It was raining in Canary Wharf.
Julian stepped out of the office.
The sky hadn't fully darkened yet, but the air was already damp—like something crawling up from a basement.
He didn't open his umbrella. Just held it loosely at his side.
The hem of his suit jacket soaked through, darkening several shades into something nearly translucent.
He walked slowly.
Just before the station entrance, his phone buzzed.
He looked down. No expression.
"Bonus paid."
£127,941
He stared at the number for five seconds.
Didn't open the details.
The umbrella stayed closed.
Rain tapped his shoulders.
He didn't move, just stood there like he was waiting for a deeper system to boot up.
People flowed around him.
Someone bumped into him.
He turned slightly, like something had just come online.
The next destination wasn't the office. Not Mayfair. Not a hotel. Not someone else's bed.
He opened Google.
typed "Kansai International Airport Hoshinoya Kyoto stay" in Japanese.
He stared at the search bar. Didn't press enter.
He wasn't checking directions.
He wasn't confirming bookings.
He was confirming intention.
Then, like executing a command, he made a small edit:
Changed "stay" to "reside."
Not a trip.
Not a business itinerary.
It was a system switch.
He closed the phone.
Opened the umbrella.
The rain hadn't stopped, but he was already gone.
Just before he stepped into the station, he looked back once—
At Canary Wharf.
Heathrow Terminal 5, Border Control.
Julian pulled out his passport—deep burgundy cover, embossed in gold:
"European Union – United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."
The officer gave it a glance. No questions.
It was still 2010. EU borders felt like automatic doors.
He walked lightly, like he'd never truly belonged anywhere.
Heathrow Terminal, 19:00.
Julian stood at the ANA Business counter.
Grey cashmere suit, open-collar shirt, no tie.
His boarding pass read:
Seat: 3A – Business Class
The attendant smiled politely.
He nodded, no words.
Once onboard, a pale cream curtain separated First and Business.
3A was by the window. The privacy panel slid just far enough for him to slip in.
He slid his Rimowa briefcase under the seat, fastened his belt, and opened the welcome menu.
A flight attendant approached, speaking that signature ANA English—gentle, precise, slightly slowed:
"Watanabe-sama, would you prefer matcha, champagne, or mineral water?"
Julian:
"Matcha. No sugar."
Before she walked away, he had already begun configuring the in-flight entertainment.
First step: change the language to Japanese.
After takeoff, he didn't watch a movie.
Just flipped through a few pages of The Economist, and the latest monthly futures report.
He had no intention of finishing either.
Reading on planes wasn't about input.
It was a placeholder—something to keep the mind occupied so it wouldn't wander.
Outside the window: nothing but white.
Clouds. Ice. Orbital debris.
His body was in the air.
But he'd already disconnected.
When the landing announcement came, he didn't look up.
"We are now descending into Kansai International Airport. The local time is 15:00."
Julian closed the magazine, stepped into the lavatory.
Washed his face. Changed his shirt.
Sprayed Aesop on his collar—not for the scent, but to erase the smell of airports.
He slipped his glasses back on.
Wound his watch. Sat down.
Only after completing the entire sequence—
did he say his third sentence of the day:
"Done."
He reached up to the overhead bin and pulled out his Rimowa without thinking.
Slid the burgundy passport into the side pocket—absentminded, automatic.
By the time he stepped into Kansai International Airport, Osaka's air was already humid.
At immigration, he slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and casually retrieved a small booklet—bright red cover, gold chrysanthemum seal in the center.
The text read:
"Japan Passport."
He walked through the "Japanese Nationals Only" lane and handed it over.
The middle-aged officer glanced at the cover—at the gold crest—and paused, just a beat too long.
Julian, almost by instinct, murmured:
"Yoroshiku onegaishimasu."
The officer looked up. Their eyes met.
Like the system was running a scan—deep recognition, not surface-level ID.
Then, softly, the officer said:
"Otsukaresama desu."
Not "Welcome to Japan."
Not "Passport, please."
But the kind of greeting you'd offer a civil servant returning from a business trip in London.
Julian smiled. Just a little.
He didn't reply.
He knew what that meant.
Verification: complete.
He stood straight as the passport was stamped and handed back.
No questions.
No explanations.
Just a clean entry.
Kyoto, Japan
He took the boat across the river.
The water reflected sky and branches.
Each stroke of the oar sliced the surface like a cut through the architecture of London itself.
Lanterns flickered on along the shore.
Stone lamps stood still.
The pathway looked untouched, as if no one had ever walked it.
When he arrived, he said nothing.
The staff bowed silently, guiding him through the wooden corridors.
The lobby was all glass, gravel, and the faint scent of cedar.
In the air, post-rain bamboo, moss, and something quieter than silence.
When the door slid open, the river's sound entered first.
Below the window, the water.
The roof's shadow fell against the floor.
The shoji screen was half open.
Light filtered through the bamboo grove in thin, shifting lines.
The floorboards were matte. Not waxed.
Smoothed only by time.
He stood at the doorway without moving—
as if one system had shut down,
and another hadn't booted up yet.
The hinoki bath faced the river.
He stepped in slowly.
The water rippled like breath over wood.
No speech.
Only steam, cedar oil, and the steady hush of moving water.
He closed his eyes.
Rested his fingers along the rim.
He looked like someone with no intention of returning.
In that moment, there was no London.
No Bloomberg terminal.
Just heat, clean air, and something unnamed—
quietly peeling itself away from the inside.
Breakfast arrived on a low tray placed on the tatami.
He didn't wear the hotel-provided yukata.
Instead, he had changed into a deep navy long-sleeved shirt of his own.
He sat upright posture composed,
like he was attending a ritual that required deliberate restraint.
Tamagoyaki.
Rice from Ishimizu.
An array of obanzai, set in a line like code.
He took three bites of rice and stopped.
The grains held a faint sense of breath—
as if the space between them had been measured.
Just like the kind of Japanese breakfast he had once imagined,
back when he still lived in London.
He'd chosen fish.
No yuzu.
No wasabi.
Just a trace of soy sauce.
He tasted one slice and nodded, once.
"This kind of structure, only the Japanese would design it."
The miso soup was warm.
The fermented tofu carried a soft acidity.
He took a sip and left the rest.
The fruit, cut at perfect angles, remained untouched.
At last, he said:
"Perfect.
That's why I'll never cook again."
To an outsider, the whole routine might have looked like leisure.
But he knew better.
This was a system boot.
A language system.
An emotional system.
An identity system.
In Canary Wharf, he was a trading machine.
In Kyoto, he looked like a civil servant returning home—
murmuring ohayou gozaimasu, bowing without smiling.
No one asked why he spoke Japanese.
No one asked which side he was from.
No one told him it was time to leave.
The way he sat by the window, eating—
you'd think he'd always lived in this system.
And in a way, he had.
The protocol had been written into his blood
since the day he began studying keigo at age six.