Aarav,"NEW STORY begins."
[ writting a new story..]
aarav, "the story is like a betryal story of husband and wife. the husband is broken now.."
[ compiling..]
[ The buzz of the city still clung to his skin like a faint static as he trudged up the narrow stairs to the third-floor apartment. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the world—or at least the weight of another twelve-hour shift at the office. The fluorescent lights, endless spreadsheets, managers who barely remembered his name—none of it mattered the moment he stepped into the small, dimly lit apartment he called home. Or, at least, used to.]
[Yamato Kurose. Thirty years old. An ordinary man with an ordinary life. Or so he thought.]
[The key turned in the lock with its usual tired click, and he opened the door to the faint scent of lavender and incense, just as always. Habit made him step out of his shoes, neatly placing them beside his wife's beige flats. He didn't call out her name. He rarely did. They'd drifted into a quiet routine of coexistence—a cold partnership preserved more by inertia than affection. But tonight, even the silence felt… off.]
[He walked past the small kitchen and toward the living room. The lamp near the couch was on, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor. A half-empty wine bottle stood on the table, two glasses beside it. That was strange. He hadn't brought home wine in weeks.]
[Then he heard it.]
[A sound. Soft. Muffled. Rhythmic. Wrong.]
[He froze mid-step, breath caught in his throat. The sound was coming from the bedroom—the room they once shared, though even that had begun to feel like a distant echo of the past.]
[He stepped closer, his feet moving of their own accord, silently across the wooden floor. His heart thudded against his ribs—not with rage or pain, but with something colder. Numb. Hollow.]
[The bedroom door was ajar.]
[From the crack, he could see the edge of the bed, tangled sheets, shadows moving in the dim light. His wife's voice—a breathless, high-pitched moan he hadn't heard in months—spilled into the hallway. Accompanied by a man's groan, deeper, unfamiliar.]
[Yamato didn't push the door open. He didn't barge in or scream or break anything.]
[He just stood there.]
[Watching.]
[Her back arched in the dim light, hair cascading like a waterfall over bare shoulders, lips parted in pleasure that was never his. The man—young, fit, tattooed—gripped her waist with desperate hunger.]
[The sheets had their wedding monogram.]
[The clock above the dresser ticked past 8:13 PM.]
[Yamato blinked once. Just once.]
[Then he turned away.]
[No sound. No heavy breath. No tears.]
[He walked back the way he came, picked up his briefcase, and stepped into his shoes like a man who had merely forgotten something at work.]
[He closed the door softly behind him, so softly that no one inside would hear.]
[The hallway light flickered above as he walked down the steps. The city outside greeted him again—cold wind, car horns, neon signs that promised escape he could never afford.]
[He stood at the edge of the street, staring at the flow of traffic. People passed him by, faces buried in phones, lost in their own dramas. Nobody noticed the man in the black coat with his tie slightly crooked, briefcase hanging loosely from his hand, and eyes staring into a silence that felt louder than the world.]
[His phone buzzed in his pocket.]
[He didn't check it.]
I[nstead, he walked. Aimlessly. Past convenience stores, closed bookshops, alleys filled with neon haze. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew he couldn't go home. Not tonight. Not ever again.]
[The city was too loud. The thoughts too quiet.]
[He sat on a bench by a riverbank eventually, somewhere near the edge of town. The moon shimmered on the water. His breath fogged the night air.]
[Everything inside him felt broken. Not shattered like glass—but worn down, like a blade dulled by years of cutting against stone. The betrayal didn't surprise him. Maybe, on some level, he had seen it coming. The distance. The indifference. The late nights. The lies.]
[But to see it. To witness it. To realize that the one person he gave everything to—his time, his effort, his patience—had chosen someone else while still wearing the ring he bought… That was something else entirely.]
[He let the silence swallow him whole.]
He didn't know why he called his friend. Maybe because there was no one else. Maybe because he just needed somewhere to sit, to not be alone, to not think. Or maybe because, deep down, he didn't want to go to the river again, didn't want to sit in that silence where all the thoughts clawed at his skull like rats in a drowning cellar.
The call had been short.
"Hey," Yamato had said, voice low. "You home?"
His friend, Takumi, had hesitated before answering. "Yeah. Come over if you want. Door's open."
No questions. No warmth. Just something that barely passed for an invitation. But Yamato took it. Anything was better than that apartment and the smell of her perfume clinging to bedsheets he once called theirs.
He arrived twenty minutes later, the cold air cutting against his cheeks as he climbed the steps to Takumi's place. The building was newer than his own. Cleaner. It smelled of lemon cleaner and some kind of synthetic pine.
The door was ajar, just like he said.
Yamato slipped inside quietly. He didn't call out. His throat was dry. Something inside him felt brittle, like he might crack if he made a sound. The lights in the hallway were dim, and the warmth of the place felt unnatural—too perfect, too curated. He placed his shoes neatly at the entrance and stepped inside on autopilot.
The living room was empty.
No sign of Takumi.
He walked further in, past the kitchen. The faintest sound caught his attention—quiet gasps and whispers, the rustle of fabric, the creak of something rhythmic. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.
He paused.
It couldn't be.
He moved toward the hallway, where one of the guest rooms had its door slightly open. A thin strip of warm light painted the floorboards.
Then he heard her laugh.
A woman's voice. Light, breathy, sultry. It wasn't just any woman's voice.
He recognized her instantly.
Mrs. Fujimoto.
Yamato's body stiffened like stone. A chill worked down his spine.
Mrs. Fujimoto—wife of his company's regional director. A woman in her late thirties who could've passed for her twenties. She was beauty perfected, every feature touched by time just enough to gain elegance but never dull. Tall, with sleek jet-black hair that shimmered like silk, flawless ivory skin, and lips that always seemed on the verge of a secret smile. In the office, she was known for her regal presence. She carried herself like a queen among commoners—untouchable, adored, forbidden.
Yamato's pulse quickened as he stood near the door, unable to move, his breath shallow. He didn't want to look—but his body betrayed him. He leaned forward, his eye just catching the sliver of the scene through the narrow gap.
Takumi was on the bed, shirtless, his hands gripping the bare hips of Mrs. Fujimoto as she rode him with a slow, calculated rhythm, like she was choreographing a dance. Her back arched gracefully with each motion, breasts swaying gently, her skin glowing in the soft yellow lamplight. Her eyes were closed, mouth open in a quiet gasp as she moved with practiced ease—like a woman who knew exactly how to take what she wanted.
The silk of her panties lay discarded on the floor, a delicate wine-red piece that looked more like art than underwear. Her body was a work of sculpture—slim waist, long legs, toned yet soft in all the right places. She was everything that Yamato's wife never cared to be anymore. Confident. Hungry. Alive.
Takumi grinned beneath her, his hands worshipping every inch of her skin, murmuring something low that made her laugh again—a sound filled with power and pleasure.
Yamato looked away.
Not because he was ashamed. Not because he cared. But because, for the second time that night, the world reminded him just how powerless he really was.
Without a sound, he stepped back. Down the hallway. Through the living room. Past the door.
He didn't close it behind him.
The cold air outside felt sharper now, biting into his lungs like knives. He walked down the street, his legs moving faster than his thoughts. Somewhere, a dog barked. Neon signs buzzed overhead. A taxi honked as it sped past.
He kept walking.
His chest felt tight. Not with heartbreak. But with something worse.
Emptiness.
Years of it.
It all started to unravel at once.
He remembered the long nights at the office, slaving over reports no one read. The thankless overtime. The promotions that went to louder mouths. The moments where he gave his all, only to be forgotten when the credit was handed out.
He remembered the arguments at home. Small things at first—dishes, bills, weekends. Then bigger things—silence, resentment, distance. Until the bed became cold, the meals became leftovers, and the love became obligation.
He remembered trying. Over and over. Date nights she canceled. Gifts she never opened. Messages she left unread.
He remembered Takumi—his so-called friend—smiling, joking, always borrowing money he never paid back, always talking big, always loud in a room. And now, sleeping with the boss's wife behind closed doors, while Yamato was out here... walking alone in the cold, with nothing but the sound of his own breath.
A loser's life.
That's what it was.
Not just unlucky. Not just unfortunate.
Loser.
The kind of man who gives everything and gets nothing. The kind who's always polite, always proper, always overlooked. The one who smiles through gritted teeth and watches others take what he worked for. The one whose wife cheats, whose friend lies, whose name no one remembers.
He stopped in the middle of the road.
Headlights flashed as a car swerved past him with a furious honk. He didn't flinch.
He just stood there.
Heart beating. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.
The truth hit him harder than anything else had that night.
He had nothing.
No home to return to. No friend to confide in. No love. No pride. No purpose.
He was a shadow in his own story.
And the saddest part?
No one would care if he vanished.
The thought came uninvited.
What if I just disappeared? Right now? Would it matter?
The wind howled through the empty street.
He looked up at the sky. The stars were hidden by clouds, and even the moon looked tired.
But something flickered.
A spark.
Not in the sky.
In his chest.
Small. Distant. But real.
Not hope.
Something else.
Rage?
No.
Something colder.
Resolve.
He turned his back to the road and began walking again—this time with purpose.
Somewhere, far beyond the weight of this world, something waited.
And Yamato was done being a loser.
The street lamps buzzed overhead, casting pale halos on the damp asphalt. The world smelled of exhaust fumes, cheap cigarettes, and rain that never quite fell. He didn't know how long he had been walking. His feet moved of their own accord, slipping him past shuttered shops and silent intersections.
After leaving his friend's apartment, he had wandered aimlessly, hollow and numb. The image of his boss's wife — tangled in sheets with someone he once called a brother — played on a broken reel in his head. That luxurious black hair. The glitter of gold rings against soft skin. Her laughter, low and teasing. The way she clutched the bedsheets as if enjoying every second.
And before that, his own wife. His home. Her betrayal. The bed he bought with his own salary. The room where he imagined growing old together — defiled. Not a word of apology. Not a single tear shed.
He was tired.
Not physically, but deeply. A soul-deep exhaustion that years of mediocrity had carved into him. Always the backup. Always polite. Always silent. A man who swallowed pride in meetings, let others steal credit, and waited for affection that never came. The kind of man who left the room quietly instead of yelling. Who smiled when others mocked his clothes or his pay.
A loser.
His fingers trembled as he touched the silver ring on his hand — something he had found on a mountain trail years ago. It hadn't meant anything back then. Just a strange, polished ring lying alone on a boulder. He had worn it ever since. Not out of sentiment, just habit.
Tonight, for the first time in years, it felt warm.
He stopped walking when he heard it — a sharp, muffled cry from a narrow alleyway between two abandoned buildings. He froze, heart catching in his throat. It wasn't loud, but it carried. A shout, a slap, a thud.
Then another cry — raw and human.
He turned his head slowly, gaze narrowing at the shadows shifting in the alley.
Normally, he would have walked past. That's what the world taught people like him. Don't get involved. Don't play hero. But tonight… tonight something cracked.
Maybe it was the silence of his wife as she let another man touch her.
Maybe it was the indifference in his friend's eyes.
Maybe it was the fact that no one had ever fought for him — not even himself.
He stepped into the alley.
The darkness swallowed him quickly. Trash bins lined the narrow path. Rats scattered at his approach. Further in, three figures loomed — two men and a woman pressed against the wet brick wall. Her clothes were torn, her arms pinned. She struggled, kicking and spitting, her face contorted in horror.
The men turned at the sound of his footsteps.
One of them — tall, broad, a jagged scar across his cheek — raised a pistol. "Get lost," he growled.
He didn't move. His voice came out hoarse, broken. "Let her go."
There was a beat of silence. Then laughter.
"Look at this guy. Office worker? Grocery boy? Thinks he's a hero." The second man smirked and took a step forward. "You deaf? You walk away, or you die."
"I said let her go."
His hands were shaking, his knees weak. But he didn't run.
The man with the scar didn't hesitate. The gun fired once.
Pain tore through his shoulder as the bullet shredded flesh. He staggered back, mouth wide but no scream came. Then another shot — this time through the thigh. His leg collapsed beneath him. He hit the ground hard, coughing blood.
Then a third shot — his other shoulder. The fourth — the other leg.
His world shrank into pain.
They didn't kill him immediately. That would have been a mercy. Instead, they turned back to the woman.
"No one's coming now," one of them muttered, dragging her back into position.
She screamed again. Kicked. Bit. But there were two of them and only one of her. He could only watch, paralyzed, bleeding into the alley floor. His fingers twitched. He tried to crawl. He couldn't even move his arms.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with grime and blood.
It felt like hours, though it must have only been minutes. At some point, her screams turned to sobs, then to silence. He wasn't sure if she passed out or gave in. Either way, it crushed him.
He had done nothing.
Just like always.
He had tried, once — a single act of courage — and this was the result. Crippled. Helpless. Defeated.
They were laughing again, zipping up, high-fiving like it was all a joke.
Then, one of them walked up and crouched beside him.
"Next time, mind your business," the man sneered.
The gun pressed against his forehead.