The rain in Shinjuku has a specific scent; a mix of wet neon and car exhaust. But tonight, it just smells like absolute failure.
I'm sitting across from Kenji—or at least, I think that's his name. He's spent the last forty minutes complaining about how close his apartment is to the metro line. Which is hilarious, considering he's the one about to "dump" me there right now.
"Look, Aya-san," he says, adjusting an expensive suit jacket that doesn't quite fit his shoulders. "It's not you. It's just… I need someone who understands the pace of my work. You're lovely, but a graphic designer? It's not exactly high-stress, is it?"
I plaster on my usual smile. The one I practice in the mirror every morning to look calm, collected, and successful. "Understood, Kenji-san. Good luck with your demanding pace."
He vanishes into the crowd without a backward glance. I don't even sigh. I'm thirty-two, I own my apartment, and by every metric of modern dating in Tokyo, I am a total train wreck. My profile promises wit and competence, but my reality is a graveyard of terrible first dates.
I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over the 'Delete Profile' button. Suddenly, the phone vibrates.
A Super Like. From someone named "Kaito Mori."
I tap the name, and for a split second, I feel a jolt in my chest. It isn't a spark of romance. It's that primal instinct telling you that something is about to change forever.
The profile picture is almost suspiciously handsome. A sharp jawline, a calm gaze behind elegant glasses, and a smile that suggests both confidence and mystery. The bio is short: "Vascular surgeon. I value precision in work and honesty in feelings. Looking for someone who sees the world clearly."
A surgeon? Precise? Honest?
This isn't a man; it's a trap. That's my first thought. In the world I live in—the one inside my head—men like Kaito don't look for girls like me on apps unless they're hiding bodies in their basements.
But I'm desperate. And desperation is the fuel for every bad decision I've ever made.
I message him: "Precision is my specialty in design, too. Do you perform your surgeries as fast as you pick your dates?"
He replies in less than a minute: "Surgery requires patience, but great discoveries happen in a second. Are you free for coffee now?"
Now? It's past 9:00 PM and pouring rain. I should go home, eat instant ramen, and watch a true-crime documentary. Instead, I find myself typing: "I'm in Shinjuku, near the station."
"Wait for me at the East Exit. I'll be there in five minutes. Black coat, transparent umbrella."
I stand there in the rain, trying to fix my frizzing hair. I feel people watching me. In Tokyo, if you're alone at this hour, you're either a victim or a predator.
Exactly five minutes later—not a second early, not a second late—he emerges from the crowd.
He's taller than I expected. His black coat looks like it costs more than my car, and his transparent umbrella reflects the neon lights of Shinjuku like a kaleidoscope. When he reaches me, I stop breathing. The photos didn't do him justice. He smells like medical antiseptic mixed with sandalwood. A "clean" smell. It's almost eerie.
"Aya-san?" His voice is deep and steady. The kind of voice a surgeon uses to tell you the operation was a success while he's holding a scalpel behind his back.
"Dr. Kaito?"
He smiles. It's perfect. His teeth are impossibly white. "Apologies for the short notice. I just stepped out of the OR and felt I needed to see a real human face before retreating back to my world of tubes and anesthesia."
We walk side-by-side. He holds the umbrella over my head with surgical precision, making sure not a single drop of rain touches my shoulder. He talks about surgery like it's art, and Tokyo like it's a patient in need of a cure.
"You're very quiet, Aya," he says, looking at me suddenly.
"I'm just processing the fact that a successful surgeon actually has time for a date with a girl he met minutes ago on an app."
He stops walking. He looks at me with an intensity that makes the hair on my neck stand up. "In my profession, we learn to make life-or-death decisions in fractions of a second. Sometimes, all you need is one look to know if a donor organ is a match. And when I saw your photo, I knew you were the one I was looking for."
A cold shiver runs down my spine. Was that a compliment, or was he talking about me like a spare part?
We enter a small, quiet café. He orders a black coffee for himself and a Matcha Latte for me without asking. He just... knows.
"How did you know I like Matcha?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.
He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. "Precision, Aya. I noticed a cup of Matcha in the corner of one of your older profile photos. The small details are what keep patients from dying on the table."
I laugh, but my heart is thudding. This man observes everything. It's terrifying.
We spend the next hour talking. He's brilliant at making me talk about myself—my childhood in the small village of Mitso, my loneliness in the city. He listens like he's recording every word into a private medical file.
When it's time to leave, he walks me to the station entrance.
"Can I see you again?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.
"I think so," I reply, while my brain screams: Run! He's too perfect!
"Good. Because I don't like open endings."
He leans in and kisses my hand. It's not romantic; it's a gesture from a "gentleman" of another era. But as his hand touches mine, I notice something.
He's wearing a ring on his pinky finger. A simple silver band with a strange engraving of a wildflower. I didn't see it in his photos. But I saw it somewhere else. I saw it on the news yesterday—on the hand of the latest victim of the "Tokyo Gentleman Killer."
I freeze as he walks away into the rain.
Kaito turns back suddenly, waving his transparent umbrella with that same perfect smile.
I get home, lock all three deadbolts on my apartment door, and slide down to the floor, my breath coming in gasps. I pull up the crime report on my phone. The photo is grainy, but the ring is the same. I'm sure of it.
But here is the real shock.
When I look in the mirror, I don't see a terrified girl. I see a small smile spreading across my lips.
Because Kaito Mori doesn't know one thing about me. He thinks he's chosen his next victim with precision. But he doesn't know that I've been looking for him for a very long time.
I'm not looking for love. I'm looking for the man who murdered my sister ten years ago.
And it looks like I finally found him.