Rain fell in heavy sheets, turning the night into a tangible veil of cold. The streetlights below cast fractured reflections on the slick pavement. Standing on the rooftop of his crumbling apartment building, Keita Sumeragi let the rain wash over him, each raindrop a tiny needle against his skin. His clothes clung to his body, soaked through, but he barely noticed. In his chest, there was no warmth left to feel anything beyond the dull ache of despair.
Keita's eyes were unfocused, fixed on nothing. Above, the sky was a roiling mass of gunmetal clouds, mirroring the storm inside him. He raised one trembling hand to his face, touching the cheek streaked with tears, rain, and ink. He could taste old ramen broth on his lips, feel the sting of nicotine in his lungs. Everything felt numb and alive all at once.
He took a breath—deep, raspy—and closed his eyes.
---
He remembered the editor's voice as if it were a physical presence:
> "Your work was too depressing. We need something more… marketable."
That phrase had echoed in his mind for days. He could hear it just as clearly now, layered over the patter of rain: a sneer of contempt, a final verdict on his artistic worth. The corporal felt like it had lodged itself in his brain, pulsing with every heartbeat.
Then, his ex-wife's voice, cold and accusing:
> "I married a man, not a coward hiding behind pretty pictures. You're worthless."
He could still see her eyes—flat, distant—as she took their daughter away. He could feel the weight of the child in his arms then, so small and helpless; now, it was a phantom weight, gone forever.
---
A gust of wind whispered around him, stirring his hair and pulling at his drenched clothes. For a moment, he imagined that he heard laughter.
At first, it was faint—like a mocking echo from some dark theater. Then it grew louder, nearly drowning out the rain.
A chorus of voices—his editor, his ex-wife, the strangers who had scorned him on forums—laughed at him. They were joined by the specters of his own characters: the betrayed wife from the NTR manga he'd created, her eyes wide with agony; the smirking adulterer, looking down on him with smug satisfaction; the young innocent he'd drawn for his abandoned comedy, now twisted into ridicule.
It was as if every person who had ever dismissed him, every voice that had cut him deeper than any blade, had gathered on that rooftop to jeer.
Keita opened his eyes. He stumbled back a step, stunned by the clarity of that cruel chorus. He squeezed his eyelids shut and tried to drown it out, but the laughter only intensified, merging into one hideous roar.
He raised both hands to his ears, as if trying to physically block it out.
But he couldn't.
Nothing could silence them now.
---
He looked down at the small ledge on which he stood. Below, the city was a tapestry of dim lights—cars gliding along slick roads, windows glowing in apartment towers. He thought he saw the faint silhouette of a stranger hurrying by, an umbrella bobbing in the rain. Someone safe, someone who still cared about real life.
Why should that matter to him anymore?
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. He brushed it away with the back of his hand, though he knew it would be washed away by the rain in seconds. Tears, rain—everything was indistinguishable tonight.
He raised his gaze again, toward the relentless sky. He let the rain soak his face, blurring his vision. Drops mingled with his tears, each one carrying a tiny fragment of his broken hope.
In that moment, he didn't feel human. He felt like a rag doll, tossed by the currents of others' wills. A broken puppet whose strings had been snipped.
---
Rain blurred his memories as they flooded in, overlapping and colliding:
He saw himself years ago, a bright-eyed teenager, clutching his first manga volume in a convenience store. A girl's eyes blossomed with emotion as she read the final panel; he had smiled at that, believing he could bring that same wonder to others.
He saw his daughter, Aoi, perched on his lap as he drew little sketches for her bedtime stories. She pointed at the lines he made on paper and giggled, declaring, "Papa, you're a super artist!"
He saw the day he'd first met his wife, her laughter like windchimes in spring. They'd shared dreams about the future: marriage, children, a happy life made from nothing more than pencils and imagination.
He saw the moment his wife handed him divorce papers. She'd looked him in the eye, expressionless, as if he were already dead. Their daughter tugged at her mother's skirt, confused, frightened.
He saw himself hunched over his desk at night, writing that NTR manuscript—strokes of brilliance he hated in his soul, but could not stop. And he recognized, in that reflection, the twisted irony that he had finally produced something he was capable of selling, only to have his authorship stripped away.
He saw a small hospital room, the beeping monitor steady and cruel. The doctor's face, serious yet impersonal, telling him his daughter had died. He'd dropped to his knees then, as if someone had ripped his heart out and placed it in the palm of his hand.
And finally, he saw himself, a broken man standing on the rooftop, staring down at the world—ready to end it all.
---
He unclenched his fists. His fingertips were bruised, pale from the damp. He took a step backward, as if summoning courage he didn't know he still had.
He raised his arms to the sky, letting the rain pour over him, soaking his hair, his shirt, his skin.
A faint smile curved on his lips—strange, numb, bitter. It was the first expression he had felt in days that wasn't twisted by agony. A smile that acknowledged the end was near. A smile that said, "This is how it was meant to be."
He shook his head, as if clearing fogged lenses. He took another step back—closer to the abyss.
The voices swirled around him: "You failed. You're nothing. You're worthless." They stretched into infinity.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the sky open its arms to him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the storm.
Then he stepped off the ledge.
---
For a heartbeat, he felt nothing but the wind rushing past him, as if he were flying in slow motion. The world tilted, and he could see the city stretching endlessly below, lights shimmering like fallen stars. Rain drummed on his face, each drop a tiny sting.
He thought of his daughter one last time: her small hand in his, her innocent laughter. He thought of his wife's final look—a stranger's glare cold enough to freeze a man's soul.
His body was weightless, suspended between heaven and earth. In that suspended moment, the voices faded—drowned out by the roaring wind and his own heartbeat, thudding painfully loud in his chest.
He felt no fear. Only an aching relief.
He opened his mouth, as if to laugh, but no sound came. Instead, his lips curved into a smile that was both peaceful and tragic.
Because as he fell, he thought he saw his characters. Not mocking him now, but reaching out—hands outstretched, desperate to pull him back. He wanted to grasp for them, to hold on, but the distance grew with every second.
Gravity claimed him fully, dragging him downward. The world blurred—a dizzying swirl of rain, light, and darkness. He saw a final flash of his daughter's drawing—her little magic girl reaching for a star—etched on his desk at home.
And then there was nothing but white.
---
Silence swallowed everything.
No rain. No laughter. No voices.
Just a sense of weightlessness, of being neither here nor there—a void where the pain had dissolved.
In that absolute quiet, he felt something he hadn't felt in years: freedom.
His final thought was a simple one: "At least it's over."
And then, the world went black.
---
To be Continued