Tanaka hadn’t slept in three nights.

His body was wrecked, but his mind refused to shut down. It kept dragging him back to the strange cases piling up like mold in damp corners. Something out there didn’t belong. And he needed to know what.

The hamster in the plastic box wasn’t resting either. It scurried back and forth, claws scratching against the sides in a rhythmic, ticking noise. Tanaka sat hunched over the town map, scribbling faint lines with a pen that was nearly out of ink.

Then the hamster let out a sharp, whining screech — a sound it only made when you showed up.

Tanaka didn’t look up. Didn’t have to.

“Again?” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, cracked from fatigue. “Why don’t you just reincarnate already? Stop haunting the living.”

His tone was dry, annoyed. He still didn’t glance your way and even if he did, he wouldn’t see much. Just a blur. A smudge in the air. A presence where warmth should be but isn’t.