Dawn crept over Tokyo with a pale, almost metallic grey hue. A fine mist wove between the buildings, wrapping the streets in a whisper. The distant rumble of a train blended with the hum of electrical cables strung between the poles.
Riku Takeda parked the patrol car outside the central police station. On paper, the night had been quiet, but his body carried its weight. He stretched his arms before shutting the door, trying to shake off the invisible burden pressing on his shoulders.
The lobby smelled of fresh coffee and damp paper. The guards at the entrance gave him a lazy salute. A couple of colleagues, leaning against the vending machine, murmured something under their breath.
---"Hey, Takeda, how was the patrol?" one asked.
---"So boring I nearly fell asleep at the wheel," Riku replied with a half-smile before heading down the main corridor.
---"Takeda." A soft, familiar voice called him. Haruka, the front desk secretary, stood behind the counter, sorting through a stack of files.
---"Yeah, Haruka?"
---"The boss wants to see you. Right now."
Riku frowned. ---"This early? Did something happen?"
---"He didn't say, but… he seemed serious." She held his gaze for a moment, as if warning him this wasn't routine.
The hallway to the offices was silent, save for the faint creak of the carpet under his boots. Riku knocked on Hiroshi Watanabe's door.
---"Come in," came the deep, weary voice from inside.
The chief stood by the window, an open file in his hand. The morning light cast shadows across his face. When he saw Riku, he set the document down and extended his hand.
---"Thanks for coming, Riku."
---"Of course, Chief. What's going on?"
Hiroshi sighed and sat, gesturing for Riku to do the same.
---"It's about Hiroto. It's been two weeks since… since what happened to Rina. He hasn't reported to the station, won't answer calls or messages."
---"I was afraid of that." Riku clenched his jaw.
---"I need you to check on him. I know it's hard, but you're his best friend. If anyone can get through to him, it's you."
---"I'll go. Right now."
---"Riku…" Hiroshi fixed him with a steady look. "Be patient. He's… not the man you knew."
In the locker room, Riku opened his locker and began stowing his uniform and service pistol. The cold click of the lock echoed as he shut it. A colleague stepping out of the bathroom watched him.
---"Leaving already?"
---"Got something important to do."
---"With that face, it doesn't sound good."
Riku offered only a brief smile before slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving.
The drive to Hiroto's house felt longer than usual. There was no traffic, but the sense that he was heading toward something he didn't want to see weighed on him. The streets seemed narrower, the traffic lights slower.
He parked outside the house—a neat, unassuming home, though the drawn curtains and lack of movement made it seem abandoned. He approached the front door and rang the bell.
No answer.
---"Hiroto, it's me." He knocked gently.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder. Nothing.
A bad feeling prickled down his spine. He circled the house, stepping on dry leaves, and peered into the backyard before rapping on the glass door. Dark. Silent.
He pulled a small tool from his pocket and picked the lock. The metallic click echoed too loudly in the stillness.
The kitchen was cold, dishes piled in the sink, a cup with dried coffee residue on the counter. A faint musty smell mixed with dust. He moved down the hallway, his footsteps intrusive in the hollow sanctuary.
The flickering blue glow of the television spilled into the living room. Hiroto sat on a worn-out sofa in a crumpled T-shirt and shorts, a beer in his hand, a pistol on the low table in front of him. His sunken eyes, dull and barely blinking, registered Riku's presence with indifference.
---"What the hell…?" Riku murmured, equal parts relieved and alarmed.
Hiroto turned his head slowly, as if struggling to recognise him.
---"What are you doing here? How'd you get in?"
---"Picked the lock. No one answered. I was worried."
---"Don't care," Hiroto muttered, turning back to the screen.
Riku sat beside him, avoiding looking at the gun.
---"You can't keep living like this."
---"Like what?" Hiroto took a long swig.
---"Like a ghost waiting to be buried."
A bitter smile twisted Hiroto's lips.
---"What if that's what I want?"
---"Rina wouldn't want this for you."
Hiroto's jaw tightened.
---"Don't tell me what she'd want."
---"She loved you, Hiroto. And you loved her. Do you think destroying yourself honours her memory?"
Glass shattered. Hiroto had smashed the bottle against the table, leaving a jagged edge now pointed at Riku.
---"I don't care what you have to say. I don't want anything from anyone."
---"Easy…" Riku raised his hands. "I'm here because I care."
---"It's not enough that her wishes matter. Mine do too."
Then Riku noticed the scars on Hiroto's forearms—thin, red lines, some still fresh. A cold weight settled in his chest.
---"You…" He took a sharp breath. "You joined the counterterrorism unit to save lives, Hiroto. Because when you were a kid, men like that kidnapped you, and you lived through hell. Cops like you saved you. That's why you became one of them. So no one else would suffer like you did."
Hiroto didn't respond. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.
Riku stood, frustrated.
---"I'm not giving up on you. Even if you throw me out a hundred times, I'll come back a hundred more."
As he turned to leave, Hiroto's voice stopped him.
---"The day they euthanised Rina…" His voice cracked. "They found out she was pregnant. I lost them both."
Riku's breath left him.
---"Hiroto… I'm sorry. I didn't know."
---"No one did." Tears glistened in his eyes. "Maybe you're right… maybe I should move. But not here. Not in Tokyo. Everything reminds me of her. I'm changing cities. Changing my name."
---"If you do… promise me we won't lose touch. You're like a brother to me."
---"Don't worry. That won't happen."
They embraced tightly, as if trying to salvage something from the wreckage.
The next morning, Hiroto opened an old trunk and pulled out a large suitcase. He packed clothes, documents, and a few essentials. Every time he stumbled upon something of Rina's—a scarf, a book with her handwriting, a chipped mug—he paused, the weight of helplessness crushing him.
He sat on the bed with the locket he'd bought for their anniversary. Opening the metal heart, he stared at their wedding photo.
A fleeting memory pierced him: Rina laughing in the kitchen, flour dusting her nose as he tried to steal a bite of cake. The warmth of that image was a knife to his chest.
---"This is all I'm taking from here… and your memory," he whispered.
He slipped the locket into his pocket, closed the suitcase, and descended the stairs. At the door, he turned one last time. The silence of the house seemed to swallow everything.
He opened the door, stepped out, and didn't look back.