autofocus: system in a camera in which the lens automatically focuses on the image of a prominent area

The first time that Jungkook sees him, the man is five seconds away from getting himself killed.

It's mid-April (but it is still cold), sometime in the early afternoon, and Jungkook is standing by the fence beside the train tracks, a hundred metres away from the Shijonawate station. The cherry blossom trees lining the path are in almost full bloom, soft pink amidst faded, small green leaves. There is a light breeze, sweeping the fallen petals three centimetres off the floor before they settle back down again, like dust.

Jungkook lifts his Nikon D7200 to eye level, and the shutter clicks.

Fresh out of grad school, Jungkook had thought that it'd be a great idea to take his camera and his Masters qualifications on a trip around the world. As a sort of self-congratulatory for surviving all these years of education.

Unfortunately, his savings would only allow him a maximum of three weeks someplace nearby, so he’d found himself scanning his Pasmo card against the station gantry and making his way up the escalator to the metro platform.

Jungkook's flight had landed in Kansai International Airport at about nine in the morning, and the first thing he'd indulged in was ramen, because there's nothing better than authentic ramen in its origin country.

Three hours on the train had seen Jungkook with his palms pressed against the windows, warm breath misting the view before he'd pulled back, suddenly aware of how childish it is, to anyone looking, for a twenty four year old man to have his nose pushed up against the glass. He gets off the Hanwa line at Tennoji and switches over to the Loop line, only breathing out a sigh of relief when he's at the last transfer, awkwardly standing by the metro doors as his carriage rumbles amiably along the Tozai line to Shijonawate, where his residence will be for the next six days.

The apartment he's renting for his stay in Osaka had been a pain in the to find. With his luggage rolling behind him and his phone in hand, he had probably rounded through the entire ing area before his gut instincts led him to the left and down a creepily narrow path. When the path opens up, there’s the small field, a stone bench beneath a lone cherry blossom tree, that Jungkook had found resemblance to the blurry picture that he’d seen on the Airbnb website. He’s got the right place.

Communication is a key problem, and Jungkook realizes this when he’d bumbled through a conversation with the owner of the apartment with the vaguest Japanese he’d been able to muster, together with some broken English. Though, that aside, he’d spent nearly half an hour scouring the area for the apartment keys.

The email printout (half crumpled due to frustration) in his hand had specifically mentioned that the keys would be kept in a safe in the shape of a hollowed out lock by the fuse box outside the unit. He’d eventually found the safe, but it was code locked, and five minutes of trying different number combinations on the dials nearly drove Jungkook insane.

Desperate, he had called the owner, who’d apologized for forgetting to include the code.

The apartment is small, a compact space but with two decent sized rooms: one has a bedframe with a mattress, and the other is in the style of a ryokan, a neatly made futon tucked in one corner over the tatami mats while a full length sliding window peeks from behind blinds.

Jungkook had dumped his baggage in the tatami room and slung the strap of his Nikon around his neck, picking his way through the still unfamiliar streets back to the station from where he’d come, recognizing the fence and the train tracks.

There is a muted blaring sound, loud and clear, it slices through the air, amber light flashing on and off above the tracks. The quick, efficient voice of an female announcer rings out through the speakers, in crisp Japanese, and the man startles from where he is standing in the middle of the tracks, lifting his head in mild confusion until he catches sight of the oncoming train, headlights blinding.

Heart in his throat, Jungkook watches the man tug clumsily at his compact luggage and stumble the rest of the distance to the other side of the crossing, ducking beneath the metal safety barriers before they are lowered completely. He catches the muffled yelp of a swear word. The man is Korean.

The train rushes past in a flurry of clicking noises, wheels scraping against metal alongside the insistent chime of warning signals. The gravel jumps beneath it, some clattering out onto the path, and when Jungkook turns, the man is already halfway up the small street leading uphill, faded lavender coloured hair tousling in the wind.

The next time that Jungkook sees him is when he’d finished touring the neighbourhood a few hours later.

The man is sitting cross-legged in front of the sliding window in the living area of the apartment, his back towards him. The window is open, the sky a soft blue grey until the part where it