out his notebooks, spreading them across the table. "Sadly, you were right about the professor burying us in homework."

"Warned you." I set the sandwich down. "What are Renaissance paintings?"

"Old European art. Lots of religious scenes and fancy clothes." He flipped open one of the books, showing a painted woman in elaborate dress. "We have to analyze how artists showed wealth through fabric textures."

"Sounds complicated."

"It's just observation. Like—see how the velvet looks heavy here? The artist used darker shadows to show weight. Silk gets lighter treatment, more highlights."

I found myself actually looking at the image instead of just nodding politely. The fabric did look heavy, now that he pointed it out.

"Huh. Never noticed that before."

"Most people don't. That's what makes it fun to paint—catching things others miss." He picked up his pencil, already starting to sketch. "What about you? Big test coming up or something?"

I blinked. Customers didn't usually ask about my life. "Literature exam next week. Modern Japanese authors."

"Which ones?"

"Murakami, Yoshimoto, bunch of others." I shifted, not used to this much conversation. "It's fine. Just memorization mostly."

"I had to read Murakami for a class once. Weird stuff with talking cats and parallel worlds." He glanced up from his sketch. "Do you actually like his writing or just studying it for the test?"

The question caught me off guard. "I... both, I guess? It's strange but interesting. Like he sees the world differently than normal people."

"That's what makes good art. Seeing things others don't." He went back to drawing, conversation apparently over.

I moved on to other tasks, but found myself glancing back at his corner. He worked steadily, alternating between reading, note-taking, and sketching. Every so often he'd pause to sip coffee or take a bite of sandwich, but his focus never really broke.

Different from our other student customers who came in groups, chattering and procrastinating. He actually worked.

"Touka-chan," Manager called from the back. "Could you check the storage room inventory?"

"Yes, Manager."

The storage room was cramped and smelled like coffee beans. I counted bags, marked numbers on the clipboard, mundane tasks that let my mind wander. That Murakami comment stuck with me. When was the last time someone asked what I actually thought about something instead of just making small talk?

When I returned to the front, Sota was packing up. Early for him—usually he stayed until almost dinner.

"Heading out already?"

"Have to meet with my project supervisor." He stacked his books carefully. "Thanks for letting me camp out here all afternoon."

"You pay for coffee. That's all we require." I paused, then added, "Good luck with the fabric essay."

"Thanks. Good luck with Murakami and his weird cats."

A small smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it. "They're very philosophical cats."

"The best kind." He shouldered his backpack. "See you tomorrow?"

"I work the afternoon shift."

"Then see you tomorrow."

He left, bell chiming behind him. I watched through the window as he joined the stream of pedestrians, just another student heading home. Except most students didn't have that kind of focus, that steady presence that made the shop feel more settled when he was here.

"He seems nice," Manager observed, appearing beside me with that quiet way he had.

"He's a good customer." I turned away from the window. "Always polite, doesn't make a mess."

"Mm." Manager's expression held that gentle knowing look that made me uncomfortable. "It's good to see young people passionate about their studies."

"I suppose."

I went back to wiping tables, but the afternoon felt longer now. The old man left, then the laptop woman. New customers trickled in for the pre-dinner coffee rush, but the corner table stayed empty, looking wrong without notebooks spread across it.

Sota's POV

The grocery store near campus was cramped but well-stocked. I grabbed a basket and started hunting for actual food—vegetables, rice, meat that required cooking. Three weeks of convenience store meals and Anteiku sandwiches probably wasn't what Marude meant by "taking care of yourself."

"Oi, watch where you're—oh, you're from Kamii, right?"

I turned. A guy about my age stood there, wearing glasses and an annoyed expression. He looked familiar from campus, though I couldn't place which class.

"Yeah, art department. You?"

"Pharmaceutical sciences." He adjusted his glasses, annoyance fading into general irritation. "Nishiki Nishio. I think we're in the same building complex."

"Sota Nakamura. Transfer student."

"Ah, that explains why I don't recognize you." He glanced at my basket. "Actually cooking? Brave. Most of us live on instant everything."

"Figured I should eat real food occasionally."

"Admirable goal. Unrealistic, but admirable." He grabbed a pack of instant noodles. "Well, try not to burn down the kitchen. The fire alarms in our building are extremely sensitive."

He walked off before I could respond. Friendly guy. Or not friendly, exactly, but not hostile either. Just another stressed college student surviving on processed food and caffeine.

I finished shopping and hauled everything back to my apartment. Cooking turned out to be harder than fighting ghouls—at least with ghouls, you knew when you'd won. With vegetables, the line between "cooked" and "charcoal" was frustratingly thin.

My phone buzzed while I was attempting rice. Yamamoto: Quick patrol tonight? Just an hour, promise.

Sure. Give me 30.

The rice came out edible, the vegetables less so. I ate quickly, counted my knives (ten, as always), and pulled on the patrol gear. Mask, hat, coat. Instant transformation from art student to investigator.

Yamamoto waited at our usual spot, looking unusually formal.

"Branch chief wants us to check the warehouse district," he explained as we walked. "Nothing serious—just some kids reported seeing 'scary figures' there last week."

"Ghoul activity?"

"Probably just teenagers being teenagers. But we check everything." He shrugged. "Though honestly, in three years here, the scariest thing I've investigated was a rabid dog."

The warehouse district sat empty and quiet, streetlights creating pools of orange in the darkness. We walked the perimeter, checking alleys and doorways. Nothing. Not even graffiti.

"See?" Yamamoto said after forty minutes of nothing. "Ward 20 in all its thrilling glory."

"I'm not complaining."

"No, you wouldn't." He studied me sidelong. "You know, most investigators your age are itching for action. Especially ones with your record."

"My record was mostly luck and desperation."

"Still." We turned back toward the main district. "You seem genuinely happy with the quiet life. University, coffee shops, routine patrols. It's... refreshing, actually."

"It's what I wanted," I said simply. "A chance to be normal."

"Normal." He laughed. "Kid, you're the youngest Associate Special Class in history, carrying enough firepower to level a building. But sure, normal."

We finished the patrol without incident. Yamamoto headed home while I stopped by the convenience store for milk—my grocery shopping hadn't been quite complete.

Back in my apartment, I spent an hour on the fabric essay before bed. The Renaissance painters really had obsessed over showing wealth through cloth. All that careful detail just to say "this person is rich."

I wondered what Touka would think of the paintings. She'd actually looked interested when I explained the weight thing. Most people's eyes glazed over when I talked about art technical stuff.

My phone showed 11 PM. Tomorrow was Friday—one more day of classes, then the weekend. Maybe I'd actually go to that karaoke thing, try the whole normal student social life experience.

Or maybe I'd just spend Saturday at Anteiku, sketching and drinking coffee. That sounded better, honestly.

I counted my knives one last time, checked the locks, and fell asleep thinking about Renaissance velvet and philosophical cats.