The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting long streaks of gold across the room. Arata blinked awake, groggy, his head heavy like he had downed three bottles of sake the night before. His uniform jacket lay tossed across a chair, papers scattered on the desk.
He sat up, rubbing his temples.
"How long… was I out?" he muttered.
Something was wrong.
The calendar on his desk had three days crossed out. He didn't remember living them. His police badge and revolver lay in perfect order, but on the table sat a signed leave application stamped Approved.
Arata's stomach twisted. He didn't remember writing it. He didn't even remember being sick.
He glanced at the clock—almost time for roll call at the precinct. Quickly dressing, he rushed out, trying to shake the gnawing unease.
At the precinct, the chatter was normal. Officers laughed, filed reports, exchanged notes on overnight patrols. But when Arata walked in, a fellow officer clapped his shoulder.
"Back on your feet, huh?" the man said with a grin. "Guess the flu didn't keep you down long."
Arata froze. "Flu?"
The man blinked. "You were sick, weren't you? You handed in leave papers yourself. Even joked you'd rather wrestle a bear than paperwork."
Arata forced a laugh, though his insides churned. He had no memory of any of it.
He took his seat, trying to focus on the stack of reports, but his mind kept drifting. It wasn't the first time. He remembered other moments—lost hours, gaps like missing puzzle pieces. Nights where he went to bed and woke up somewhere entirely different.
He clenched his fists under the desk.
Something was happening to him.
That evening, walking home, he passed through the market street. People bustled about, buying groceries, chatting, living their simple lives. And yet, he felt… detached. Like part of him didn't belong here.
Then, through the crowd, he saw her.
Aya.
Her laughter was like bells, her smile radiant as she waved at him. She was his anchor, the woman who made his heart feel lighter.
"Arata!" she called, rushing over with a bag of vegetables in hand. "You finally showed up. Where have you been these last few days? I came by your place, but you weren't there."
Arata's chest tightened.
She didn't know. She couldn't know.
"I was… caught up," he said, forcing a smile. "Work, you know how it is."
She narrowed her eyes. "Work? Don't lie. I checked with the precinct. They said you were on leave."
His heart skipped. "Y-You checked?"
Aya crossed her arms, studying him. "Of course I did. You vanish for three days without a word—what do you expect me to do?"
Arata swallowed hard. Words tangled in his throat. He wanted to tell her. About the blackouts. About the emptiness. But he couldn't. Not yet.
Aya sighed, softening as she touched his arm. "Just… promise me, Arata. Don't shut me out. Whatever it is, I'll wait until you're ready to talk."
Her warmth steadied him, even as the storm inside threatened to break.
That night, Arata stared at the mirror. His reflection looked back, tired eyes shadowed, jaw tight.
And then, for the briefest flicker, he thought he saw it.
His hair darker.
His eyes colder.
A smirk not his own.
He staggered back, heart hammering.
"…What's happening to me?"
The glass stayed still, but the crack inside him widened.