Starting balance: ¥6,123,000
Earnings today: ¥0
Final balance: ¥6,123,000
10:30 AM
An underground internet café in East Shinjuku
She chose the most secluded booth. The monitor reflected a dull yellow-blue tint, an older model. The space bar on the keyboard was slightly loose.
The guy next to her was playing an FPS game. Gunshots from his headphones hit like steel pellets against the plastic table, making the entire row of desks tremble softly.
She didn't look in his direction. Her eyes stayed on the line of text on her own screen.
"Tokyo's new nightlife ecology: the intersection of crypto culture and art."
She deleted it.
Typed instead: "The resonance between blockchain and nightlife."
It sounded more like something from a Ministry of Culture press release. And more fake.
She inhaled lightly. Her throat responded with a burn, like she had swallowed shards of glass.
The bottle of water from the convenience store sat in the upper right corner of the desk, something she'd just redeemed with points. She twisted off the cap and took a sip.
The water was room temperature, not comforting, but enough to let her keep typing.
This draft for Job C had to be finished today.
Hoshi had said there was no rush, but she knew that was how nightlife people talked.
They never say "I need this."
They only say "Why isn't it done yet?" on the last day, then shrug like it doesn't matter.
She wasn't going to let anyone hold that kind of power over her.
In the bottom right of the screen, the comment section of the doc showed her transfer simulation:
Three amounts, sent from accounts logged in via spoofed IPs, directed to Hoshi's shell company.
Each is marked as "platform promotion expense."
Amount: ¥600,000.
The money had to move cleanly within three days.
Promo graphics, fake ticketing interface, community shills, receipt screenshots, she would do all of it herself.
She shifted her shoulders and realized she hadn't moved in over ninety minutes.
Her body temperature was climbing, a slow heat spreading from the nape of her neck toward her scalp.
She didn't have time to think about it.
She wasn't writing a PR piece.
She was writing a laundered invoice.
This fake event copy was her first "fully self-generated" transaction trail.
For the first time, she didn't need anyone else.
She was the system.
She opened a photo she had scraped from a club night last year.
In it, the lights were softened by a swirl of smoke, glowing at the edges.
Her finger hovered over the brightness layer.
She nudged it once. Not quite right.
Pushed it back.
There are no perfect images.
Only images that can survive a tax audit.
2:00 PM
Back at the hotel
She was lying on the bed, laptop balanced on her knees. The reflection of the ceiling light curved across the screen.
The hotel Wi-Fi kept dropping, so she switched to a mobile hotspot and connected to the "small foreign bank" platform through VPN.
Job A: foreign exchange execution.
Three transfers, each ¥250,000.
Spaced forty-five minutes apart.
Sent to shell accounts in Kowloon, each under a different company name.
The accounts had been empty until now, names she had bought from a black-market exchanger two weeks ago.
She had already sent ¥10,000 as a test.
Today was the real unloading.
The confirmation window popped up.
She double-checked each recipient bank number, currency, and memo.
First transfer: product purchase.
Second: translation fee.
Third: international market consultancy.
All fit the names of white men, and the browsing history she had generated on VPN.
She clicked "Schedule transfer."
The screen froze for a moment, like it was confirming: the money is gone.
But she felt nothing.
She had trained herself not to imagine what money looked like when she moved it.
Money has no face.
Only routes.
She stared at the screen for ten seconds.
Touched the corner of her mouth.
It was cracked.
Her lips twitched into a smile, not pain.
She was only trying to confirm one thing.
Today was not an execution day.
She was only pressing the button.
The person who builds the button does not need to run a fever.
4:45 PM
She woke up from thirst.
Not the kind of wakefulness that comes from a full sleep, but the kind that comes when the body gives up.
Her throat was dry like sandpaper. Her nose burned. Her forehead was lightly damp, the kind of sweat that comes before a fever sets in.
She forced herself up, stumbling in the dark toward the door. Her steps were unsteady. When the hallway light seeped in, she squinted and saw a plastic bag swinging from the door handle.
A convenience store bag.
Inside was a bottle of vitamin water.
The label was peeling. Condensation fogged the bottle. The discount sticker was still half-stuck.
Not something the hotel would provide.
She stared for a second.
Then remembered a group message she'd tossed off earlier:
"Can someone bring me a bottle of water?"
Hardly anyone had replied.
Just one message from an unfamiliar ID:
Left it at your door.
She hadn't saved the contact with a name, but she knew who it was.
Julian always texted like that. No "I." No emojis. No filler.
She stared at the message for a few seconds, then typed:
"You're an idiot."
She added another line:
"I didn't mean you should actually do it."
Then, after a pause, she sent one more:
"But I guess it's fine."
She twisted the cap off and drank half the bottle in one go.
It felt like her system rebooted.
His reply came quickly:
"Next time, specify the flavor."
Her lips twitched. She typed something, erased it, then wrote:
"Have you opened your crypto wallet yet?"
A pause.
Then he sent a question mark:
"What for?"
"Nothing," she replied.
"You trying to give me an investment lecture?"
She smirked, retyped:
"Not that. I've just been using it lately. Feels kind of useful."
After a few seconds, she added:
"Not just for receiving money. Other features are decent too."
Julian didn't press. He just replied:
"Which platform do you recommend?"
She leaned back against the headboard, stared at the screen, then sent him a link.
"No harm in setting one up. Who knows, I might really need to send you something someday."
Julian responded with a sticker, then typed:
"You're planning ahead already?"
She looked at it, but didn't reply immediately.
Instead, she tossed the empty bottle into the trash and wrote:
"Keeping options open never hurts."
She put her phone back on the nightstand and stared at the blurry light fixture on the ceiling.
A distant ambulance siren echoed outside, but she didn't go back to thinking about fevers or headaches.
She just felt like laughing a little.
Julian didn't ask what she was doing in the hotel. Didn't ask what she'd posted in the group. Didn't ask if she was sick.
He didn't even say the word "care."
She liked that about him.
Like that bottle hanging on the doorknob.
Not sweet, but just right.
9:10 PM
She hadn't eaten dinner.
She wasn't sure what time it was anymore, just that after dark, the room never lit up again.
She tried to open her laptop to work on the graphic.
But as soon as the image loaded, her eyes started to ache.
Too much color, too sharp at the edges. Her brain couldn't keep up.
She only managed to adjust the tones slightly, lowered the highlights on the club photo from the night before, then shut the screen.
She lay back down and opened yesterday's bank balance screenshot:
¥6,123,000
It felt like a reminder.
This wasn't an illness. It was the cost.
She hadn't received anything today, but all the money was already en route.
Every incoming transfer over the next three days came from flowcharts she had drawn while running a fever.
She placed her phone on her chest, eyes closed, listening to the blood thudding in her ears.
Her heartbeat was slow, but each pulse hit like a knock from under deep water.
That was what real exhaustion felt like.
A sentence flickered in her mind. She didn't know where she'd read it:
What the sick fear most isn't the fever.
It's someone knocking on the door while they're burning up.
She didn't turn off the air conditioner.
Didn't take off her jacket.
Just reached for the pack of cigarettes and turned one between her fingers.
She didn't light it.
Lighting it would've meant expecting something.
And right now,
She couldn't afford to expect anything.