Prologue:
"Who is you and Who is me?"
Main Story:
The dull hum of the restaurant filled the air, a steady undercurrent of clinking plates and murmured conversations. The scent of grilled meat and simmering broth lingered in the air, a familiar yet distant sensation to Zenjiro. He stood behind the counter, a damp cloth in his hand, absently wiping down the same spot on a glass for far longer than necessary. His mind was elsewhere—anchored to the night before, to the blood on his hands, the weight in his chest, and the cold, sterile walls of that facility.
His grip tightened slightly. He needed to focus. Any slip, any hesitation, could unravel him.
He forced himself to move with purpose, but the weight of uncertainty clung to him like a shadow, a silent specter whispering doubts into his ear. Was it truly self-defense? Did he really have no choice? Or had he crossed a threshold, a point of no return?
Fujita's voice broke through the haze. "So? You delivered the food, right? No issues"?
Zenjiro's fingers tensed around the glass. The question was simple—mundane, even—but for a split second, it felt heavier than it should. He couldn't afford hesitation. Not now.
"Yeah," he replied, his tone even, measured. "No issues."
Fujita leaned on the counter, arms crossed in that easy, casual way of his. "You sure? You didn't fumble, did you? I know how you are with women. Probably scared her half to death with that deadpan look of yours."
Zenjiro exhaled through his nose, setting the glass down with slow precision. "She was fine. Just took the food, and that was that."
Fujita smirked, nudging him lightly. "Right, right. But you didn't stutter or anything, huh? Didn't freeze up? Because, man, I swear, the way you talk sometimes—"
His words faded into static. Zenjiro's attention had drifted, caught on the television screen mounted on the far wall. A bold red banner flashed across it—BREAKING NEWS.
A murder in Nagasaki.
His stomach twisted.
The screen changed, displaying an image of the apartment complex. The apartment complex.
Everything inside him went still.
His fingers, resting on the counter, curled slightly. The chatter around him dulled, swallowed by the slow, suffocating thrum of his own heartbeat. The floor beneath him felt unsteady, as if the very ground he stood on had cracked open beneath his feet.
Did I really kill that man?
The question clawed at him, colder than before. The night had been a blur of instincts, of necessity—but now, under the harsh glow of the restaurant's fluorescent lights, reality sharpened its edges. Had he been seen? Had he left something behind?
Fujita's voice became distant, background noise against the storm inside his head. The news anchor spoke, her voice clinical and detached.
"Authorities have yet to release details on the suspect, but witnesses claim they saw a male figure fleeing the scene late last night. Police are urging anyone with information to come forward."
A male figure.
Zenjiro swallowed, forcing his pulse to steady. He had to think. He had to move. No irrational decisions, no cracks in his expression. He needed to hold himself together.
Then, a firm hand clamped onto his shoulder.
Zenjiro's breath hitched. His muscles coiled, a half-second away from reacting before he forced himself to stillness. His eyes flicked to Fujita, who regarded him with a furrowed brow.
"Yo," Fujita said, tone shifting slightly. "Are you good?"
Zenjiro met his gaze, calculating. He couldn't afford doubt, not even a sliver of it.
"Yeah," he answered, his voice level. "Just tired. Didn't sleep much."
Fujita studied him for a moment longer than Zenjiro liked. "You sure? You're acting weird."
Zenjiro held his gaze. "I'm fine. Drop it."
Fujita didn't push further, but the flicker of suspicion didn't fully leave his face. Zenjiro turned away first, forcing his focus back to cleaning, back to the mechanical motions that kept his hands from trembling.
His grip on the counter steadied, his breath slowing as his thoughts aligned. He wasn't just some lost, guilt-ridden fool. He was Zenjiro Hirano. And he would figure this out—on his own terms.
But then, his gaze drifted back to Fujita. The only one who knew he had gone to that apartment the night before.
If Fujita dug deeper... if he suspected something...
If he told the police...
Zenjiro's jaw tightened.
He had to be careful. One wrong step, and everything could fall apart.
The quiet hum of the fluorescent lights filled the empty changing room, their cold glow casting pale streaks across the lockers. The smell of detergent and lingering sweat clung to the air. Zenjiro sat on the wooden bench, hands clasped together, fingers interlocked as if grounding himself in reality. His uniform was already half-unbuttoned, the fabric loose around his frame, but he had made no move to change further.
His mind was elsewhere—churning, calculating, unraveling the possibilities.
The news broadcast had been too close for comfort. A nameless man and a woman, the only defining traits being that they moved together. It was vague, not enough to accuse him outright, but enough to send his thoughts spiraling. He had been careful—he had to be. Yet the uncertainty gnawed at him. There were too many moving parts, too many things beyond his control. What if she left?
The thought struck harder than expected.
Ruka was an enigma—one he had decided to shelter. But why? If she vanished tomorrow, what did it matter? Wouldn't that be safer? Less risk, less weight dragging him under. Yet, as much as he told himself that, the image of her leaving—of the empty space she would leave behind—sat uncomfortably in his chest. Was it really just about covering his own tracks anymore?
His fingers tightened unconsciously.
He exhaled, willing himself to focus. Fujita. That was the immediate problem. He knew. Or at least, he knew something was off. Zenjiro had seen it in the way his eyes lingered too long earlier in the day, in the hesitation before speaking. Fujita was perceptive, but Zenjiro had played his role well—kept himself composed. That should have been enough.
Yet, a slow set of footsteps approached.
Zenjiro didn't move as Fujita rounded the lockers, his expression unreadable. There was a quiet hesitation in the way he stepped forward, stopping just short of sitting beside him. His presence carried a weight to it, something unspoken pressing between them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Fujita broke the silence.
"You've been off today."
Zenjiro's jaw tensed, but his face remained neutral. He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. "Long night."
Fujita didn't respond immediately, just studied him, searching for cracks in the facade. Zenjiro met his gaze, unwavering.
"Are you sure that's all?" Fujita asked finally, his voice quieter, careful.
Zenjiro let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "What else would it be?"
Another pause. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. Fujita wasn't the type to pry, but concern made people reckless.
Zenjiro decided to steer the conversation first. "Are you closing up?"
"Yeah," Fujita said, but his voice lacked focus. He shifted his weight slightly, gaze flickering to the floor before settling back on Zenjiro. "Just… you know you can tell me if something's wrong, right?"
Zenjiro offered a lopsided smirk, tilting his head. "Trust me."
Fujita hesitated.
Zenjiro's expression didn't waver, but he could feel the weight of that pause pressing down. Finally, Fujita sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before giving a small nod.
"Alright."
He turned toward the exit, but before stepping out, he stopped just short of the doorway. Without looking back, his voice came softer—slower.
"Are. You. Okay?"
Zenjiro didn't hesitate this time. He met Fujita's back with a faint smirk, tilting his head just slightly.
"Trust me, it's alright. Thank you."
Fujita lingered for a moment longer, then nodded once and stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Zenjiro's smirk faded the second he was alone.
He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes. The problem wasn't Fujita. The problem was how close Fujita had gotten.
And how much closer he might still come.
The sky had soured into shades of dying gray. Clouds hung low, swollen with the weight of something unsaid, unshed—not quite rain, but a threat of it. The wind was still, yet the air felt tense, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Zenjiro walked without intention, his legs carrying him forward on a route his conscious mind hadn't chosen. His hands were buried in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched under the heaviness of his thoughts and the creeping dampness in the air.
He should have taken the road by the riverside—the long way home. But he didn't.
Instead, he walked down narrow sidewalks flanked by vending machines and dead trees until his footsteps led him toward the place he swore not to return to.
It rose in front of him like a forgotten monument.
The apartment complex.
Gray concrete, rusted balconies, cracked windows. It looked ordinary—almost too ordinary—as if reality had draped a veil over something monstrous. But Zenjiro felt it. The weight of what had happened there pulsed through the concrete like a second heartbeat.
He stopped at the gate, his boots wet from the rain-slick pavement.
His breath hitched.
He recognized the uneven pattern of tiles at the entrance. The dull scrape of the outer door's rusted hinge. The corner wall where he had leaned that night, his hands stained, mind blank. He recognized the apartment—third floor, fifth door on the right.
His pulse began to quicken.
A light drizzle started to fall, soft at first, then building into slow, lazy droplets that chilled on contact. Each one felt heavier than it should. The world dulled—sound seemed to retreat, drowned by the quiet static of falling rain—until suddenly, noise burst back in around him.
Voices.
Not from his head.
Not yet.
Pedestrians passed, unaware of him, but not unaware—not of this place.
Across the street, a small group stood under a shop awning. Office workers on break, some smoking, some just watching. One pointed toward the complex's top floor with two fingers and a shake of the head.
"You hear what they found up there?"
"His head was caved in. Couldn't even ID the guy at first."
"Must've used something blunt. Looked personal."
"No signs of forced entry. Whoever did it… he was let in."
Zenjiro's stomach turned.
The rain began to feel heavier, even though it hadn't changed. His coat clung to his skin. His hands, jammed into his pockets, trembled.
"Did I do that?"
"Was it me?"
"I saw black… just black."
But he did.
Didn't he?
Or was it them?
The voices.
They weren't whispering now.
They were screaming.
"Guilty."
He didn't move. The world around him seemed to stretch—as though time slowed just to force him to stand in it longer.
Behind his eyes: a flash.
The apartment door, the hallway. The moment the world blinked, he became something else.
No sound. Just the aftermath. The weight. The stillness.
"I didn't even check if he was dead."
His legs buckled slightly. He caught himself against the low wall bordering the complex's stairwell. Raindrops slid off the surface, merging with his breath as he leaned forward.
"Maybe it wasn't me."
"Maybe I was just there."
"But no… It was my hand. My body."
Another drop of water ran down his cheek. He didn't know if it was sweat or rain.
His vision blurred.
The entrance door creaked open behind him—someone coming out—but he didn't turn.
He wanted to move. But his body wouldn't let him.
"Are you alright?"
The voice didn't come from the complex. It came from the sidewalk nearby—gentle, questioning, not intrusive but uncomfortably human.
Zenjiro's eyes stayed locked on the third floor.
"You look like you're going to pass out."
Footsteps came closer. A young man in a soaked delivery jacket approached him slowly, his brows knit in concern. One hand hovered near Zenjiro's elbow—hesitating, not touching, not yet.
"You okay, man? You… live around here?"
Zenjiro's throat tightened.
His voice was barely audible when it came. "No."
The man studied him a moment longer.
"I think I've seen you around this block before. A couple of days ago, maybe."
A beat.
"You looked out of it then too."
Zenjiro's breath caught.
"Why would he say that?"
"Was he watching me?"
"How much did he see?"
"I'm not trying to bother you or anything," the guy added. "Just... figured you might need help or something."
Zenjiro's shoulders twitched. The kindness—it wasn't welcome. It pressed on a nerve. Like sunlight on rot.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"Don't touch me."
The words came out harsher than intended—sharp, like a snapped wire. His eyes locked on the man, jaw clenched.
The stranger stepped back, surprised. Defensive now, but still not hostile.
"Alright, alright. Take care of yourself, man."
Zenjiro turned and walked.
He didn't look back.
He didn't slow.
The rain picked up, striking rooftops and concrete and bones. The voices of the city faded behind him.
But inside his skull, one voice remained.
"Guilty."
And this time… he didn't deny it.
Zenjiro didn't look back.
He didn't slow.
The rain picked up, striking rooftops and concrete and bones. The voices of the city faded behind him, dissolving into the rhythm of his footsteps and the static hiss of water hitting flesh.
But the silence didn't comfort him.
It suffocated him.
His fingers curled in the pockets of his coat, nails digging into the inside fabric. His jaw clenched, then unclenched, again and again. He wasn't walking anymore—he was fleeing. From what, he didn't know. From that man. From the apartment. From the blood. From himself.
But the guilt followed. It always followed.
He reached the edge of a crosswalk and stopped.
The red pedestrian light blinked like a warning. Not yet. Not safe.
Across the street, people laughed. Someone lit a cigarette under an awning. Another checked their phone, umbrella balanced between shoulder and ear. They were breathing. Moving. Normal.
He wasn't.
Zenjiro lowered his head.
"Any more… and they'll think I did it."
The thought spilled from nowhere. Quiet. Terrifying.
Why did I have to do this?
A breath caught in his throat. His knees trembled.
"Was this all… for the sake of a girl? That girl…"
Ruka's name didn't form. It didn't need to. The shape of her, the presence of her, was enough to drive the wordless ache twisting through his gut.
Pathetic. Irrational. Plain idiotic.
Each word punched through his skull like nails driven into wet wood. His vision blurred—not from rain, but from heat rising behind his eyes.
He took a step back.
The crosswalk blinked green.
But Zenjiro didn't move.
His feet were nailed to the pavement. His ribs felt like they were caving in.
"I should run. Run. Escape. Never come back."
His breathing was shallow now, erratic. The world warped again, edges curling, light stuttering in his peripheral vision.
Let everything go and never turn back…
A whisper coiled in the back of his mind—not his voice, but one dressed like it. Soft, sweet, rational.
"It is the only option. The only way out of this chaos."
He blinked.
The memory flashed again.
The body. The blood. The silence.
His hand was holding the weapon, but he had no memory of lifting it.
"I didn't do it."
"It wasn't me."
"It was them."
"They told me to do it."
He wasn't sure if he whispered it out loud—or just mouthed it.
The rain answered. Cold. Constant. Cleansing nothing.
He turned off the sidewalk, walking again—directionless, yet somehow always toward the edge.
His heartbeat didn't slow.
The thought didn't fade.
The voice didn't leave.
"They told me to do it."
And something, somewhere inside him, whispered back:
"You listened."
Zenjiro kept walking. Fast. Quiet. The kind of pace you keep when the city starts to close in around you—when even the sound of your own footsteps begins to feel like you're being followed.
His thoughts clawed over one another in tangled spirals. Justifications. Excuses. Rationalizations he didn't believe but repeated anyway. He tried to disappear into motion—to walk so fast the past couldn't find him.
But then…
Something shifted.
It wasn't a sound.
It was a sensation—sudden, sharp, invasive.
His next step faltered, knee stiffening before his foot hit the pavement.
It was like a thread had pulled tight across the back of his neck.
"Something's watching me."
He didn't know how he knew it. He just did. It wasn't paranoia—not the same kind that had been gnawing at him for days. This was new. Sharper. Focused. Cold.
His body responded before he could think. He stopped under the awning of a closed shop, shoulders drawn in, heart rising to his throat.
His eyes scanned forward. Nothing.
He turned and glanced behind. No footsteps. No one is following.
Still, it was there—that weight, that invisible presence. Not close. Not around the corner.
Above.
His gaze lifted slowly to the rooftops, where rain glistened against antennas and satellite dishes.
"What the hell is this…?"
He stared hard into the skyline, squinting past sheets of rain and neon flicker.
No silhouette. No sound. Not even a shifting shadow.
But it didn't matter.
He felt it.
Not with his eyes. Not with his ears.
With something deeper. Something wired into his spine.
The chaos in his mind, the flood of voices, the spiraling guilt—it all muted for a second. The storm paused. It was like someone had placed a hand on his shoulder from afar.
A pressure, subtle but absolute, smothered the fire in his chest.
His mouth parted, but nothing came out. No breath. No thought.
"It's not the voices. This is something else."
A presence. Not familiar. Not cruel.
Just… watching.
Not judgmental. Not merciful.
Just there.
"I feel weird..."
That strange calm—unwanted, unearned—settled over him like cold steam. Not comforting, but distracting. It pushed everything else away. All the weight. All the rage. All the grief.
"What is this? Why now?"
He blinked.
The rooftops were empty.
The feeling… remained.
Not overwhelming. But unmistakable.
His hands stopped trembling.
The need to run… dimmed.
That impulse to disappear, to vanish, to leave everything and everyone behind—it stuttered. For the first time in minutes, he stood still without crumbling.
But not by choice.
"Something doesn't want me to run."
The realization chilled him deeper than the rain ever could.
Not a voice. Not a command.
Just a pressure.
And somewhere, behind his ribs, a tension held him there—like the world itself was leaning forward, daring him to make the wrong move.
He turned away from the rooftops.
The sensation faded slightly, like breath on a mirror.
But it didn't vanish.He walked again. Slower now. Not calm—just… watched.
The key slipped in with a practiced motion.
A soft click, then the door creaked open—not loudly, but enough for the silence inside to push against him like air too thick to breathe.
Zenjiro stepped in.
The scent of rain clung to his coat. The smell of damp wool and city concrete followed him like ghosts through the threshold. He closed the door behind him slowly, letting it seal the world outside in quiet.
The apartment was dim—only the light from the living room flickered faintly against the hallway wall. It wasn't much, just the glow from the muted television and the amber hue of a dying lamp in the corner.
He stood there for a moment—coat still on, boots dripping onto the tiled floor.
Everything felt smaller than he remembered.
The air was warmer, but not comforting. Just stagnant. It was like the room had been holding its breath in his absence.
From the living room, the faint murmur of static buzzed against the muted screen.
Then—
"You're late."
A voice. Calm. Female. Measured.
Ruka.
He didn't answer.
He moved forward, the wet soles of his boots clicking softly as he passed through the narrow hallway, past the counter where a half-steeped mug of tea had long since gone cold.
The TV cast broken shadows against the far wall—news footage. Quick flashes. A presenter's face. Rain-drenched apartments. Sirens. Police lines. Footage blurred and jump-cut through red banners of scrolling text.
Zenjiro froze mid-step.
His eyes locked on the screen—just long enough to catch it:
"Local authorities seek unidentified man and woman in connection with complex homicide. Sources report the suspects left the scene together—"
Then a flash of the complex.
Third-floor windows, blurred under the streetlight.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Ruka sat on the floor, legs folded beneath her, back straight against the couch. Her eyes were fixed on the TV—or maybe past it.
She didn't react to the footage.
Didn't look at him.
Didn't even blink.
Zenjiro's heartbeat crawled into his throat. His fingers twitched at his side.
She saw it.
He couldn't tell if she had the volume turned off before he came in or if she'd just caught the tail end of the report. Either way, the image had been there. Real. Raw.
But she said nothing.
She simply sat there.
Quiet. Calm. Unbothered.
It made his skin crawl.
Did she know?
He looked at her again—carefully, as if she might suddenly lunge or accuse him.
But she didn't. She didn't even turn her head.
He stepped out of his boots, slow and careful, and passed behind her toward the hallway.
Before turning the corner, she spoke again—soft this time, distant:
"You look like you ran from something."
He stopped.
His breath caught.
He didn't turn around.
"Or maybe... you ran toward it."
He didn't respond. Didn't nod. Didn't breathe.
Her words hung in the air behind him like steam—not accusation, not empathy. Just… observation.
He turned away and walked down the hallway. Past the small table where her damp towel still rested. Past the coat rack where his mother's old scarf still hung, untouched.
Each step sounded louder than it should have.
He reached his door, stepped inside, and locked it behind him.
Not hard. Not loud. Just a quiet click.
A meaningless gesture. A habit.
Or maybe it meant everything.
Safe.
From what?
He didn't know.
Maybe from the city.
Maybe from her.
Maybe from the thing in the mirror that wasn't always him.
The thought didn't stay. He didn't let it.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
That was all that greeted him.
No voices. No presence. Just the hum of rain on the glass and the soft tick of the old heater in the corner.
Zenjiro stood in the darkness of his room, motionless. His breath was shallow. Not tired—not even numb. Just suspended.
He peeled off the soaked coat with slow, robotic movements, letting it fall on the floor with a muffled slap. His shirt clung to his skin. He didn't bother changing.
He crossed the room and sat at the edge of his bed.
No lamp.
No phone.
Just the dark.
His hand grazed the nightstand.
A chipped porcelain cup sat there. His mother's. Still unwashed, still upright.
Untouched since the day she stopped drinking from it.
He picked it up.
It was cold, like it had never once held warmth.
He stared at it for a long time, turning it over in his hands, running his thumb across the faded blue line near the rim. The kind of cheap print you find in gas stations, but she'd loved it. Said it made her feel "normal."
"You always said I should throw it out."
"I never did."
He held it tighter.
The cup made no sound, but it felt like it was screaming in his hands.
In the hallway beyond the door, a faint sound—footsteps? No. Just the creak of the floorboards as Ruka walked past.
She didn't stop. Didn't knock. Didn't speak.
He felt her silence. And he didn't know what to do with it.
Why is she still here?
She had every reason to leave.
Every reason to fear him.
Every reason to look at him like the monster he was.
But she didn't.
She stayed.
And that… scared him more than anything else.
He sat back, spine meeting the cold wall behind his bed. His hands rested on his lap, still damp. His eyes drifted to the cracked mirror across the room—he could barely make out his reflection in the darkness.
What the hell am I feeling?
Guilt? Love? Protection?
Do I see my mother in her? Or someone else?
He shut his eyes tight.
This isn't supposed to happen. Not now. Not like this.
I'm not a child anymore. I'm not supposed to need anyone.
His teeth clenched.
I should've let her go.
Should've never looked back.
Should've walked away.
But he didn't.
And now—now it's her voice he hears in the quiet.
Not Kimiko's.
Hers.
That's pathetic, isn't it?
He whispered the words, but the room didn't echo them back.
He turned his head, stared at the ceiling, and let the silence fill the hollowness inside him.
And then—
"I'm not a child anymore."
He said it again.
But this time, as if someone were listening.
His voice was calm. Quiet. Final.
"That's the only thing."