Hi,My name was Kuroda Ren.
For twenty-eight years, those three syllables boxed in my world. Kuroda the diligent employee. Kuroda the reliable friend. Kuroda the predictable boyfriend.
I died on a Thursday evening at 8:17 PM.
The digital clock on my phone froze at that exact moment. A blade slipped between my ribs and carved something essential out of me. Fitting, really. Even in death, I stayed punctual.
The Office (8:47 AM)
The fluorescent lights above Sato Financial's accounting department buzzed like an insect in its death throes. My cubicle, Cell 47B, smelled like stale coffee and old paper. A spreadsheet blinked back at me. Three hours, zero progress.
"Kuroda-san!"
Daiki's voice sliced through the monotony like a scalpel. My best friend since Keio. The managing director's golden child. The man currently sleeping with my girlfriend.
He leaned on my cubicle wall, the sharp scent of Tom Ford Oud Wood drowning the cheap air freshener I'd bought at Don Quijote. "You'll handle the Tanaka merger reports, right? Dad wants them by Monday."
I adjusted my glasses, the same black frames I'd worn since college. "The original deadline was next Friday."
He smiled. Thirty-two perfect teeth. "That's why I'm asking my most dependable friend." His Rolex glinted as he gave my shoulder a friendly pat. "You're a lifesaver."
As he walked away, I noticed three things:
Raspberry lipstick on his collar. Mizuki's shade.
Fresh scratch marks along his neck. Mizuki's nails.
A faint squeak in his left shoe. He'd stepped in my blood before it dried.
The Apartment (11:23 PM)
The last train reeked of sweat, regret, and cheap whiskey. I counted the stations like notches on a prison wall. Shibuya. Ebisu. Meguro.
Our apartment door creaked like it always did. Mizuki once called it charming. Now it just sounded tired.
"You're late." She didn't look up from her phone. Daiki's latest Instagram story played on loop: champagne flutes clinking in what I recognized as our bedroom.
"Client meeting ran late." said Ren
"Save it." Her laugh could have cracked glass. "We both know you were covering for Daiki again." The microwave clock glowed in her eyes. 11:24 PM. "Sometimes I wonder why you even bother coming home."
The silence that followed didn't just hang in the air. It choked.
The Bar (9:15 PM, Two Days Later)
The bouncer at Privé looked at my off-the-rack suit like it was a personal offense. "Members only."
I showed him Daiki's text:
Meeting clients at Privé. Bring the Takada files. 8:45 PM
The VIP lounge smelled like Cuban cigars and corruption. Through the haze of champagne and money, I saw them:
Mizuki's legs draped over Daiki's lap
His hand slipping beneath her skirt
Her teeth grazing his earlobe, whispering sweet things she'd once reserved for me
My phone buzzed:
Where are you? Need those files! - Daiki
I lifted the phone and snapped a picture. The flash caught them mid-grope.
The Alley (8:16 PM, One Week Later)
Rain turned Tokyo's alleys into mirrors, neon signs melting into watercolor veins. My umbrella had collapsed three blocks back. Another fitting metaphor.
The knife pierced just below the ninth rib.
"Nothing personal," the masked man muttered as he twisted the blade. His breath was a mix of yakitori and mint gum. "Just business."
My blood soaked through the fabric of my shirt, a crimson inkblot spreading across white. The rain diluted it, sent it trickling into the gutter like runoff.
As I collapsed, I understood three things:
Daiki would spin my death into a tragedy to win Mizuki's sympathy
My coworkers wouldn't notice until the coffee pot overflowed
No one would ever read the promotion letter in my coat pocket
The Void Time Unknown
"Fascinating."
The voice dripped with poisoned honey.
"You're not angry you died," it said. "You're angry that no one will ever know what you knew."
Cold fingers tilted my chin upward.
In the dark, something smiled.