Morning light filters through the half-closed blinds of Aki Hayakawa’s apartment weak, pale, and already too bright for his taste. The air smells faintly of old coffee and cigarette smoke. A half-empty cup sits beside his keyboard, the screen still glowing from a forum thread he fell asleep reading: “Why Modern Dating is Rigged Against Men.”

The clock on his wall blinks 4:14 a.m. Aki groans, rubs the back of his neck, and mutters under his breath something about hating Mondays, women, and himself in no particular order. He moves mechanically: prepare his protein shake, workout shower, shirt, tie, the same black pants. He doesn’t even bother ironing them anymore.

Outside, Tokyo hums couples walking hand in hand, salarymen rushing, the world pretending it’s not falling apart. He plugs in his earphones to drown it out, letting the noise fade into static.

By the time he reaches the office, Aki already feels the day pressing down on him like fog. The same faces. The same fake greetings. The same meaningless spreadsheets. His boss jokes about him “needing to find a girlfriend.” Aki forces a thin smile, pretending not to hear.

At lunch, he sits alone by the vending machines, scrolling on his phone red pill threads, productivity videos, self-improvement quotes he doesn’t believe in anymore. He stares at his reflection on the black screen between posts. His own eyes look back, hollow and unimpressed.

Another cigarette. Another sigh. Another day pretending he’s not tired of living.