I watched Emi from where I sat on the sofa, my hands loosely resting on my knees, unsure of what to do. Her phone had been ringing nonstop for the past hour. Each time she picked it up, I could see her shoulders tense, her brows furrowing. There was no pause, no break—just one call after another. The sound of notifications and ringtones seemed to echo in the quiet living room, making the air heavy. I didn't know whether to grab the phone or let her handle it, but I stayed close, my eyes following her every move.
"Emi…" I said softly, but she didn't look at me. She was scrolling through messages, muttering numbers, offers, names I didn't recognize. The company managers were calling, again and again, offering salaries that doubled what she was earning. Each time she glanced at the screen, her fingers tapped faster, almost trembling. I could see her stress building layer by layer. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but it didn't help.
Even her parents had been drawn into the chaos. I could see her phone light up with their names, and every time she answered, she forced a polite smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. She spoke quickly, trying to explain herself, trying to stay calm, and yet her voice cracked slightly. I wanted to tell her it was okay, that I would handle things, but I didn't know if that would make a difference.
I moved a little closer, instinctively, just to be there. I rested my hand lightly on the arm of the sofa, hoping she'd feel a little comfort from my presence. She paused for a second, glanced at me, and her lips pressed into a thin line before she shook her head and returned to the screen. I noticed the small signs of exhaustion—the subtle droop of her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes, the way she bit the inside of her cheek as she tried to think through every offer.
I wanted to help. I wanted to tell her to breathe, to leave the calls unanswered for just a moment, to take a sip of water, anything. But I didn't dare interrupt her too much. She was focused, almost obsessively so, making calculations in her mind, deciding who to respond to, who to ignore. The room felt tense, each passing minute adding weight, like the walls themselves were pressing in.
Finally, she sat back, hands dropping to her lap for just a second. She exhaled, slow and shaky, her black hair falling into her eyes. I reached over, gently brushing it aside, hoping she would let herself rest for even a moment. Her eyes met mine briefly, and I could see the mix of frustration, fear, and exhaustion in them. I squeezed her hand lightly, almost as if to say: I'm here. I'll stay. You don't have to face this alone.
Even then, the phone kept ringing. Another manager, another call, another demand. I swallowed hard. This wasn't just stress. This was pressure building like a storm, and I knew I had to stay close, steady, calm—because Emi, for all her strength, needed someone to just be there, silently holding the weight with her.
To ease of her stress i thought , I'll get some water for Emi, just a little… I thought as I walked into the kitchen. My legs felt wobbly, my head heavy, and the room seemed to tilt. Everything around me blurred. My thoughts slowed, my chest tightened, and before I could think more, darkness swallowed me—I fainted.
....
The night was heavy, the rain hammering against the roof in uneven drips. The hitman crouched behind the tall hedge at the edge of the driveway, his coat damp and his heart beating faster than usual. He had been sent here with a clear order: find Kenji and eliminate him. Yet now, standing so close to the house, something felt… wrong.
The front door was locked, but the faint hum of a refrigerator, the occasional creak of floorboards, and the muted ticking of a wall clock reached him through the walls. He crouched lower, pressing himself against the wet bricks, feeling the chill seep through his shoes. Each sound—the tap of rain on the roof, the soft rustle of leaves—made him tense.
He reached for the door handle, careful to avoid the creaking hinge. Inside, the house smelled faintly of polished wood and something sweet, maybe leftover food. Every step on the stairs made him wince; his own breathing sounded loud. The lights were dim, casting long shadows that moved like fingers across the walls. He paused, listening to a faint shuffle upstairs.
A sudden noise—a floorboard above, maybe the movement of a person—made his stomach twist. He gripped his gun tighter. Was Kenji here? Or was it someone else? His eyes darted across the dark hallway. The shadows seemed to move of their own accord. The house felt alive.
He tried to steady his nerves, checking the doors one by one, moving slowly, methodically. Every creak under his boots made him flinch. Then he noticed it: a faint reflection, too tall, too still to be his own, flickering across the glass of a picture frame. He froze. His heartbeat hammered in his ears.
Something cold brushed against his neck—a sudden, fleeting sensation. He spun, gun raised, but nothing. Just shadows. The air seemed thicker now, heavier, almost pressing against him. And then he heard it—a low, soft whisper of movement behind him, the click of a shoe on the floorboards.
Before he could react, a shadow moved. The figure was tall, silent, and impossibly calm. And the smile… that wide, unnatural smile he had seen only in the photo. Kenji—or whatever this was—held himself still, like a predator waiting. The hitman's chest tightened.
Then, a sudden, impossible strike. Something sharp pressed against his back. His vision blurred, adrenaline surged, panic rose. He tried to move, tried to scream, but his body refused. The figure leaned close, and the last thing he saw was that smile, wide, calm, unshakable.
The hitman's breath caught. Cold, absolute silence followed. His own heartbeat felt deafening in his ears. Something inside him screamed—fear, confusion, disbelief—but it was too late.
....
The study was quiet, almost too quiet. Masahiro Yamamoto sat behind his large, polished desk, the yellow lamp above him casting long shadows across the room. The papers on the desk were scattered—contracts, reports, financial statements—but he didn't see them. His eyes were fixed on the phone in his hand, tapping it against the wood as if the motion could speed up time.
He had sent the hitman hours ago. That man should have been done by now. He should have called already. Every second that passed felt like a small eternity. Masahiro's hands tightened around the phone. He muttered under his breath, "Why is he taking so long? He must finish this… he must…"
A soft creak echoed somewhere in the house. Masahiro froze. Nothing—just the wind? He shook his head. He was a man of control. Nothing could surprise him. And yet, the silence suddenly felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
He glanced at his watch again. The second hand moved slowly, torturously. He dialed the number one more time, his voice low, impatient. "Where are you? I told you, kill him today. No excuses."
On the other end, the hitman's voice trembled. Masahiro's frown deepened. The man was scared. That was normal, yes. But there was hesitation in the tone that shouldn't be there. The man muttered something about the house being strange, about shadows moving where there shouldn't be any. Masahiro laughed, bitter and short. "Do not waste my time. Complete the job. Now."
Another creak came from the hallway. Masahiro's head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing. Empty. He exhaled slowly. "Stop imagining things," he muttered. But the tightness in his chest refused to relax. Even the opulent furniture, the heavy curtains, the expensive carpets—all of it felt like a trap, like the house itself was listening.
The lamp flickered once, and Masahiro's pulse quickened. He placed the phone down and leaned back in his leather chair, fingers gripping the armrests. The wind outside rattled the windows, and somewhere far off, a branch scraped against the glass. His mind raced. He had spent years controlling everything—his company, his son, his employees—but right now, none of it seemed enough.
Then the phone buzzed again. Finally, the hitman calling back. Masahiro picked it up, voice sharp. "Yes? You've finished?"
The voice on the other end was barely audible, strained. Masahiro leaned in. "What? What do you mean?"
The man's words came in a rush: strange movements, a shadow, a man in the house… something smiling, something… unstoppable. Masahiro's heart skipped. A cold sweat ran down his back. "Impossible," he whispered.
Another sound—a faint step, soft but deliberate—came from behind him. Masahiro's head turned slowly. Nothing. But the room seemed different. The shadows had shifted. He could almost feel someone there, watching. A smile? That impossibility?
He rose from the chair, every muscle tense, ears straining. Silence. Then—movement in the corner of his eye. Slow, deliberate. A figure stepping into the faint lamplight. And then Masahiro saw it: a wide, calm, unflinching smile. Hands moving toward a gun, silencer attached. The impossibility became reality.
Masahiro's breath caught. Time slowed. The air felt heavy. The figure raised the gun, fingers steady. Masahiro tried to speak, to command, to call for help—but his voice froze.
The world ended in a single, silent, final moment.