I sat there for what felt like eternity. My mind wavering over the decision I had just made. It wasn't regret I felt—but a kind of hollow pause, as if the world had exhaled with me. The sky above was painted in strokes of scarlet, the last light of day bleeding out like something dying slowly. From the distant courtyard, the sounds of laughter, celebration, and farewells echoed faintly—then faded. No one came to check on me. Of course they didn't. I had always been invisible, even in their line of sight.
Sitting in silence, I began to feel the weight of my decision settle—not as a burden, but as a strange clarity. I wasn't running away. I wasn't surrendering. I was offering what remained of me. Trading it for something better than dust and silence.
Eventually, I rose from the cold rooftop floor and headed down to the locker room. The halls were still and empty, littered with the confetti of others' happiness. I opened my locker and found the usual scene—crude notes, slashed-up shoes, the occasional childish drawing that had long stopped being funny. I brushed off the dust, pulled out one of my shoes, and immediately flinched. A sharp sting tore through my heel. I checked inside—glass. Of course.
I didn't even feel angry. Just tired. I tossed the shard aside, limped to the bathroom, cleaned the cut, slapped on a band-aid, and wore the shoes anyway. Another quiet scar on a body already buried in metaphorical bruises.
The streets outside were alive with surface-level joy. Clusters of students roamed in their graduation outfits, laughing, linking arms, heading to karaoke, or spilling out of restaurants with full stomachs and empty hearts. I passed through them like a ghost. Their connections looked like rehearsed lines delivered from a script of what youth is supposed to be.
One guy bumped into me while chatting on his phone.
"Hey, watch where you're going, freak."
"I'm sorry," I muttered. Not because I was wrong, but because responding any other way was pointless. He wanted a scene for his girlfriend's benefit. Another farce of affection. Love like theirs wasn't deep—it was decoration. A show.
Eventually, I reached my apartment. An old, crumbling building clinging to relevance. Nosy neighbors. Flickering hallway lights. I unlocked the door, stepped into the musky, cluttered darkness. My room smelled like cup noodles and sleep deprivation. It was a mirror of my mind—unwashed, unlit, abandoned.
I dropped my bag, changed into a t-shirt and shorts, and collapsed onto the bed. I stared at the ceiling for what felt like another lifetime. Sleep didn't come. It rarely did. Not without help.
The shouting next door picked up again. The perfect couple. A model husband and his devoted wife—at least that's what the world thought. Only me and the gamer next door knew the truth. Their love sounded like broken plates and cruel words. Another performance.
Tired, frustrated, I pulled the medicine box from under the bed. Sleeping pills. Escitalopram. Whatever the doctor thought might keep me steady. I picked one, popped it, and washed it down with warm cola from the fridge. Familiar. Routine.
Darkness came eventually. Not the comforting kind. The kind stitched together from memories and guilt. The nightmares arrived like they always did. I twitched in bed, soaked in sweat, drowning in dreams I couldn't outrun.
When I woke, it was to light stabbing through the curtains. I sat up abruptly, breathing shallow, clutching at the crescent moon pendant around my neck. It was warm from my panic. I held it to my chest, grounding myself.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Strange.
Yamamoto-san only knocked when rent was overdue. But I had already paid. No one else had any reason to visit. Still groggy, I got up, fixed my shirt, and shuffled to the door.
The sunlight outside was too bright. I squinted.
Standing before me was a man in a flawless white tuxedo. His posture too perfect. His smile too wide.
"Good morning, Tsukihara-kun. I hope you had a great night of sleep," he said, beaming.
I blinked at him. "Do I... know you?"
"Ah, forgive me. I should have introduced myself first." He gave a polite bow and extended a business card. "I'm Kurose Naoya. From the Lucent Project."
Lucent Project – Liaison Division
KUROSE NAOYA (黒瀬 尚也)
Personal Escort & Consent Officer
📍 Life Tower, 18th Floor
☎ +81-3-6450-8821
🕒 Appointments by prior approval only
"A life freely given holds more weight than one taken."
I looked at him. His confidence radiated in a way that almost felt engineered. The kind of guy who believed kindness gave him superiority. That saving people made him noble. He wasn't a saint. Just another ego dressed in white.
"So, you're here on behalf of the Lucent Project?"
He nodded. "Yes. The board was quite interested in your application. I've been assigned to personally escort you to our headquarters."
He gestured to a black Toyota Century parked along the street. Spotless. Elegant. Like a hearse in disguise. The license plate read:
新宿 808 り 01-13
He looked at me with that same unwavering smile. Not a crack in his mask.
I sighed.
"Give me five minutes," I said.
And with that, I took the first step toward death—or something that pretended to be life.