The final confirmation notices for all three jobs popped up almost at the same time.
Underground currency exchange. Fake immigration consulting. Nightclub sponsorship. All done.
She updated the total in her desktop notepad: ¥5,523,000.
Saved the file. The time showed 12:11.
She refreshed her banking page, went through each incoming transfer, took screenshots, zipped the folder, and included the VPN logs. She moved quickly, each step clean and practiced, like part of a routine.
The light from the laptop hit her face. Her skin looked paler. She didn't notice. She didn't think too much.
She closed the laptop and picked up her coat. She had decided to go to the Shinjuku Central Post Office to print hard copies of the account statements. She didn't trust digital backups.
There weren't many people there. The air conditioning was too cold.
Halfway through operating the self-printing machine, she felt her stomach turn.
She crouched down and vomited a bit of pale yellow liquid. Just stomach acid.
She stayed still for a moment, wiped her mouth, collected the printed pages neatly, and slipped them into an envelope.
Then she pressed "print" again.
The task wasn't over. This copy needed to be completed too.
By the time she returned to the Kabukicho hotel, the sky outside had turned a warm yellow.
The curtains were still half open.
The room felt a little stuffy. She took off her coat and sat down at the edge of the bed.
She was going to open the laptop again to sort through the morning files.
But as soon as her hand touched the trackpad, her vision blurred. Her head felt heavy, like something was pushing down on it.
She didn't try again. She let herself fall back into the bed, her whole body sinking in.
She had been sick before, but this was different. It came too fast. No headache. No sore throat. Just a sudden, total loss of energy.
Her phone kept buzzing on the bedside table. The screen lit up, then went dark. Someone was chasing her for the settlement visuals.
She glanced at the notification, then put the phone down again.
A few minutes later, she opened the chat box and typed one line:
"I have a fever. I'm at the hotel. I can't really move."
No emoji. No tone. Just a fact.
Around 9 p.m., the doorbell rang. She didn't have the strength to get up right away. It took her several seconds to push herself up, then walk over to open the door.
Julian was standing outside. His face was expressionless, but his eyes looked a bit softer than earlier that day.
One hand held a convenience store bag. The other was in his pocket.
She could see Pocari, a container of rice porridge, a fever patch, and a towel inside the bag.
She leaned against the doorframe and looked at him. Her gaze was a little unfocused, but she still asked, "Why did you come?"
He looked at her and said softly, "Didn't you say you were at the hotel, with a fever, and couldn't move?"
She nodded slightly and turned back toward the bed.
He took off his jacket, walked in, and closed the door behind him. Without a word, he began laying everything out.
He acted like he already knew she wouldn't do it herself.
He poured the Pocari into a cup, unwrapped the straw, and brought it to her bedside.
She didn't say anything. Watching him move around calmed her down in an unexpected way.
"Drink a little," he said, holding the cup out.
She took a small sip and said quietly, "You came really fast."
He looked up and replied, "It's not the first time I've taken care of you."
Something in her chest twitched. She didn't respond. She just looked down and took another sip.
He went to heat the porridge and brought back a spoon.
Placed it by the bed.
She leaned against the pillow and watched as he picked up her laptop.
She said, "Top left folder on the desktop. The sponsor needs the settlement file from there."
He clicked once and said, "Found it."
She closed her eyes.
She could hear the sound of typing. Steady. Unrushed.
She couldn't remember the last time someone sat beside her and did this kind of thing.
She couldn't remember when she had become accustomed to doing everything on her own.
She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling. Her voice was hoarse.
"You know, helping me like this is technically illegal, right?"
His hands didn't stop moving.
"I didn't touch the money," he said. "Didn't upload anything either. I just dragged the file into the chat.
Isn't that what you taught me?"
Julian sat by the bed. The laptop screen was still on.
The file was sent.
The message was marked as "Read."
He stared at that word.
What he felt wasn't comfort. It was confirmation.
He finally understood what she had been doing.
The strange account names, the time stamps, the VPN switches, the system-like tone in her messages,
Everything made sense now.
She wasn't some unemployed person hiding from reality.
She was running a system.
And he had cracked it.
For a moment, he felt like all the chaos of the past few years,
The reckless decisions, the trading floor psychosis, the blurred lines between delusion and instinct,
Had finally found a reference point.
There was someone else who operated the same way.
She was sick, feverish, had thrown up bile, barely able to sit up,
But her account was still balanced.
He thought:
People like this don't die.
At least not in any normal way.
He closed the laptop and looked at her sleeping face.
Her breathing was shallow, her palm warm.
The towel had slipped down slightly. He adjusted it back into place, gently.
As if he were handling a collapsing position on a trading screen.
He wasn't pitying her.
He was observing.
This was the most dangerous person he had ever met.
Also, the most like himself.
He leaned back in the chair. His fingers tapped lightly on his leg, as if counting seconds.
Risk checklists flashed through his mind,
Illicit flows, compliance breaches, anti-money laundering flags,
None of it mattered anymore.
Somehow, this felt more real than the cleanest trade he had ever pulled off.
He almost wanted to laugh.
If someone walked in right now, he thought, he would probably say:
"Relax. I'm not helping her. I'm just watching another version of myself at work."
He looked down at her again.
She was still asleep.
There was a stubborn kind of heat radiating from her forehead.
Then he spoke. Quietly.
"Who the hell are you?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
Then added, even softer:
"Never mind. I think I already know."
He picked up her phone and glanced through the anonymous accounts, the transfers, the group chats.
The patterns. The timestamps. He knew them all too well.
He could almost reconstruct her entire day.
He knew how the money was cleaned.
He knew when the IP address had been switched.
She was the cleanest outlaw he had ever seen.
And that gave him a deeply twisted sense of satisfaction.
He leaned closer.
Close enough that his breath warmed the air around her.
His voice dropped to a whisper, almost like he was talking to himself.
"You think I'm afraid of breaking the law?"
He paused.
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
Half a smile. Half surrender.
"I probably should've fallen for you a lot earlier."
She didn't wake up.
He reached over, picked up the bank statement from her desk, folded it, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
The motion was smooth, calm.
Like signing a deal.
Then he leaned back in the chair again.
That faint smile was still there.
A quiet kind of danger sat behind it, mixed with fatigue.
He felt clear.
Clearer than he had in years.
For the first time, the world didn't feel split into "her" and "him."
There was only one kind of person,
The kind who could see through the rules.
And touch them.
She didn't smile, but the corner of her lips twitched, just slightly.
A little later, he set the laptop down.
Walked over.
Changed out the towel.
Placed a fresh one on her forehead.
She opened her eyes. Her voice was faint, almost like she was speaking to herself.
"You're acting like my private nurse now."
He didn't answer.
He just adjusted the blanket.
His hand paused on top of hers for a couple of seconds.
She closed her eyes again.
Just before drifting off, she murmured:
"Is this my last few days in the world?"
He heard her.
Still didn't respond.
He gently squeezed her hand.
Then let go.
As she fell into sleep, only one thought stayed with her,
Now that he was here,
She didn't have to worry about anything anymore.