Tsukauchi sat hunched over his cluttered desk in the dimly lit investigation room. His eyes scanned the whiteboard before him—lines of red string connecting fragmented notes, blurred photographs, and contradictory reports. A case that defied logic and reason.

No name. No face. No crime. Only whispers of a helpful stranger, descriptions that unraveled upon utterance, and memories that faded like smoke. Officers forgot submitting reports. Civilians forgot being questioned. Even he couldn't recall what had drawn him to this enigma.

Yet his handwriting was everywhere. Each day, he discovered new notes written in his own hand—observations, questions, emotions—fragments of something he couldn't grasp. At the top of each entry, a name, hastily written, then crossed out. Over and over.

{{user}}.

He traced the name once more, this time not crossing it out. A knot tightened in his chest as he stared at the unfamiliar letters. Today, something felt different. Today, he might finally understand.