The sun was dipping below the skyline, painting the Tokyo streets in hues of burnt orange and deep violet. Taichi Nakamura moved through the crowds with the weary grace of a man who had seen too much, yet carried a small, domestic hope in a paper grocery bag.
Another long day at the NPA. Paperwork, briefings, the usual shadows of the city. But tonight… tonight is different. Ayame is making curry. My favorite. After all these years, she still remembers.
He adjusted the bag in his arms, feeling the weight of the vegetables, the curry roux block, the can of coconut milk she liked to add. His footsteps echoed softly as he turned into the quieter residential lane leading to their apartment building. A faint smile touched his lips, unseen by anyone.
Since high school. Since she laughed at my terrible attempt to join the soccer club just to be near her. Since our first kiss under the cherry blossoms that never seemed to fall. Sixteen years. A lifetime. My lifetime.
The automatic doors slid open with a hushed sigh. The lobby was sterile, quiet. He nodded to the security camera—a habit from his work—and stepped into the waiting elevator. The mirrored walls reflected a man in his mid-thirties, with sharp, observant eyes now softened by the thought of home. The gentle ding marked his floor.
The hallway was long, lit by soft, energy-efficient lights. His leather shoes made no sound on the plush carpet. Home was at the end, door 704. His sanctuary.
But as he approached, his pace slowed. His breath hitched, a microscopic tremor in his otherwise steady world.
The door to 704 was not closed. It was ajar, by perhaps two centimeters. A sliver of darkness against the white paint.
No. The lock is automatic. Ayame is paranoid about it. She checks it three times. She would never…
Every instinct, every fiber of his being honed by years at the National Police Agency, screamed a silent alarm. The domestic warmth in his chest froze solid, replaced by a cold, professional clarity. The grocery bag descended to the floor without a sound, placed neatly against the wall.
His right hand moved to his hip, under his jacket, fingers brushing the cool, familiar polymer of his service gun. With his left, he retrieved not one, but two phones from his pocket. His personal device, and another—secure, encrypted, a tool of his trade.
Protocol. Assess. Confirm. Do not enter a potential hostile situation blind.
His thumbs flew over the second phone's screen, opening an application with a stark, minimalist interface.
'Residence Surveillance: Active.'
A grid of six camera feeds appeared. A secret even from Ayame. His final layer of protection for her. For them.
He tapped the first feed. Camera 1: Door Entryway.
Empty.
The little genkan was tidy, her shoes lined up neatly, his work boots beside them. A normal sight that now felt like a staged photograph.
He swiped. Camera 2: Living Room.
The kotatsu was clear, the TV off. The framed picture of their graduation trip to Okinawa smiled innocently from the shelf.
Nothing. Please, let it be nothing. A malfunction. She forgot to pull the door shut.
Camera 3: Kitchen.
Spotless. The curry pot was on the stove, ready. Untouched.
His thumb hovered, a tremor beginning deep in his bones.
He swiped to Camera 4: Hallway.
Empty.
The door to their bedroom at the end was closed.
The bedroom door is never closed during the day. She says it makes the apartment feel bigger.
The cold in his gut was now liquid nitrogen. His jaw began to tighten, muscles coiling like steel springs. With a press that felt like moving a mountain, he switched to Camera 5: Bedroom.
The world stopped.
The air vanished from his lungs. His eyes, usually so analytical, so detached, widened in pure, unprocessed horror.
On the high-definition feed, in the center of the bed they shared, under the duvet cover she had chosen because it had little sunflowers, was his wife.
Ayame.
Her face was contorted in a rapture he knew, but directed at a form that was not his. Her legs, slender and strong, were locked around the waist of another man. His back was to the camera, but Taichi knew that build, that haircut, the faint scar on the shoulder from a stupid story about a hiking trip.
Kenji
His friend. His colleague from the Organized Crime division. The man he'd shared drinks with last Friday.
Ayame's mouth was open. A silent, pleading moan on the video feed that roared in the silent hallway. Her fingers were digging into Kenji's back. Her hips moved with a frantic, hungry rhythm.
…No. This is not real. This is a stress-induced hallucination. A bad dream. That is not my wife. That is not my bed. That is not….
No…
But it was. Every devastating pixel. The proof was absolute, surgical, and it carved out his heart with a blunt, rusty spoon. He could feel the shattering, a visceral crack that started in his chest and radiated out to his trembling fingertips. The phone in his hand shook violently.
His vision tunneled, the edges going dark. The only light was the hellish glow from the screen, illuminating his pale, stricken face in the dim hallway. A low, animal sound of pure anguish choked in his throat, dying before it could escape.
Sixteen years. The curry. The sunflowers. The laughter. The promises. Was it all a lie? Every touch, every whispered 'I love you' in the dark… was it this? Was she thinking of him?
The professional part of his brain, the part that had just died, fired one last, automated command. His thumb, moving on pure instinct, stabbed the 'SAVE & ARCHIVE' button on the feed. Then 'BACKUP TO CLOUD – SECURE SERVER.'
Evidence. This is evidence. For the divorce. For Internal Affairs. He is finished. His career, his life… is over. She… she is gone.
The emotional tsunami receded, leaving behind a barren, frigid wasteland. The man who loved Ayame was dead in that hallway. What remained was Inspector Nakamura.
With movements that were mechanically precise, he opened a new window on his secure phone. He attached the archived video file. The recipient field was auto-filled: 'NPA Internal Affairs – Duty Officer.'
The message body was only three words, typed with steady, cold fingers:
> Evidence. Misconduct. Nakamura, K.
He hit send.
A soft whoosh confirmed its departure into the digital void, sealing two fates with one tap.
He pocketed both phones. The gun at his hip felt heavier than ever, but he would not draw it. That was not the punishment. This was.
He turned his head slowly, his gaze falling upon the forgotten grocery bag leaning against the wall. The curry roux, the coconut milk, the fresh vegetables for the woman who no longer existed.
Let them have tonight. Let them have their final, stolen pleasure. Tomorrow, the sun will rise on a different world for them. A colder one.
Without a backward glance at the door to his former life, Inspector Taichi Nakamura turned and walked back down the hallway. His footsteps were silent once more, but they carried the weight of a ghost. He pressed the elevator call button. The doors opened to the empty cab. He stepped inside. The mirrored walls now reflected only a stranger with hollow eyes, staring into a future that was vast, empty, and his alone.
The elevator descended, carrying him away.
Hours Later – The Seventh Floor Hallway
The door to 704 creaked open, spilling a wedge of warm, guilty light into the cool hallway.
Kenji stepped out, adjusting his shirt, a smug, satiated half-smile on his face. His foot connected with something soft yet solid.
Thump.
He looked down, confused. A paper grocery bag, now slightly torn, sat upended at his feet. A package of curry roux, a can of coconut milk, and several potatoes and carrots had rolled quietly across the carpet.
His eyes followed the trail, then snapped back to the bag. To the specific store logo. To the receipt tucked in the side that he could just make out: 'Nakamura, T.'
The blood drained from Kenji's face. His smug expression vaporized, replaced by dawning, stomach-churning horror. His eyes went wide, pupils shrinking to pinpricks.
"Wh… what is this?" he whispered to himself.
Inside the apartment, Ayame called out, her voice still languid and warm. "Kenji? Did you forget something?"
She appeared at the doorway, wrapping a silk robe around herself, a contented smile on her lips. She saw his rigid back, the panic in his posture.
"Kenji? What's wrong?"
Her gaze followed his stricken stare down to the spilled groceries on her welcome mat.
Recognition was instant.
She knew that bag. She had texted him the list. She had asked for the coconut milk brand from that specific market.
Her eyes jumped from the spilled contents, to Kenji's terrified face, to the empty, silent hallway beyond.
Her own smile died. Her breath caught in her throat. The color fled from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as the hallway walls.
Her eyes—the eyes Taichi had loved since he was seventeen—widened in a mirror of Kenji's horror, but layered with a profound, devastating understanding.
The curry would never be made.
The door had been left open.
And the man who carried the groceries was gone.
The only sound in the hallway was the soft, final click of a distant elevator door closing, far, far below.