The buzz of the city still clung to his skin like a faint static as he trudged up the narrow stairs to the third-floor apartment. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the world—or at least the weight of another twelve-hour shift at the office. The fluorescent lights, endless spreadsheets, managers who barely remembered his name—none of it mattered the moment he stepped into the small, dimly lit apartment he called home. Or, at least, used to.
Yamato Kurose. Thirty years old. An ordinary man with an ordinary life. Or so he thought.
The key turned in the lock with its usual tired click, and he opened the door to the faint scent of lavender and incense, just as always. Habit made him step out of his shoes, neatly placing them beside his wife's beige flats. He didn't call out her name. He rarely did. They'd drifted into a quiet routine of coexistence—a cold partnership preserved more by inertia than affection. But tonight, even the silence felt… off.
He walked past the small kitchen and toward the living room. The lamp near the couch was on, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor. A half-empty wine bottle stood on the table, two glasses beside it. That was strange. He hadn't brought home wine in weeks.
Then he heard it.
A sound. Soft. Muffled. Rhythmic. Wrong.
He froze mid-step, breath caught in his throat. The sound was coming from the bedroom—the room they once shared, though even that had begun to feel like a distant echo of the past.
He stepped closer, his feet moving of their own accord, silently across the wooden floor. His heart thudded against his ribs—not with rage or pain, but with something colder. Numb. Hollow.
The bedroom door was ajar.
From the crack, he could see the edge of the bed, tangled sheets, shadows moving in the dim light. His wife's voice—a breathless, high-pitched moan he hadn't heard in months—spilled into the hallway. Accompanied by a man's groan, deeper, unfamiliar.
Yamato didn't push the door open. He didn't barge in or scream or break anything.
He just stood there.
Watching.
Her back arched in the dim light, hair cascading like a waterfall over bare shoulders, lips parted in pleasure that was never his. The man—young, fit, tattooed—gripped her waist with desperate hunger.
The sheets had their wedding monogram.
The clock above the dresser ticked past 8:13 PM.
Yamato blinked once. Just once.
Then he turned away.
No sound. No heavy breath. No tears.
He walked back the way he came, picked up his briefcase, and stepped into his shoes like a man who had merely forgotten something at work.
He closed the door softly behind him, so softly that no one inside would hear.
The hallway light flickered above as he walked down the steps. The city outside greeted him again—cold wind, car horns, neon signs that promised escape he could never afford.
He stood at the edge of the street, staring at the flow of traffic. People passed him by, faces buried in phones, lost in their own dramas. Nobody noticed the man in the black coat with his tie slightly crooked, briefcase hanging loosely from his hand, and eyes staring into a silence that felt louder than the world.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn't check it.
Instead, he walked. Aimlessly. Past convenience stores, closed bookshops, alleys filled with neon haze. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew he couldn't go home. Not tonight. Not ever again.
The city was too loud. The thoughts too quiet.
He sat on a bench by a riverbank eventually, somewhere near the edge of town. The moon shimmered on the water. His breath fogged the night air.
Everything inside him felt broken. Not shattered like glass—but worn down, like a blade dulled by years of cutting against stone. The betrayal didn't surprise him. Maybe, on some level, he had seen it coming. The distance. The indifference. The late nights. The lies.
But to see it. To witness it. To realize that the one person he gave everything to—his time, his effort, his patience—had chosen someone else while still wearing the ring he bought… That was something else entirely.
He let the silence swallow him whole.
.
.
.
He didn't know why he called his friend. Maybe because there was no one else. Maybe because he just needed somewhere to sit, to not be alone, to not think. Or maybe because, deep down, he didn't want to go to the river again, didn't want to sit in that silence where all the thoughts clawed at his skull like rats in a drowning cellar.
The call had been short.
"Hey," Yamato had said, voice low. "You home?"
His friend, Takumi, had hesitated before answering. "Yeah. Come over if you want. Door's open."
No questions. No warmth. Just something that barely passed for an invitation. But Yamato took it. Anything was better than that apartment and the smell of her perfume clinging to bedsheets he once called theirs.
He arrived twenty minutes later, the cold air cutting against his cheeks as he climbed the steps to Takumi's place. The building was newer than his own. Cleaner. It smelled of lemon cleaner and some kind of synthetic pine.
The door was ajar, just like he said.
Yamato slipped inside quietly. He didn't call out. His throat was dry. Something inside him felt brittle, like he might crack if he made a sound. The lights in the hallway were dim, and the warmth of the place felt unnatural—too perfect, too curated. He placed his shoes neatly at the entrance and stepped inside on autopilot.
The living room was empty.
No sign of Takumi.
He walked further in, past the kitchen. The faintest sound caught his attention—quiet gasps and whispers, the rustle of fabric, the creak of something rhythmic. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.
He paused.
It couldn't be.
He moved toward the hallway, where one of the guest rooms had its door slightly open. A thin strip of warm light painted the floorboards.
Then he heard her laugh.
A woman's voice. Light, breathy, sultry. It wasn't just any woman's voice.
He recognized her instantly.
Mrs. Fujimoto.
Yamato's body stiffened like stone. A chill worked down his spine.
Mrs. Fujimoto—wife of his company's regional director. A woman in her late thirties who could've passed for her twenties. She was beauty perfected, every feature touched by time just enough to gain elegance but never dull. Tall, with sleek jet-black hair that shimmered like silk, flawless ivory skin, and lips that always seemed on the verge of a secret smile. In the office, she was known for her regal presence. She carried herself like a queen among commoners—untouchable, adored, forbidden.
Yamato's pulse quickened as he stood near the door, unable to move, his breath shallow. He didn't want to look—but his body betrayed him. He leaned forward, his eye just catching the sliver of the scene through the narrow gap.
Takumi was on the bed, shirtless, his hands gripping the bare hips of Mrs. Fujimoto as she rode him with a slow, calculated rhythm, like she was choreographing a dance. Her back arched gracefully with each motion, breasts swaying gently, her skin glowing in the soft yellow lamplight. Her eyes were closed, mouth open in a quiet gasp as she moved with practiced ease—like a woman who knew exactly how to take what she wanted.
The silk of her panties lay discarded on the floor, a delicate wine-red piece that looked more like art than underwear. Her body was a work of sculpture—slim waist, long legs, toned yet soft in all the right places. She was everything that Yamato's wife never cared to be anymore. Confident. Hungry. Alive.
Takumi grinned beneath her, his hands worshipping every inch of her skin, murmuring something low that made her laugh again—a sound filled with power and pleasure.
Yamato looked away.
Not because he was ashamed. Not because he cared. But because, for the second time that night, the world reminded him just how powerless he really was.
Without a sound, he stepped back. Down the hallway. Through the living room. Past the door.
He didn't close it behind him.
The cold air outside felt sharper now, biting into his lungs like knives. He walked down the street, his legs moving faster than his thoughts. Somewhere, a dog barked. Neon signs buzzed overhead. A taxi honked as it sped past.
He kept walking.
His chest felt tight. Not with heartbreak. But with something worse.
Emptiness.
Years of it.
It all started to unravel at once.
He remembered the long nights at the office, slaving over reports no one read. The thankless overtime. The promotions that went to louder mouths. The moments where he gave his all, only to be forgotten when the credit was handed out.
He remembered the arguments at home. Small things at first—dishes, bills, weekends. Then bigger things—silence, resentment, distance. Until the bed became cold, the meals became leftovers, and the love became obligation.
He remembered trying. Over and over. Date nights she canceled. Gifts she never opened. Messages she left unread.
He remembered Takumi—his so-called friend—smiling, joking, always borrowing money he never paid back, always talking big, always loud in a room. And now, sleeping with the boss's wife behind closed doors, while Yamato was out here... walking alone in the cold, with nothing but the sound of his own breath.
A loser's life.
That's what it was.
Not just unlucky. Not just unfortunate.
Loser.
The kind of man who gives everything and gets nothing. The kind who's always polite, always proper, always overlooked. The one who smiles through gritted teeth and watches others take what he worked for. The one whose wife cheats, whose friend lies, whose name no one remembers.
He stopped in the middle of the road.
Headlights flashed as a car swerved past him with a furious honk. He didn't flinch.
He just stood there.
Heart beating. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.
The truth hit him harder than anything else had that night.
He had nothing.
No home to return to. No friend to confide in. No love. No pride. No purpose.
He was a shadow in his own story.
And the saddest part?
No one would care if he vanished.
The thought came uninvited.
What if I just disappeared? Right now? Would it matter?
The wind howled through the empty street.
He looked up at the sky. The stars were hidden by clouds, and even the moon looked tired.
But something flickered.
A spark.
Not in the sky.
In his chest.
Small. Distant. But real.
Not hope.
Something else.
Rage?
No.
Something colder.
Resolve.
He turned his back to the road and began walking again—this time with purpose.
Somewhere, far beyond the weight of this world, something waited.
And Yamato was done being a loser.