The sky sagged under a weight of gray clouds as Sasaki stepped out of what used to be his home. The house he had bought with the last of his savings. The house once filled with dreams, late-night conversations, and the scent of fresh coffee on Sunday mornings. Now it loomed behind him like a ghost — empty, stripped of warmth, hollow.
Rina hadn't flinched when he packed his duffel and left. Her only words: "Leave the keys on the table."
He had no idea where to go.
Sasaki wandered through the streets, legs aching, stomach hollow, but he didn't stop. The world itself felt altered — colder, louder, less forgiving. For a moment, he thought about calling someone. But who? He had no siblings. No close cousins. His mother had died in a car accident when he was twelve, on a rainy night much like this one. His father had never been in the picture.
He had been on his own ever since.
Foster homes. Fast food jobs. Construction. Driving Uber until dawn. None of it glamorous, but it kept him alive. And it was behind the wheel, one late night, that he first met Rina.
She had slipped into the back seat in a red silk dress, her perfume clinging to the leather. Loud, tipsy, impatient. But when she smiled at him — that smile rewrote his world.
By the time he dropped her at her apartment, she had given him her number and a wink that kept him awake until morning.
Four months later, every cent he had saved went into a small house in a quiet neighborhood. Rina said she liked stability, that she needed a man with vision. So he built one. He gave up Uber and took a janitor's job at SnS Corporation under Aoi Tanaka, who promised advancement. It felt like fate.
They married in a modest garden with thirty guests. Sasaki wore a secondhand suit; Rina altered her own dress. It wasn't much. To him, it was everything.
And now — three years later — he walked the streets in his sweat-soaked work clothes. No job. No wife. No home. Betrayal pressed on his back like a boulder.
Rain began to fall.
At first a drizzle, then a downpour that soaked him through. Sasaki didn't run. The rain felt fitting, as though the heavens themselves grieved with him.
He passed cafes, bookshops, and restaurants. Landmarks of a life no longer his. Her favorite salad bar. The gelato shop she had dragged him to even in winter. Each one a reminder that the life he thought he owned was never his to begin with.
At the corner, he caught sight of a glowing sign outside a shopping mall:
NOW HIRING: SECURITY GUARD NEEDED – IMMEDIATE START
His instinct was to keep walking. He had no experience. But then he saw Aoi's smirk in his mind, heard Rina's laughter, remembered the clink of wine glasses raised to his humiliation. And he realized: there was nothing left to lose.
He pushed through the glass doors. The lobby was warm, smelling of cinnamon and floor polish. A janitor looked up but said nothing. At the desk, a young man with braces pointed him upstairs to the management office.
The elevator groaned as it rose.
When the doors opened, Sasaki stepped into a minimalist office with glass walls and a stark white table. A woman stood at the far end, flipping through a folder.
Late thirties, maybe early forties. Magnetic presence. A gray pantsuit, sleeves rolled back just enough to reveal a gold bracelet. Black heels tapping softly against tile. Hair in a low bun. Strong cheekbones. Eyes that read more than they revealed.
He opened his mouth, but she raised a hand before he spoke.
"You're here for the security guard position?"
He nodded.
Her gaze swept over his drenched clothes and duffel bag. "Name?"
"Sasaki Shimizu."
She studied him a moment longer, then nodded once. "You've got the job."
He frowned. "Don't you want to ask me anything?"
A half-smile touched her lips. "I already have."
"I don't have security experience," he admitted.
"You have eyes. You're breathing. You'll learn." She turned, motioning to a side room. "Come."
He followed, stunned.
The room was small but clean: a bunk bed, a locker, a fold-out table, a humming fridge. It looked like it hadn't been used in years.
"You can sleep here for now," she said. "Shifts are seven to eleven. Walk the grounds, check the monitors. If anything feels off, call me or mall security. Your badge and uniform will be ready by tonight."
"Why me?" Sasaki asked, raw and weary.
She paused in the doorway. "Because I see a man trying not to fall apart. And I like hiring people with something to prove."
He swallowed. "Your name?"
"Ayase Yamaguchi," she said, smiling faintly. "Operations manager."
"Thank you, Yamaguchi-san."
She looked back at him, eyes sharp. "Don't thank me yet. The night shift is lonely. Let's see if you last the first one."
Then she was gone.
Sasaki sat on the bed, staring at beige walls and the old fridge. It wasn't much. But it was something.
He stripped off his wet shirt, wrung it out in the sink, and changed into an old T-shirt. He found an apple and a bottle of water in the fridge. He hadn't realized how starved he was until they were gone.
By eight, his uniform arrived in a plastic bag: navy slacks, black polo, a stitched badge. He dressed, checked himself in the mirror, and stepped out.
That night, he patrolled the empty mall. His boots echoed across tiles. He checked the monitors, tested fire exits, and kept a notebook of small details — a humming vending machine, a flickering light.
And in the stillness, clarity came. For the first time in weeks, he could breathe. No Rina. No Aoi. No laughter at his expense.
Just him. The dark. And the beginning of something new.