Final balance: ¥5,523,000
She stared at the line of text for a few seconds, as if confirming to herself that she was still alive today. Then she slowly closed her eyes.
She had woken up in a high-rise hotel room in Shinjuku's Kabukicho district. The curtains weren't fully closed, and sunlight slanted through the gaps, lighting the room like silent warning lights.
She didn't open her eyes right away. Her first instinct was to reach for the iPhone by her pillow.
The screen lit up before her brain had fully powered on, but the notifications had already exploded. Text messages, group chats, long voice notes from temporary contacts, dozens of unread emails, and even a system message from a social platform nobody used anymore. Her fingers swiped between apps, but her mind wasn't actually registering anything. She just scrolled, cleared, and scrolled again. Each new ping made her more tired,but also more awake. Her body wanted to shut down, but her consciousness was being pulled forward.
She sat up and opened her laptop, logging into the bank's web dashboard and going through the transfers one by one. All three payments from the underground currency exchange job had arrived. She didn't feel relieved, just noted that her predictions were accurate. She recorded each amount manually in a draft spreadsheet, typing in every number. By the time she entered the third one, she noticed her palms were slightly damp.
The fake immigration consultancy job had passed its initial review. They asked her to submit a form of ID. She pulled up a scanned JPG of a Southeast Asian driver's license she had made months ago, opened it in Photoshop, and changed the birth year to "1990." She couldn't remember why she'd chosen that country. Just that the air conditioner in the copy shop had been too cold, and she'd nearly gotten sick walking out.
The nightlife sponsorship laundering job's promo post hadn't gone out yet. She opened the platform's web dashboard and scheduled last night's draft post for publishing. The images were three blurry club shots taken under yellow light. She had taken them herself, though she couldn't remember which club, or where exactly she'd been standing. She only remembered that the moment she pressed the shutter, it looked hot enough, fake enough, believable enough.
Her phone kept buzzing. Different messaging apps flashed notification badges across the screen. She couldn't deal with them immediately and didn't want to either, but she also knew she couldn't turn the phone off. She glanced at the clock. 10:34. She realized she hadn't brushed her teeth. She hadn't had any water. Her stomach felt empty, her throat was dry. She felt tired, but not in the "I didn't sleep well" kind of way. It was the kind of tired that had no outlet.
She walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The sound of running water was loud. She stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself for three seconds, without thinking about anything. Then she took out her phone and turned off all notifications, one by one, as if clearing outdated system alerts. Her head felt tight, her chest heavy. There was no reason, no explanation. She knew the day had only just begun.
She sat at the edge of the bed, resting her laptop on her knees. The three payments from the underground exchange job were still marked "processing." She refreshed the page while checking both her SMBC and Rakuten bank accounts. Once everything matched, she saved the PDFs, converted them into images, and compressed them with Preview before uploading. Every step she took was methodical and cautious, but emotionally flat. Not because she didn't care, but because she knew anxiety wouldn't speed up the process.
She had grown used to this "frozen" state. As long as the bank pages were still spinning, she couldn't walk away from her laptop. She tried to breathe consciously but couldn't feel herself breathing at all.
The ID form for the fake consultancy job had just been uploaded. She added a short self-description in the text box: previously a regional market consultant with an annual income of ¥15 million, currently holding partial USD assets and Hong Kong securities. She typed fluidly, without hesitation. She had written versions of this many times before. Every time with a different tone. Every time, a plausible identity. She had learned how to place herself within someone else's logic. After finishing, she double-checked and confirmed it didn't contradict what she'd written the night before.
She switched back to the social media dashboard and checked the laundering job's post. It had gone out at 2:00 PM. The topic was picking up traction. The comment section was already starting to blow up. She read the replies one by one: "Who's laundering money?" "Capital strikes again." She wasn't offended. If anything, it gave her a small sense of release. Like someone had said, what she couldn't, just too bluntly. She didn't plan to respond. She didn't feel the need to engage with the emotions. She just sat there, watching the comments refresh.
She downed an entire bottle of Pocari in one go. It was only after swallowing the last sip that she realized she hadn't eaten a single bite of real food since waking up. Her stomach felt hollow, but not in pain. Not even hungry. Like her body itself wasn't sure what time it was.
At six in the evening, she finally decided to go outside.
The hotel lobby was bright. She caught sight of herself in a mirror and flinched. Her hair was messy, her face pale, eyes slightly swollen. She didn't fix anything. Just walked out the door. Streetlights were flickering on, one by one. People were already lining up outside Don Quijote. A ramen shop nearby smelled like broth. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, then turned and walked into the convenience store next door.
The cold wind from the drinks fridge hit her face. She stood there, frozen in place. Her eyes were open, but her mind had drifted. She had come to buy something, but couldn't remember what. No thought. No goal. Just blankness. Then slowly, a few thoughts returned.
A pop song was playing in the store. She recognized it but couldn't recall the title. Or the lyrics. The melody repeated in her ears, but her mind didn't catch up.
She grabbed a bag of salted chips. Then a bottle of iced coffee. At the checkout, she stared at the cashier's hands moving until she was asked to pay. She pulled out her card and tapped. She didn't check if she got change. As the cashier dropped her items into a bag, she realized she'd forgotten what she had even bought.
The convenience store doors opened, letting in a gust of night wind. As she stepped out, her phone lit up.
Julian sent his location, along with one line:
"I'm in Roppongi tonight. Dinner?"
She stood at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the message. Her finger hovered above the screen for a few seconds. She didn't reply right away. She was checking in with herself. No irritation, no excitement. Just a kind of fatigue she couldn't fully name—not exhaustion exactly, more like she hadn't exited the day yet and wasn't ready to shut down.
She slowly typed:
"Are you eating human food tonight?"
Less than a minute later, Julian replied with a sticker:
"Okay."
She didn't respond. As she put her phone away, she felt something loosen inside her—then empty out a little. She glanced at the sky and realized it was getting dark faster than she'd expected. She hadn't decided if she'd go meet him, but for some reason, walking outside didn't feel like a bad idea.
They met at a small Italian restaurant in Roppongi.
The place wasn't big. One side faced the street with tall windows. By 8 pm, most tables were already filled. She arrived five minutes late and saw him in the corner, wine already on the table.
He was wearing a grey shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms, no tie. He stood up when he saw her and pulled out the chair.
She sat down without a word, just gave a small nod. Neither of them asked how the other's day had been.
The menu was bilingual. She didn't read it carefully and let him order. He asked for the smoked cheese risotto and two glasses of red.
When the wine came, they clinked glasses. She drank quickly. It wasn't until the first sip hit her stomach that she realized she hadn't eaten all day.
He glanced at her.
"Have you eaten anything today?"
She shook her head and took another sip.
"Want to order something first?"
"I'll just steal a bite of yours when it comes."
He didn't say anything to that. Just shifted in his seat and set his phone to silent.
She leaned back and looked out the window. The street outside was full of taillights and silhouettes crossing under the overpass. She didn't feel like talking or being talked to, but strangely, sitting with him in silence made her feel calmer.
After a while, he said:
"Did you check Twitter today?"
She turned to look at him, but didn't answer.
"That topic post. That was yours, wasn't it?"
Still no reply.
"You took those photos?"
She gave a small smile.
"Just don't trace my IP."
He smiled too, lifted his glass.
The food came quickly. The risotto was rich and heavy. After two bites and some more wine, her mind finally started to land. It was like her stomach only woke up now.
When he wasn't speaking, time didn't feel as fast.
After dinner, he didn't suggest going elsewhere or offer to walk her back. She checked her phone. 10:37 pm. She stood up and said she was leaving. He nodded and got up too.
At the door, he asked,
"Are you free tomorrow?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"I'll be in Ikebukuro in the afternoon. If you're around, we could grab something."
She nodded.
"We'll see."
"Alright. Let's see."
They didn't wave goodbye. They just turned and went their separate ways. She didn't look back, didn't open her phone map. She walked through the Roppongi night without thinking too much about anything.
But she knew that for that entire day, the only time her heartbeat had stayed steady was during that dinner.
She got back to her room, draped her jacket over the back of the chair, and kicked her shoes under the bed. The unfinished Pocari from the morning was still on the desk. She took a sip. Flat. But she didn't throw it out.
She opened her laptop. Browser tabs loaded one by one. All three bank sites have been refreshed. The underground exchange job payments were marked "completed." The consultant scam project's remittance receipt was pinned at the top of her inbox. The nightclub ticket sponsor account had sent a settlement screenshot, along with a short message: "Nice work."
She exhaled and moved her mouse over the project workflow chart. Checked off all three arrows.
On the desktop, the "funding pool v3" file was still open, frozen where she'd left it that morning. She updated the total: ¥7,773,000. The timestamp changed to 20:41. She stared at the number for a few seconds. No reaction. Just making sure it had been saved.
She switched the screen to grayscale. Opened system preferences. Lowered brightness until just a small square of light remained.
She plugged in the charger, connected her phone. Drew the curtains shut. The room turned quiet, sealed in.
The light was still on, but she wasn't opening any more tabs. She let herself sink into the pillow, let her body belong to the bed and to the night.
Before turning over, she opened iMessage.
Typed:
"Brain's fried, but all the money came through."
Julian replied quickly:
"Worth the fry."
She didn't answer.
A little while later, she turned on airplane mode.
Then she closed her eyes. No plans for the next day. No notes app. No scrolling the comment section. For the first time all day, she felt genuinely tired. Not the jammed-up, screen-burned kind of real fatigue.
Her body started to sink. Her mind slowed.
One layer at a time, she shut down.