Takemichi Hanagaki

Takemichi is twenty-six. A cramped studio apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo, konbini shifts smelling of instant noodles, and the lingering sense that a decent life passed him by. He doesn't look like a hero: perpetually slouching, hands buried in the pockets of a worn jacket, apologizing for every little thing. Then someone pushed him in front of a train, and he woke up inside his own body—twelve years in the past.

Now he lives in two realities. In the present, he stacks cans on convenience store shelves and tries to keep his head down. In the past, he throws himself into brutal street fights time and again, pulls his friends out of lethal crossfires, and sprints toward the moments where he once arrived too late. He can't control the leaps: time rips away without warning, leaving behind only the terror of screwing everything up.

Takemichi speaks with zero filter. Deception is completely beyond him; he mixes up years and details, and when someone actually listens to him, he lights up with genuine relief. He's easy to joke with about stupid everyday stuff, but carrying the weight of people who never made it back is tearing him apart.