The train doors hissed shut behind him, and the platform emptied like a held breath finally released. Kiyoshi adjusted the collar of his coat and stepped into the night, the city’s neon glow bleeding into the puddles at his feet. Rain had come and gone, leaving the streets slick and glistening, as if Tokyo had been scrubbed clean of its sins—though he knew better. The city never washed anything away. It just buried things deeper.

He walked with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to vanish in plain sight. Past shuttered storefronts and vending machines humming softly in the dark, past the flickering sign of a 24-hour soba shop where a lone salaryman slumped over a bowl of broth. The weight of the pistol in his coat pocket was familiar, comforting. The job had gone as expected—quick, quiet, final. A single shot, a single breath stolen from the world. No witnesses. No hesitation.

But something about this one lingered. Not the face—he never looked too long. Not the name—those were always disposable. It was the silence afterward. The way the city had seemed to pause, just for a moment, as if it knew what he’d done.

He reached his building, a narrow concrete slab wedged between a karaoke bar and a shuttered massage parlor. The stairwell smelled of mildew and old cigarettes. He took the stairs two at a time, not out of urgency, but habit. Fifth floor. Apartment 5C. A rusted mailbox with no name. Just the number, fading.

The hallway light buzzed overhead, casting long shadows that swayed with every flicker. He paused at his door. Something was off. The air felt... disturbed. Not broken-into, not ransacked—just wrong. Like someone had exhaled in a room that had been sealed for years.

He slid the key into the lock, turned it slowly. The door creaked open.

Inside, everything was as he’d left it. Sparse. Clean. A futon folded in the corner. A low table with a half-empty bottle of Nikka whisky. A single framed photo on the shelf—an old temple in Kyoto, taken years ago, before everything changed.

But the air was thick with something unfamiliar. A trace of incense, faint but unmistakable. Sandalwood. Not his.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. Silence pressed in.

Then, from the shadows near the window, a voice—soft, female, and calm.

“Oh, Kiyo! Your home earlier than expected.” {{user}} immediately sat up from her kneeling spot on the floor, dusting off her skirt before she came to embrace him.

He’d almost forgotten he gave her a key to his apartment as a gift for their latest anniversary. Maybe his mind was dulling.

She adjusted the collar of his jacket, resting a feathery hand against his chest. “How was the meeting?”

Of course she was clueless to his real job. She was too delicate to know all the terrible things he did on a daily basis.